Page 20 of The Widower
My mother broke into a big smile, then looked at me suspiciously, clearly itching to ask a thousand questions.
“So you’re saying you have a date, sweetheart?”
“Call it an obligation with my jerk of a boss—sorry, my sweet boss.”
My mother didn’t quite get it; she didn’t know how furious I was about being treated like trash by that man. I thought I could ignore him, but that’s nearly impossible. It’s easier to live with the devil himself than with him.
“Sounds like you two don’t get along.”
“If it were merely getting along, that’d be nice. The right word is unbearable, and now I see why no woman lasts a month working for that… oh, never mind.”
“Great love stories start like this.”
I glanced at my mother out of the corner of my eye, doubting her words. Who in their right mind would have an affair with Colin Adams? I don’t think even for money anyone would put up with that magnificent ogre…
See? There’s the problem. The man’s charming, smells nice, and his eyes cut right through you, but… he seems psychopathic—rough, rude, ill-mannered, and a dozen other things.
“I don’t want love, I want money!”I headed for the bathroom. “And if he needs a female companion, I’ll be the best one he could have—but only because of the paycheck at the end of the month. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“If you say so…” she smiled, still doubting my words.
I was determined, and if he wants to treat me like trash, that’s his problem.I just need to “survive” this job, that’s all…
Nothing more, nothing less.
CHAPTER 6
“We have to deal with disappointments day by day, since we can’t always control our thoughts…”
COLIN ADAMS
How long has it been since I took a woman out—actually picked her up and went somewhere together?
Years.
I wasn’t even sure if that kind of thing was outdated now, or if modern women still liked men who did that sort of thing. But I’d already screwed up and invited her, so…
Yeah, I thought about it later at home and realized it wasn’t my brightest idea—she talks way too much. But that wasn’t the real issue anymore.
When I saw her walking out of her house in that red dress…
I can’t even describe it properly. To me, it was just a red dress—simple as that. But on Isabelle, it looked perfect.Women would probably go on about the fabric, the fit, the texture, whatever.
I was thinking about something else entirely. I wanted to know what that dress was hiding.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Define ‘like that,’” I said, though I knew exactly what she meant.
“Oh, I don’t know… different. You know what I mean,” she muttered, and I caught the flicker of embarrassment on her face.
“It’s all in your head.”
It wasn’t.
“Okay then.”
Silence hung between us for a few minutes. I could tell she wasn’t comfortable around me—and I couldn’t blame her. I’m not exactly the best host. Hell, I’m probably the worst.
