Laurie nodded and accepted the bag, though in truth she couldn’t confirm his mother’s comment, as she’d never set foot in the kitchen, much less looked in the fridge. Admitting her realm of knowledge extended only from the entryway table to Booker’s bedroom wouldn’t improve the situation.
Not that Rebecca needed rescuing. She simply smiled again, and said, “Lovely to meet you, Laura.” A bouncy pivot sent her gliding down the walkway toward the silver Tesla parked at the curb. “Please tell Booker to call me when he has a moment.”
She bit back the automatic impulse to correct her name, and closed the door. Rebecca Booker did not need to know the correct name of her son’s current fuck-buddy—and that’s all this would end up amounting to, because this morning’s encounter landed her squarely in the category of girl-you-don’t-take-home-to-mother.
You certainly didn’t try to pass her off as the love of your life. She carried the groceries to the kitchen and hefted the bag onto the counter. He was probably getting an earful from his mom right now about the tramp who’d answered his door in a bathrobe and handcuffs. She unloaded organic tomatoes with unnecessary force. He’d dump her fake-girlfriend ass as soon as he got home.
Fine. Whatever. It hardly mattered anymore, anyway. She’d spoken to Chelsea yesterday and found out the bonus looked iffy. The insurance company was burying her with paperwork. Her financial rescue was unraveling from all sides. She snagged a package of locally grown oranges from the bag, tearing the netting in the process. The fruit bounced on the counter, rolled in every direction, and spilled onto the floor.
So what are you doing here?
Excellent question.
…
Booker came in quietly, in case his guest still slept, but stopped short at the kitchen entry when a fist-sized missile flew past his head.
He dodged, and the object thumped into the hallway. Lauralie stood in the middle of the kitchen, ready to hurl another orange at him.
“Someone really needs her morning coffee.”
The comment earned him an angry little scream, and then the next orange zoomed at him—on a much lower trajectory this time. He used the grocery bag he carried to block it, preferring to risk breaking the half-dozen eggs he’d just bought than his balls.
While she bent to scoop another orange off the floor, he put his bag on the counter next to a half-unloaded one he had a pretty good suspicion who to thank for, and closed the distance. She straightened, and he got a full blast of glaring blue eyes and fiery cheeks before he caught her wrist to prevent her from taking a close-range shot.
“Before you damage parts of me we’re both fond of, want to tell me why you’re fired up?”
“Let go.”
“Hell, no. Talk to me.”
“Booker, if you don’t let go of me right now, I swear to God I’m going to—don’t you dare…”
He did dare. He took the dangling end of the handcuff and locked it around his wrist. “Let’s try this again. Talk. To. Me.”
“This”—she rattled the chain connecting their wrists—“isn’t funny.”
“Depends on your perspective.”
Her chin tipped up. “Call your mom. Ask her if she found it funny when she stopped by this morning.”
He tamped down on the urge to wince, and shrugged a shoulder instead. “I don’t know how funny she thought it was, but I’ll bet she realizes she needs to call before she drops by.”
“You’re not funny, either. Me, answering your door wearing your bathrobe and these stupid, freaking”—she rattled the chain on the handcuffs—“things, tells your mother in fairly explicit terms we slept together last night—”
“As it happens, we did sleep together last night.”
“Don’t get cute. It sends the wrong kind of message. It completely torpedoes your plan.”
“No. It tells her we’re involved. How does that undermine my plan?”
“You seriously don’t understand?”
Oh, he understood. But did she? The situation pissed her off because she actually gave a damn what his mother thought of her. She’d invested more than her pride. She cared. Which meant they weren’t standing on such uneven ground after all, but he knew better than to enjoy the revelation right now. “Look”—he grabbed a handful of the front of the robe and tugged her closer, even though she stiffened—“I get that this wasn’t the most traditional first impression, but I don’t always know when my mom is going to show up on my doorstep. Maybe you can relate?”
She shook her head. “When it comes to mothers, we have nothing in common. Trust me.”
“Enlighten me. Tell me about the last time your mom paid an unannounced call.”