Page 32 of The Forbidden Note

“Oh thank you.” Mom grins as if she’s never been paid a compliment before.

The clerk folds her hands together, almost drooling. “Will you be taking that one home?”

“Yes, please.” Mom shoos her away. “Send it to my address, darling. And pay with this.” She hands over a black card.

“Yes, right away, Mrs. Cross.”

Once the clerk is gone, eyes probably rolling like slot machines with dollar signs, I lean toward my mother.

“Isn’t this too much?”

“Too much? Darling, there’s no such thing.” Mom sips daintily from the cup. The moment the liquid touches her tongue, she curses. “Ow, that’s hot.”

Her grimace is exaggerated. Almost cartoonish.

In an instant, her genteel act fades away.

I see the woman who spent every day waiting tables at a rundown diner, ketchup stains on her obnoxiously pink uniform, hair frizzy and unkept, wrinkles carving into dark brown skin that looked far more weathered than it should have.

That struggling single mother is gone. Hidden, really, beneath hair that’s fried to a straight crisp, professionally applied makeup and an outfit chosen by the best stylist in the city.

But the harried waitress lives on.

No amount of Jarod Cross’s money can erase her.

I chew on my bottom lip. “I just think—”

“That’s your problem, Gracie. You think too much. You’d have a much more enjoyable life if you slowed down and smelled the roses.”

“These roses are worth,” I lift one of the price tags on the jewels beautifully arranged before us, “ten thousand dollars.”

The words are too outrageous to be said aloud.

I finish in a whisper, “I’d rather not.”

Mom laughs and blows on the cup before she drinks the tea again. This time, she takes a dainty sip, pinky out and eyebrows arched, looking like she was born for this world.

That’s the thing about her. Mom never finished high school, but she learns fast. It doesn’t surprise me that she’s managed to mimic the rich after being a wealthy person for less than a year.

Mom sets the cup back down and it makes a clinking sound. Turning to me, she flutters a hand down her tweed jacket. “You know what you need?”

I groan because I already suspect where this conversation is going.

“A man.” Mom wiggles her eyebrows.

I close my eyes. At once, a pair of dangerous blue orbs pierce the darkness.

“A handsome one,” mom adds.

I see a body molded like a priceless sculpture.

“One who makes your heart thump.”

The desire I try so hard to keep at bay seeps into every vein.

Zane freaking Cross.

I can still feel him on me, powerful, corded muscles flexing against my arms. Tattooed fingers kneading against the soft flesh of my hip. Blue eyes darkening with lust even as he scoffed at my attempt to put distance between us.

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