Page 33 of The Forbidden Note

I hate him.

And yet, I’m thinking about him in front of mymother.

“You need a strong, capable man. Preferably a lawyer or a doctor,” mom says.

In my mind, I see Zane’s calloused hands gripping his drumsticks and twirling it around.

“Someone older than you. Obviously. That’s the only way your interests will align.”

I see Zane grinning over me, tall and imposing. Aggravatingly charming even with a smile tinged in danger.

Mom gives me a teasing nudge in the side. “Lord knows, you’re an old soul. No one your age will think reading books on a Friday night instead of going dancing is fun.” She rolls her eyes. “So you need a nice older man who isn’t about that fast life.”

Everything mom is saying is the opposite of Zane.

He’s not the man I should be looking for.

Thinking about.

Locking classroom doors with.

Iknowthis.

The problem is I had to shuffle around school, giving lectures in discomfort while ruing the fact that I don’t carry spare panties in my purse.

Which is something I should probably do if Zane corners me again.

Not that he will.

Not that I’ll allow it.

“You should be focusing on your own marriage. Not trying to arrange mine,” I mumble, picking up my cup. My skin is a light brown and it’s not possible for me to blush, but I feel uneasy anyway. As if mom can see the thoughts I’m having about my step-brother.

“You’re too picky,” mom says, pretending not to have heard me. “That boy with the sports car? What was his name again? He was so nice.”

“Harry Winston the Third?” I roll my eyes.

The pretentious corporate heir picked me up from school a few months ago, driving a loud, obnoxious convertible.

I pasted a smile on my face and hopped in the car for my mother’s sake, but the date did not get better after that dramatic entrance. He had no personality outside of being rich and I was bored to death.

“What happened to him?”

“He liked the sound of his own voice a little too much,” I murmur.

“Your standards are too high, Gracie. You need to lower them a little.”

The clerk returns, saving me from mom’s lecture. She hands the card back to my mother. “Here you go, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” Mom rises gracefully and slips a hundred dollar bill from her purse. She hands it to the clerk. “That’s for being so helpful.”

The woman grins. “Thank you.”

We’re about to leave when a trio of ladies enter the VIP section.

The one in the middle is slim and has blonde hair teased into an elaborate bee-hive. Her face has the look of someone who overindulges in Botox. Unnaturally plump lips. Stiff cheekbones. A forehead that can’t scrunch even if she sneezes.

“Cynthia!” Mom cries in a warm welcome.

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