“I’m not dating Georgia’s coworker,” I said firmly.
“Fine. Your sister says this young man you’re seeing is studying to become a lawyer. Maybe he can help you deal with this Steven problem.”
“He’s not studying that kind of law.” Julian was studying criminal law. And no, the irony of our situation was not lost on me.
“Has he met the children?”
“No.” Julian hadn’t asked to come to my home, and I hadn’t offered. We usually met at the bar where he worked. Or in his apartment. Usually in his bed, occasionally on his sofa, and once on his kitchen floor. I got up and snagged another beer from the fridge, my head lingering in the open door to hide my incriminating flush. Julian and I weren’t serious. I wasn’t sure exactly what we were. Only that I enjoyed his company and the sex was amazing. I didn’t really want anything else right now. I had Vero, the kids, and a steady paycheck. That’s all I really needed besides the occasional mind-blowing orgasm.
“Even more of a reason to put some money in savings, Finlay. A single woman can never be too prepared. You should have a nest egg.”
“My nest is just fine,” I said, closing the fridge and popping the cap off my beer. I didn’t need any more mob money, dead bodies, or problem husbands—mine or anyone else’s.
The swing doors to the kitchen burst open and my sister came through, fully suited in SWAT gear, carrying Zach under one arm. A bead of sweat trailed down her temple through the open faceplate of her helmet. “Situation resolved,” she said, dumping a tightly rolled diaper in the trash can as Zach wriggled out of her arms and toddled toward the living room. She dropped into the chair beside me and dragged off her helmet.
“I knew you could handle it.”
“It was definitely touch-and-go for a while. When are you going to start potty training that kid? And what’s all this about Career Day at Delia’s school?”
I handed her my beer. “She’s supposed to bring an adult to class on Tuesday to talk about what they do for a living.”
“Why can’t you go? You’re the famous author.”
“I’m not famous.” One decent book deal had been just enough to cover my bills. It hadn’t even gone to print yet. For all I knew, it could flop and I’d never get another one. “Besides, Delia already asked and her teacher said no.”
“Why?”
I glanced at my mother and lowered my voice. “Apparently, the school had some concerns about the content of my books.”
“You mean the sex?”
My mother stopped stirring. I kicked my sister under the table, barking out a swear when my toe connected with the steel toe of her boot. “What possessed you to bring SWAT gear to Thanksgiving?”
“I didn’t. It’s my old training gear from the Academy. Found it upstairs in the closet in my old room. Still fits,” she said proudly, patting her chest plate.
“It’s Velcro!”
“What’s this about sex in your books?” My mother planted a hand on her hip, a dripping gravy ladle poised in the other. “Why would your books have sex in them? You told me they were mysteries.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, snatching my beer back from my sister.
A mischievous gleam glinted in her eye. “Didn’t you read Finn’s books, Ma? How could you not remember the sex?” Georgia winked at me, picking a raw bean from the bowl and popping it into her mouth.
I smacked her hand as she reached for another. “For Christ’s sake, Georgia. You just changed a diaper. Did you even wash your hands?”
My mother pointed her ladle at me. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain in my house, Finlay Grace McDonnell.”
“Donovan,” Georgia and I corrected her in unison.
My mother gritted her teeth, the ladle scattering gravy as it swung toward my sister. “And Georgina Margaret, go wash those filthy hands!”
Georgia’s eyes rolled up in her head. She punched my shoulder as she stood up and slunk from the table.
“Now what’s this business about sex in your books?” my mother asked me.
“How much of them did you actually read?”
The color deepened in her cheeks. “The first chapters.”
“Only the first chapters?”
“Of the first one.”
My mouth fell open. I knew—and was grateful for the fact—that my father hadn’t read my novels. The print was too small on those tiny paperbacks for him to bother. But I had assumed my mother, who lived for the opportunity to insert herself into my personal life, would have at least made the effort to finish one.