Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Fine,” she agreed, but I could have sworn there was a little smile on her lips as she climbed up into the truck.
Two small smiles in under an hour.
Imagine what I could do with a full day with her.
CHAPTER SIX
Saylor
“Are you saying there is a problem with a man being a gentleman?” my mother asked as she feinted right while I struck out, my glove-covered hand meeting air instead of her chest that I’d been aiming at.
“I’m not saying there’s anything—fuck,” I exhaled as her hit got me in the gut. I backed up a few steps, circling around her. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. It’s just weird.”
“I think, my dear, you only think it’s wrong because you’re used to dating dickheads,” she said. She was too excited to get a reaction out of me to pay attention to my posture as I struck out, hitting her hard enough to send her back a step.
“I mean, that’s… fair,” I agreed. I’d never dated a man that anyone would ever accuse of having good manners. “Though, I’ve never really been one for dating in general,” I added as she took a step back, leaning against the ropes of the ring, watching me with eyes so similar to mine that it was almost freaky.
I mean, if it wasn’t for a few crows feet around her eyes and a little less fullness in her cheeks, we could practically pass for sisters.
She’d even managed to keep a figure almost identical to mine, despite being able to out-eat me at the table of any restaurant at any time of day.
Though I imagined it helped that she owned a gym. Complete with a boxing ring, since that was something she’d been passionate about my whole life. Mostly because she’d met my father at a boxing match when she was all of nineteen years old.
“Seems to be a family trait,” I added, watching as she pulled off her gloves to reach up and tighten her ponytail.
“What is?”
“Not dating,” I said.
“I met the love of my life when I was practically a kid still,” she said. “Why would I need to ever date again once he was gone?”
My father had died when I’d just been three of an unfortunate boxing-related injury. He’d gone back into the ring too soon after getting a concussion, getting a second one on top of it, sustaining something called Sudden Impact Syndrome that had been fatal.
I didn’t have a single memory of him.
The only reason I knew what he even looked like was thanks to his picture on my mother’s mantle at home… and on the wall of this gym she’d taken over for him after his passing.
When I’d asked why the hell she would want to run something that revolved around the sport that had, essentially, killed my father, she’d shaken her head and told me that there were three things my father loved. His kids, his wife, and boxing. And that she needed to honor his memory by taking care of those things for him.
I didn’t get it, not really, at the time.
But I’d also never been in love.
If not for the way my mom loved my father, I wouldn’t even believe it existed.
I did understand it years later. But with a completely different kind of love.
“So, you tried to sidestep the original question,” she said, slipping her gloves back on.
“Which question was that?”
“What this Anthony guy looked like.”
“I dunno. A mafia guy, I guess,” I told her, then charged, looking for a way to avoid actually telling her that the man was stupidly handsome.
We fought for a few more minutes, both of us dripping in sweat, our ponytails starting to hang low, before she moved back, a big smile pulling at her lips.
“That hot, huh?” she asked.
This was my mother.
She knew me better than anyone. There was no getting away with lying to her. Or even trying to evade answering a question.
This was a woman who instinctively always knew when I was trying to sneak out or back in, who told me to bring a condom when I said I was going out with friends, but she knew I was seeing a boy, who could always tell that my anger was often hiding something else a lot softer and more fragile underneath.
“Yeah, that hot,” I agreed. There was no use lying about it. “You’re going to see for yourself in about ten minutes,” I reminded her.
“Ugh,” she said, swiping her forearm across her forehead, coming away sweaty. “This is no way to meet an unreasonably attractive man. I’ll be back,” she said, rushing off.
She didn’t bother to tell me that I was in no state to interact with said ‘unreasonably attractive’ man. She knew better. In fact, I bet she knew that I was actually trying to make myself as ugly as possible for this meeting to turn him off of me, so I didn’t have the green light to jump him when my body felt like it.