“Yeah?”
He glances over at me from where he’s positioned in front of the stove, stirring a pot of something. “So your mom never remarried?” Since he met my mom, we haven’t spoken much about her, other than the obligatory she was nice type of comment he provided after.
“Nope,” I say. “After my dad passed away, she had to work three jobs just to keep us in our house. That was very important to her, but left her little time for dating. She had a few boyfriends over the years, but nothing serious.”
He nods along, continuing to stir. “Damn. Three jobs. I can see where you get your work ethic.”
“Yes, but when I was in high school I started realizing what her sacrifices were doing to her, and I made her sell the house and cut down on her work schedule. Her body couldn’t handle it anymore. After fifteen years of burning the candle at both ends, she was starting to have health problems. We moved into an apartment, and she still lives there. Keeps my room exactly the same.”
When I look up from my laptop screen, he’s grinning at me. “That’s sweet. You have a very good mom.”
“Yes, I know.” Her warning rings in my head again. The one about Hayden. Don’t put stock into what’ll never be.
Taking a deep breath, I force my gaze back to my laptop screen, losing myself in the legal terms I’m studying, where things are either black or white, right or wrong, and I immediately feel at ease.
Chapter Thirteen
Hayden
I still can’t believe I’m in Omaha.
Through some mix-up at the front desk, Emery and I ended up sharing a hotel room. Her room is paid for by her company, and I have no problem footing the bill for my own, but I didn’t say a word; I just nodded and smiled when the clerk handed me the key card. I felt like I’d won the damn lottery. Like some tide had shifted, turning in my favor.
I’m not about to fuck with destiny. I’ve been jacking off to the thought of Emery for the past month. My damn hand is tired and my cock is almost raw. Maybe this time away will change things between us. I just have to decide if I want them to.
After we checked in to the hotel, Emery took off for a business meeting downstairs in one of the conference rooms while I stepped out and explored Omaha. There isn’t much to see, which is why I’m already back and seated at the hotel bar with a bottle of imported beer in front of me.
I glance down to check the time on my phone. I have another thirty minutes before I’m supposed to meet Emery for a business dinner in the hotel’s one restaurant—fittingly, a steakhouse. If there’s one thing they’ve got in Nebraska, it’s cows. I went over to check out the restaurant earlier, wanting to make sure they’ll have a vegetarian option for her.
Plus I was just bored. I have my laptop, and I logged on to check on some properties and reply to work e-mails, but I’m unaccustomed to being out of my own city and am too restless to concentrate on work.
I wonder if this is what Emery’s transition to LA has felt like? If so, I give her even more credit for how well she’s handled things. I glance at my phone again. Twenty-nine more minutes.
Fuck.
? ? ?
Thirty-five minutes later, I’m standing in the private dining room of the restaurant, talking to a junior associate named Donald Kemp and his wife, Tabitha or Tracey, I can’t remember. He’s about as exciting as a wet towel. My eyes keep wandering over to the set of French doors, hungry for the first sight of her. Where is she?
Finally Emery floats in on a pair of high heels that make her legs seem to go on forever. And my heart rate trips over itself in a race to catch up.
She’s in a cocktail dress. Classic. Black. Little spaghetti straps delicately resting on her shoulders. Her yoga-toned legs are something I’ve rarely gotten a glimpse of since she’s usually in jeans or a business suit, and they live up to the very high standard set in my many dirty fantasies.
I open my mouth to excuse myself from Donald when an older man with floppy gray hair and a bad set of veneers approaches Emery, placing his hand on her waist and leaning in to tell her something. She cringes.
Murderous rage boils inside me and I want to deck the son of a bitch. Clenching my fists at my sides, I excuse myself and stride over toward her. Thoughts of pissing on her leg, like a dog does with a hydrant, to mark my territory flash through my mind. Shit. I can’t do that to Emery. Stopping beside her, my eyes land on Mr. Pudgy, Gray, and Slimy.
“Hayden, this is Mr. Pratt, my boss at the firm,” Emery says pointedly, obviously sensing my murderous attitude and trying to calm me down. “And this is Hayden Oliver. He’s a real-estate developer.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I bite out in a clipped tone.