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The Fake Mate(87)

Author:Lana Ferguson

“You’ll get over it,” she teases when she breaks away.

I swallow. “I have a feeling you might be right.”

She steps away like she hasn’t just made the idea of working that much harder—blowing me another kiss when she stops at the door to my office. “I’ll text you when I get off.”

“All right.”

I have to sit very still in my office chair after she’s gone, reminding my body that it can’t get worked up right now, no matter how much it would like to. I can’t believe that something as simple as a kiss—hardly even a kiss, really—could have my heart racing and my slacks tenting, but my body seems to have shifted into a state of constant neediness where Mackenzie is involved. It’s both heaven and hell.

I’m just starting to resign myself to finishing my notes a few minutes later when my phone starts vibrating across my desk, perking up instantly like an overzealous Chihuahua at the possibility of it being Mackenzie, as unlikely as that situation is. I’m not disappointed per se when I realize it’s my mother instead, but my zeal from a moment earlier dissipates slightly, and I chide myself for being so ridiculous.

“Hello?”

“When are you bringing this girl to dinner?”

“Hello to you, too, Mother.”

“Noah Taylor. I will come over there and put you across my knee. I don’t care how big you are.”

I close my eyes, leaning back in my desk chair. “I don’t think I will be bringing her to dinner anytime soon. It’s still very . . . new.”

“Not so new that you’re sneaking away from work to Hunter and Jeannie’s lodge, apparently.”

I frown. “It really is ridiculous that you know so much about my personal life, considering how little I share with you.”

“I know,” she snorts. “Imagine. Your poor mother begging for scraps about your life from Regina like some sort of stalker. Do you know how many times I’ve had to sit through that woman’s recollection of the time she met Roseanne Barr at a bar twenty years ago? She thinks it’s so clever that she met Roseanne Barr at a bar. And here I am, having to sit through this time and time again, pretending that I find it funny just so I can hope to gain any kind of insider info on my son, since he won’t ever—”

“Okay, Mom. I get it. You’re very mistreated.”

She hmphs. “I’m glad we’ve established this. Now tell me why I can’t meet my future daughter-in-law.”

“Well, you referring to her as your future daughter-in-law is a pretty big tick against you.”

“What? I mean, you’re already spending her heats with her, surely that means you’ll be—”

“We are not going to discuss Mackenzie’s heats.”

“Fine, fine. I just want to meet the woman my son is all gaga over.”

I want to argue with her assumption that I’m gaga over Mackenzie, but even in my head it feels like a feeble effort.

“Well, for one, I just got her to agree to go on an actual date with me,” I sigh. “Subjecting her to my parents feels like something that will scare her off.”

“You make us sound like a form of torture.”

A chuckle escapes me. “Can you guarantee that you won’t ask her if she wants kids at some point during the dinner?”

“Well, I could certainly try,” Mom mutters unconvincingly.

“I think you and Mackenzie’s grandmother would get along well,” I say, grinning.

“I wonder if Mackenzie’s grandmother has to pull information from her granddaughter like pulling teeth.”

“Just . . . let me figure out what this even is between us, okay? Provided that she doesn’t realize that she’s entirely out of my league, I’m sure I can arrange the two of you meeting . . . at some point.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re a catch. When you’re not being a surly hermit.”

“Your confidence in me is reassuring.”

“Have you heard anything on the Albuquerque job?”

I press my lips together in a frown. I have heard from them—but it’s something I haven’t mentioned to anyone, Mackenzie included. Mostly because I’m so unsure as to what I want to do about the opportunity. It’s most likely imprudent to be reconsidering my entire future based on the possibility of one date, but since I’ve already established that my mother’s assessment of me being gaga for Mackenzie isn’t entirely unfounded . . .

“I had an email from them when I got back from Pleasant Hill,” I admit. “I . . . asked for more time.”

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