Page 28 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
“Mother,” I grit between my teeth. “What are you doing here?”
My mother removes her sunglasses and casts a wide glance around my porch, looking like she’s preparing to buy the place just so she can bulldoze it. Patricia Perkins is perfectly composed and effortlessly poised as she crucifies me with her gaze. Just like always.
A beige leather handbag that costs more than my car dangles from one arm, her gloved fingers curled neatly around the handle. The soft silver streaks in her dark hair are combed into a precise wave, not a strand out of place. Even her makeup is pristine—subtle, refined, the kind that takes an hour but looks like it took five minutes.
She gives me a once-over, sharp hazel eyes sweeping my face, my clothes, the doorway, taking stock with practiced efficiency. And in that split second, I already know. She disapproves.
Not that she ever really approved of much when it came to me.
A gust of wind catches the edge of her coat, making it ripple around her legs. She smooths it flat, composing herself before offering a thin smile.
"Aren't you going to invite your mother in?"
I stare at her for a beat too long. The last time we spoke, she was still telling me to cut my losses and move back to the city. Preferably with her, where she can control every second of every day of my life until she finishes molding me in a double of herself. She had exactly zero faith in me then, and I have no reason to believe that's changed.
"Did I miss a phone call?" My voice is carefully light, the way you speak to a rattlesnake you don’t want to provoke.
She doesn’t rise to the bait, just lifts an eyebrow like I’m being unreasonable. "Do I need an invitation to see my daughter?"
She says it like I just decided to walk away one day and never call back.
I almost don’t let her in. Almost. But years of ingrained politeness win out. Besides, arguing with Patricia is best done over coffee, preferably spiked with a healthy shot of rum. Or two.
I swallow hard, then step aside. "Please come in."
I guide her back into my new kitchen, then motions for her to sit down.
“Well. This is certainly…” She sweeps past me, giving the room a once-over with a faint pinch of her lips. “Rustic."
I grit my teeth. "I call it home."
"Of course you do." Her voice is smooth and neutral, but the judgment in her tone slices through anyway. She eases into a chair at the counter, taking off her gloves slowly, deliberately.
"Are you really going to stay out here all alone, Cassidy? Like this?"
I hum low in my throat, barely holding back the sharp retort sitting on my tongue. Of course, Patricia would go straight for the jugular. Of course, she would dress her disapproval in satin-smooth words, pressing right against the weak spots I spent months trying to fortify.
"This," I say in a carefully measured tone, "is exactly what I want."
“Have you thought about what comes next?” Patricia’s voice is light, almost casual, but there’s an edge to it and it cuts with a scalpel’s precision. “What about your funding? Your long-term goals? What happens when this little experiment of yours runs out of money?”
There it is. The skepticism, the waiting for everything to come crashing down. I force myself to keep my shoulders squared, to meet my mother's gaze without wavering.
“I have a plan,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I’m getting everything in place, step by step.”
Which is true. Mostly. But the way Patricia tilts her head, the slight purse of her lips, says she doesn’t buy it.
Patricia hums and nods as she cast a wide, long glance at the newly refinished countertops, her face careful neutral. I brace for the next strike and she doesn’t make me wait for it.
“Jason called last week,” Patricia says smoothly, slipping the words into existence like they don’t have the power to unravel my entire day. “He's willing to talk, if you—”
"Jason," I snap, the name slipping out of my throat like gravel. “Is not part of my life. Not anymore. Not ever again. All I need from him, all I’ll ever need from him, is his signature at the bottom of a page for the sale of the house where he cheated on me.”
Patricia blinks, slow and deliberate, her expression unreadable. My stomach knots and nausea rises in the back of my throat. I know that stare. It’s the one Patricia uses right before she tries to make me feel small enough to fold under her expectations.
“Cassidy, you didn’t think things through,” Patricia says, like she’s explaining something logical to a wayward child. “You had everything you needed. A home. Stability. Security.”
I let out a sharp laugh, brittle and humorless. Of course, Patricia would place money above all else.
