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I slammed my mug down, letting the hot liquid inside splash out onto the island counter, and steeled my gaze against her. “You put me in charge. I say if she’s qualified, not you. Even if you say she isn’t, it doesn’t matter. She’s my fucking assistant, and that’s all there is to it.”
Mom’s lips curled up. “I know, I just like hearing you say it.”
I’d kill her one day. I could swear it. “Mallory is my assistant. She’ll be there, and she’ll do good, even if she has to attach herself to my side.”
“I don’t want her to attach herself to your side, Cam. I want her to prove she can work for you.”
I hit my mom with a darker look than I ever thought I would. “Leave it,” I said in a firm tone, a wave of protectiveness washing over me. “Stop controlling everything. It’s not your office anymore.”
At that, Mom looked at me, holding my gaze for a long moment. She finished her tea, set the teacup back in the saucer with expert precision, and dabbed at her mouth with a cloth napkin. “I’ll see you tomorrow, darling. With Mallory.”
“You will,” I said tightly. “Can’t wait.”
***
The tie around my neck was itchy.
I wore them every day for work, but tonight’s tie seemed tighter than ever. It felt as though it was trying to strangle me, but that was just my mother in my head. She basically had a summer house there, and I shuddered as the sleek black car she’d hired to take us to the mixer pulled up outside Mallory’s house.
It was beautiful. The realtor in me couldn’t help but admire the perfect white trimmings of the windows and doors and the matching garage door. The drive and path to the front door were a lovely gray paving that matched perfectly to the white and gray stone façade of the house.
Flowers adorned the yard in the front, and I got out of the car immediately enjoying the scent of the late summer blooms.
Adjusting my tie one more time, I knocked on the door three times and stepped back.
The door swung open, revealing a short woman with gray hair pulled back into a bun. Her beady eyes explored every inch of me until she sniffed and said through bright pink lips, “Who the damn are you?”
Well, shit. Was this the aunt? Or was she an associate of the President? Because that’s how she was looking at me—like she was a secret service agent or something.
“Cameron Reid, ma’am. I’m Mallory’s boss.” I held my hand out for her to shake, but she ignored it, so I dropped it down like a scolded child.
She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes even more. “You look too young to be a boss. How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Are you single?”
I swallowed. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry?”
She straightened up and smacked her lips. “You’re young. You’re rich. You’re handsome. What’s wrong with you?”
“Aunt Grace.” A woman who held a remarkable resemblance to Mallory appeared over the older woman’s shoulder and rested her hands on her upper arms. “Why don’t you go and sit down in the living room? The poor young man doesn’t want to be interrogated on the doorstep.”
“I was just seeing if he was boyfriend material.”
“Yes. The entire neighborhood heard you. Go inside.” She physically turned the old woman around and directed her into another room before coming back to me. She smiled, and I noted that her eyes were the exact same shade as Mallory’s. “I’m so sorry,” she said, clasping her hands to her chest.
I smiled. “It’s fine. Cameron Reid. Mallory’s boss.” I held my hand out to her, and she took it, giving it a firm shake.
“Helen Harper, Mallory’s mom. She’s just finishing up now. Would you like to come in and wait?”
I hesitated.
“Don’t worry. My aunt will be off sulking somewhere now that I’ve told her off.”
I cracked a smile. “Sure.” I followed her inside the house, admiring the minimalistic décor of the hallway. It was all done in cream, and I paused until I realized the floor was wooden, not carpet. “Would you like me to take off my shoes, Mrs. Harper?”
“Honey, call me Helen. And you keep those shoes on—she’ll only be a minute.” She beamed at me. “Would you like a drink while you wait?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I tugged at my tie again and loosened it just a little.
The old lady shuffled into the kitchen, clasping an empty whiskey glass. She eyed me before she grabbed a whiskey bottle from the counter and poured a generous helping of it.
Then, without a word, she left again.
Helen stared at her retreating back and winced as she looked at me. “I’m so sorry about her. She’s incredibly grumpy today.”
“It’s fine. My grandma was the same. Whiskey and cigarettes and that was her sorted.” I shrugged. “She drank a bottle a week and smoked a pack a day, and the woman was never sick.”
