The only person who owes me a sorry is the awful perma-grump of a human being I used to call boss, the man I’m never taking back.
If my new wheels are freedom, then let them set me free from all things Mag.* * *Less than an hour later, I park the convertible in front of the old brick house.
Of course, the door isn’t locked. Dad sits on the couch like he’s superglued to it, watching a game.
“Welcome home, babe! I was starting to think you’re just a myth these days,” he says, throwing his arms out.
“Hi, Dad.” Don’t sound sad, I tell myself.
“Is that my Brina?” Mom calls from the kitchen, and I smile at her familiar catchphrase.
I start walking to greet her, but she stops in the doorway before I get there. “Oh, honey, what happened?”
“Huh?”
“Your face. It looks like you just came back from a funeral. Are you okay?”
I nod vigorously, hoping if I shake my head hard enough, maybe I can cover up the obvious damage inflicted by one heartless man. I should’ve known there’d be no fooling her.
“You’re sure?” Mom asks, lifting a skeptical eyebrow.
“I just need some coffee. Long night,” I tell her, rubbing my eyes.
“Come sit down at the table. I just made a fresh pot,” she says, pulling me into the kitchen by the hand.
I flump down in a wooden chair, folding my arms over the table, and lay my head down.
She brings a cup of coffee and puts it down beside me. “What happened, baby?”
“Nothing,” I say, hating how she uses her mom-ray vision to see right through me.
“You haven’t just randomly shown up here in a while,” she whispers, her expression flat.
“Yeah, sorry. I’ve just been really busy and—”
“What did Magnus do?”
I look up as her question cuts me off. With me, she’s practically psychic.
“Nothing,” I try again, shaking my head.
“You’re not ready to talk about it. That’s okay.” She sits down in the chair next to me and I hear her pen scratching on a thick notepad.
Even with my head down and my eyes closed, I know she’s writing. My mom’s old-school and she outlines her notes by hand before diving into her books on the laptop.
I lift my head. “What are you working on now?”
“A sequel to Farm Love, because it sold so well.”
I give her a wry smile and take a heavenly sip of my coffee. It’s so sweet and cinnamon-y I almost pucker. Apparently she knew I needed the sugar and spice rush today.
“You write romance. They were together by the end of the first book. What’s left?” I ask.
She laughs. “Farm Love was a romantic comedy with a twist of suspense, not romance. Don’t you remember? You read it.”
Um...not really, but okay.
“It seems like ages ago. There’s a difference?”
She shrugs. “There doesn’t have to be. Rom-com can go the women’s fiction route instead of conventional romance.”
“Uh—again, there’s a difference?”
“Women’s fiction focuses on the journey, the ups and downs, and the heroine’s growth is central to the story. The man can grow, or he can be replaced. If I went the romance route with that book, I’d be looking for a friend to write a story about. But I went the women’s fiction route and straddled the line so well no one will ever know.” Her voice goes up into a singsong pitch on the last few words.
“So what does that mean for the sequel?”
She looks at me without breaking eye contact. “It means life keeps happening after the happily ever after. The characters have to continue working on themselves and their relationships. Life is chock-full of new struggles.”
“I’ll take the bait. What’s your sequel about?”
She smiles and holds her hands out like she’s framing something.
“I’m calling it Hog Fights Under City Lights. Our lady got her life back and returns to the big city after a fight. The ex-Marine farmer man follows her and tries to win her back, but she’s not going to make it easy. He isn’t a city slicker. They’re too different.”
“How does he win her back?” I ask.
“Well, all the fighting leads to really good makeup sex, and then Sir Oinkswell—”
“Stop. Words I could have gone my whole life without hearing from my mother,” I grumble.
“You mean Sir Oinkswell?” She winks at me. “Our hero has to make some grand, heartwarming gesture, of course. Oh, and groveling. It ain’t a real knock-down love fight without plenty of that.”
“Grand gesture?”
“Hearts and flowers and tears. A life or death risk. I’m still working it out, but they’re going to have to learn to compromise. If only I knew what a certain assistant and her boss were squabbling over, I could probably help them compromise too. I just hope good makeup sex is part of the bargain—”
“Mom! You’re terrible, and I’m pretty sure that’s no longer an option,” I hiss, surprising myself. Like I ever wanted to let my romance writer mom in on my sex life.