Page 13 of The Difference Between

I snort a slight laugh. “We’re supposed to do something other than work?”

She swats a playful hand through the air with a chuckle. “I’m serious. You can’t just work to work—we work so we can do the things we enjoy and be with the people we love.”

She can speak for herself—I love my job. I care about my job—it’s who I am. Who I’ve always been. From an early age, Rue had antiques, Remy had books, and I forged my path by winning—at everything—and haven’t stopped since. I’m sure some quack therapist would say I’m a classic middle child driven by the need to stand out, but lucky for me, I don’t believe in therapy. I also don’t think that’s the answer Trish wants, so I say, “Um.”

“Any hobbies?” she presses. “People you spend time with?”

I’m expecting her to say because we need to start planning how you’re going to win over the execs at Fizz Co to bring this deal home, but she doesn’t.

I set my mug on her desk and clear my throat. Again. “I . . . walk to work.” She blinks, so I add, “In pumps.” Then: “Eleven blocks one way.”

“I see.” Her slow nod leads me to believe my joke didn’t land. “Anything else?”

My phone, that son of a bitch, dings from my purse. I can’t not look at it. I told Rue when I last talked to her to only text me if the status changed—the status must have changed.

Trish’s brows raise and I smile apologetically. “Sorry,” I murmur, setting it to vibrate at the same time I scan the text. Everything went well and they’re closing her up. My nerves are fried. An exhale of relief gushes out of me along with a whispered, “Hallefuckinglujah.”

Trish chuckles. “Good news?”

I place my phone screen-side down on the edge of the desk and give her my full attention. “Yes. Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Again. Where was I?” My mind sprints around until it lands back on our conversation. “Right. Hobbies. I⁠—”

The phone vibrates enough it dances across the edge of Trish’s desk. I don’t look at it because I don’t need to. If they’re closing my mother up, nothing bad is happening.

Unless she started bleeding.

Or had a stroke.

No—there’s only a one percent chance of that.

“I own rental properties that I manage under an LLC.” Apex Properties isn’t really a hobby because I use a property management company to run things, but she doesn’t need to know that.

She also doesn’t look impressed.

Dammit.

“In the summers, I like to⁠—”

The next vibration causes me to glare at the phone.

The one percent exists because people have to be in it—Mom could have had a stroke. Someone has to have the stroke. I’ll call Rue and Remy as soon as Trish tells me I got the committee’s approval to move forward with the deal.

“Do you need to answer that?” Trish asks.

“No.”

It vibrates again and her brows lift.

And again.

And.

Again.

I release a sharp breath and grab the phone. “Yes.”

Rue: Really? You have an overpriced ballpoint pen up your ass when we tell you news you don’t like and now that we tell you everything is fine you vanish? You’re impossible. Then the next one: You better respond or Remy’s pulling out the big guns.

Then from Remy: A.