Page 27 of Yours Temporarily

“No,” I need to shield Zuri from any unexpected interrogation.

“I’m quite busy.” Zuri steps back in a clear signal of her intentions not to linger. “I appreciate the offer, Mrs. Kress—”

“Sara,” Mom insists on the informal address.

“I have a lot on my plate today at the café.” Zuri deflects the invitation.

“Was this food prepared in a commercial kitchen?” Mom’s inquiry comes from left field, a pointed question that probes more than culinary curiosity.

“Not yet, but I plan to—”

“Do you have a food license?”

“Yes, I do.”

I remain silent, allowing Zuri to navigate this conversation. She’s more than capable of standing her ground. After all, if our paths are to intertwine more deeply, facing Mom’s barrage will be an inevitable part of our arrangement, especially the wedding week. The interrogation continues with questions about Zuri’s family, education level, background, and intentions. Zuri wrings her hands and scuffles her flats.

“Mom.” I snap my fingers, a protective instinct flaring. “I won’t stand here and let you interrogate my fiancée.” My voice carries a firmness I rarely use with her, signaling a boundary she’s perilously close to crossing.

“You know how many people die from food poisoning?” Mom continues, undeterred. Too bad, she never channeled her relentless scrutiny into her career, choosing instead to organize charity galas and high-society events—arenas where her meticulousness could shine without personal cost.

“I’m aware of the risks of food poisoning, but that won’t be an issue for us since you won’t be eating her food.” My patience thins. The absurdity of the situation isn’t lost on me. We’re discussing hypothetical health hazards instead of acknowledging the real, human connection forming between Zuri and me.

“I told your assistant to make us reservations at The Almac,” Mom announces as if the mention of the upscale restaurant can douse the flames of our confrontation.

With my hand still on Zuri’s shoulder, I lean in to kiss her head, her fragrance offering a momentary escape from the tension. Her presence transforms this unexpected family encounter into something I can navigate without losing myself.

Mom’s overt disapproval compels me to defend our decision to dine in my office. “Let’s not waste Zuri’s delicious food.” Maybe I can salvage what remains of the day. Mom doesn’t have to eat, but after how she acted, no way am I leaving this office.

“I’m not hungry.” A dismissive wave accompanies Mom’s predictable response. “I’ll just have water, if you have any.”

Zuri, ever gracious, strides across the room, retrieves two bottles of water from the fridge, and places them on the table before making a swift departure. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Kress.” She bypasses the formalities of a handshake, offering a wave instead. In her rush, she forgets our façade, leaving without the pretense of a farewell kiss.

Who could blame her for escaping as quickly as she did? Assuming she hasn’t called off our deal completely.

I savor the first bite of Zuri’s warm steak salad. Inspired by her, I close my eyes and attempt to emulate her practice of pausing before a meal, though I’m unfamiliar with the specifics of her ritual. I’ll have to ask her to speak aloud next time, so I can understand and perhaps adopt part of her mindfulness into my routine.

As the enticing aroma soon overtakes the room, Mom ventures a cautious sample of the southwestern rolls Zuri included. Despite her earlier apprehensions, she seems to enjoy the taste and gobbles the entire roll.

“As long as I don’t get a stomach bug from this.” She dabs a napkin on her red lips.

While I don’t expect her to utter a compliment, I can’t help saying, “I’m glad you liked the roll, Mom.”

She ignores me and shifts the conversation to Sonya—the sole purpose of her visit, I presume.

“I told her you’re still single. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this… new girl.” She waves her black-painted fingernails, scrunching her face. “She’s not even your type.”

“I don’t think you know my type, Mom.” I fork my salad, not liking this conversation.

“You compare her to Sonya? Did you have to go for a woman who looks like your brother’s girlfriend?”

Seriously? I’ve never seen two women who look less alike. “Just because Zuri has the same skin color as Hope’s, doesn’t make them look alike.”

“Still, you and Sonya can work things out.”

Tension coils within me. What right does Mom have to imply I’m somehow at fault for moving on after Sonya ended things between us?

“She dumped me, and now I’m the bad guy?” I slam what’s left of the salad back onto the table. “I’m more than capable of making my own decisions.”

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