Page 37 of Parentmoon

“Last night you called me baby.” His morning voice sends exciting chills over my skin.

The look in his eyes has me taming my libido a second and assessing his tone filled with a bit of contemplation. Has no one ever called him sweet names like baby? Maybe he’s more used to hearing sex god extraordinaire or thief of kisses. Or yes, sir, may I have another.

“I also called you a dragon-slaying knight.”

Dallas quirks a smile and swipes a finger along the side of my face. “Were you really dreaming about me?”

I don’t want to lie. “I don’t know what I dreamt last night. Other than about a beautiful man having sex with me.”

“Beautiful, huh?” He huffs but his smile turns into a smexy smirk.

“Were you really dreaming of me?” In the dawn of a new day, I find it hard to believe. Dallas is charming and the right kind of lines have certainly gotten me into bed with him.

“For longer than you know,” he whispers. He brushes back my hair, watching his fingers stroke the short strands.

My brows crease, wondering what he means but I don’t get the chance to ask before he leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to my lips and warning me to stay out of trouble. Then he’s standing and I watch his backside as he descends the stairs, admiring the view of his firm ass in fishing pants while still pondering what he meant by his comment.

Longer than you know.

Eventually, I climb out of bed, deciding to take a walk along the beach before spending another lazy day in the sun. Grabbing my phone as I head out the door, I discover a text from my younger sister.

Mom’s on the warpath.

While Cassandra and I are not close, we do look out for one another when it comes to our mother.

Other than my initial call to her to tell her the wedding was off, I’ve tried to avoid conversation with my mom. From the moment I told her about the cancelled engagement, she blamed Michael.

“It’s always the man’s fault.” The echo of her words reminds me of Dallas’s mockery. However, my mother is truly a man-hater. She stayed married to my loving father despite the turmoil of their marriage, blaming him for every problem they incurred. Under hen-pecking in the dictionary is a picture of her.

Around my mid-thirties, my defenses against my mother grew stronger. Her disapproval of my divorce, after her disapproval of my marriage to Craig, was a defining moment. When she insulted Michael while he was in high school, the gloves were off. No one messes with my son. Since that time, I’ve built another wall, a guard concerning my mother. But when she calls, I answer—because she is my mother.

Cass’s warning is all I get before my phone rings, and while the Belizean day is sunshine and warm breezes, a storm is about to cloud my morning with this call.

“Hi, Mom.”

Within seconds, she’s asking how Michael is doing but she doesn’t really care about Michael. She cares about the expense of canceling a wedding, which isn’t her concern. She worries about returning all the gifts, mainly because she wants her generosity returned to her credit card. She asks about my trip because she’s nosy.

“What are you even doing with yourself down there? You should have returned to work.”

My mother’s concerns for my financial situation is a joke, as she briefly worked and spent more than her means. I can’t say I was poor as a child. I wouldn’t say I was well off, either. My parents struggled. Cass and I didn’t always have the latest fashion or the newest gizmo. We didn’t want for necessities, but we didn’t have extras.

My hard work ethic didn’t come from my upbringing but from the fear instilled during my marriage to Craig. I didn’t want to rely on anyone else, especially when there was no one else to rely on. I worked to keep my head above water and take care of my child.

“Gonna take care of you,” Dallas said last night. He has no idea what those words would mean to me. I have no idea what someone taking care of me would actually feel like.

A few orgasms have certainly brought a little clarity, though.

“Are you listening to me?” My mother drones through the phone.

I’ve checked out a bit and I’m done with this nonsense call. “Mom, you’re breaking up. And this is an international call. If you’re okay, I need to let you go.”

“Well, I’m actually not okay.” She begins a dissertation of all her ailments which we review every phone call. All the things she should do for her health but doesn’t. All the doctors she should call but won’t.

“Mom. I’ve got to go,” I cut her off when she starts talking about the weather. Quick I love yous are shared, sincere on my part, not sure about hers, and I’m hanging up. The call has crushed the blissful start of my day. I’ll be on edge for the next twelve hours at least.

Michael would say I have issues letting things go. Troubles don’t roll off my back but hang on my shoulders like a well-worn backpack.

Thinking of my son, my mood shifts from irritation to melancholy. Michael and Keli’s rehearsal dinner was supposed to be tonight.