Page 18 of Stealing Blinds

SYLVIE

Me: I’m here. Everything really is bigger in Texas.

Mom: You aren’t too far from New Orleans. You could swing by and pick up a Noire. From the sound of his energy, he’s bigger too.

Me: Why do I tell you things?

Mom: Because I am your voice of reason.

Me: If that is true, it’s disturbing.

Mom: Someone has to remind you not to be so serious and determined.

Me: That would be terrible advice since I’m in the middle of an important job. The event is tomorrow. I need to prepare.

Mom: Or blow off steam with the hottie playboy. Life is short.

Me: He essentially stalked me. With his family. And your recommendation is for me to drop everything, track him down, and sacrifice vital work time to repay the bizarre gesture?

Mom: Yes.

Me: You are officially fired as the voice of reason and motherly wisdom.

Mom: Stalking with his family is less creepy than without. Maybe even endearing. And you could use some friends right now. You said the girls were nice.

Me: They were, and I could use a friend. But it’s not a good idea.

Flopping onto the bed in the massive hotel suite, I stare at the ornate ceiling, wishing I were here on vacation like half of the other guests. Or at the very least, here for business that didn’t have the risk of being caged for ten to twenty skulking around it.

My chest tightens and deflates, like an elephant is camping out on it. I shouldn’t have told my mom about Cash, but it was a not-so-heavy snippet that was enjoyable to share. We laughed about the note and the crème brûlée. And she’s right; I did like the girls. I’d even be willing to take Axel’s offer for resources if being indebted to them wasn’t a certainty. But that is far too messy, and Cash has surely moved on after I sped away on Jax’s bike. My mother will run with this until the exhaust fumes from that ride choke me out though.

Mom: Not only would it be good to expand your circle, but I found his picture. [Attached: photo]

Mom: Sylvie, WTH? No work is worth skipping THAT. You are only young once. Trust me.

The picture is from some article about the Noire royalty, taken at their public restaurant Café L’Ambroisie. They’re all dressed fairly casually—for them—and yet they still appear regal. And Cash? He’s flashing that grin that is both a warning and a beckoning. A playboy is the last thing I need.

Me: Not happening. Let it go.

Mom: Fine. Rot away in your hotel room with your dildo of the month. But at least have fun at the party.

A laugh bursts out of my lungs. She tries so hard to get a rise out of me, and I relish blocking her meddling. It’s our thing.

Me: I’m not here to have fun. I’m here to work.

Mom: If work is a party, you are indeed there to have fun—or appear to have fun. Dance. Have a drink. Flirt with someone. Or a whole damn room.

I do need to seem as natural as any other guest.

Me: That’s sound logic. Not all is lost. But I’m going to let you go while you’re ahead.

Mom: I’m so proud of you, Sylvie. Call me when it’s over. Love you.

Only my mother could be proud of me.

Me: Love you always.

Everything is bigger in Texas, is the understatement of the century.