I swallow, hoping I mask all of it. “I’ll send them over soon. But you’re interested?”
My voice is too eager, starving. I can’t help it.
“Very,” she says. “Well, if you don’t mind me working on my graphic design course while he sleeps.”
“Not at all,” I say passionately. “That sounds like an ideal setup.”
She meets my eyes, sassiness pushing away the shyness. It’s the same way she looked in the courtroom when she spoke up about Bones’ previous owner and his horrible treatment of the little guy.
“Sounds like a perfect setup,” she murmurs.
I wonder if I’m reading her right. It’s been so long since I’ve dated.
I gave up on feeling like this a long time ago.
Behind her, somebody clears their throat. We both look to find her mother standing there. She’s staring at me the same way she did in the courtroom, eyes narrowed, fists clenched at her sides.
The apparent aggression has me searching for a plausible reason. Does she somehow sense my feelings for her daughter?
“Hello, Miss Davis,” I say.
“Hi,” she grunts. “Piper, dinner’s getting cold.”
“But you only just put it in the—”
“Piper.”
Piper looks at me, eyebrows raised in confusion. “I guess dinner’s ready. Please email me the job details.”
“I will. Talk soon.”
“And I’ll see you soon, hopefully.”
She kneels and gives Bones a good stroke, scratching up and down his body, and then behind his ears. He tilts his head back and grins, the most peaceful I’ve seen him since he came into my care.
Standing, she turns and shuts the door, but not before looking at me over her shoulder.
I stare, wondering if I’m reading her right.
For a second, I’m sure she wants me to.
Once the door is closed, I turn and walk back down the lane. Bones plants his feet at first, whining and pulling back toward the house.
“It’s okay, boy.” I lean down and scratch his head. “You’ll be seeing her very soon.”
I hope so, at least.
CHAPTER FIVE
Piper
“That was a little rude,” I say, sitting at the table.
Mom glares at me from across the kitchen divider. It’s rare I see her with such easily readable fire in her face like she’s ready to vault the partition and throw a chair at the wall.
She bites down, sighs, and then turns away.
“What is it, Mom? Dinner’s not going to be ready for an hour yet.”
“He’s at least forty-five, Piper, maybe older. He could be as old as fifty.”
She turns back to me, as though she can’t decide what to do. Her eyes stare in that perceptive way.
I wasn’t wild during high school – far from it – but it’s the same way she looked at me whenever I tried to tell a lie. She has this impressive mom radar, allowing her to trip me up no matter how well I think I’m deceiving her.
“Yes,” I say, shifting awkwardly. “You’re probably right.”
She walks around to the table area, gripping the back of a chair and looking down at me. “I heard the way you were laughing.”
“Okay…”
“Are you going to tell me you’re not attracted to that man?”
“Mom.”
“What?” she says, unfazed. “You were flirting, Piper. He’s at least two decades older than you.”
“I don’t know how to flirt,” I grumble. “So how the heck did you figure I’m flirting?”
“Don’t know how to flirt,” she repeats, shaking her head. “Then I must be hearing things because I’m fairly certain you were. Are you going to sit there and tell me you’re not attracted to this man?”
“I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation. I’m not saying I am… but so what if I was? What difference would it make? It’s not like he’d ever be interested anyway, so there, conversation over.”
“Firstly,” Mom says, mirroring my fire, “the conversation is not over. Secondly, don’t say things like that. You’re beautiful and any man would be lucky to have you.”
I soften a little. “Thanks, Mom.”
“But you have to be careful with older men,” she goes on. “Some of them get a sick thrill from chasing after young women. They use them, do whatever they want with them, and then spit them out and pretend they never existed.”
Now it’s my turn to look at her perceptively. “Are we talking about anyone in particular?”
She groans. “That’s not the point.”
“You never talk about my dad,” I say. “All I know is he was – or is – called Patrick. But that’s it. And you only told me that because I wouldn’t stop nagging you when I was a kid. Was my dad older than you, Mom?”
She pulls the chair out quickly, the legs making a screech noise on the floor. She drops down in the chair, burying her face in her hands.
“You’re too smart for me.”
“Am I right?” I ask, as gently as I can.
I gave up asking about my dad a long time ago. Mom hates talking about him, hates if the conversation even steers close to him.