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Probably just my overactive imagination. Dreamy, wistful thoughts from my creative side—or my only side, as Mother liked to joke.
“Morning, sunshine.” Mother breezes into the kitchen in her high-waisted leggings and sports bra. “Did you have one of my smoothies?”
I don’t use Mother’s products. Roman insinuated they were gauche. I argued once that they couldn’t be that gauche since they paid for a nice place in Beverly Hills.
Darling, your father paid for that mansion in the divorce. Cowles women get their lifestyles by spreading their legs.
So, yeah. I skipped any further argument and never used Mother’s products.
“Yes, thank you.”
She beams. “I’m glad you’re still here. I wanted to talk to you.”
The guava passionfruit curdles in my belly. She’s going to bring up all the ways I can work for her. She thinks she’s helping me, but I have my hands full with my own business. And then there’s Cannon’s reaction.
I clasp my hands around the cool cup. “I need to talk to you about that too.”
Her smile widens. “I’ve been thinking about it all night. The timing is perfect. You need something now that you don’t have Roman’s support, and you’ll be the perfect face for my line of on-the-go protein bars.”
“I have the studio.” Mother’s job is her passion. Not mine.
“Oh, I know, honey. You can work around that.” She continues about photo shoots, PR events, brochures and posters, updating the website.
I don’t register the specifics of her words. She expects me to work my career around hers? Yet she wonders why I didn’t have the confidence in myself to tell Roman to go find someone his own age to control?
The cycle needs to stop. Cannon’s words from earlier run through my mind. Mother doesn’t know me better than herself.
“Mother.”
“I’ll have Monique add you to the group—”
“No.”
“The messaging system is easy enough to figure out, Penni. Monique can—”
I channel a bit of my husband and hate myself a little for it when I say, “Mother, no.”
She snaps her mouth shut. It’s like a cute little dog snapped at her outstretched hand full of treats. I’m not a dog. I’m not a small child. Mother needs to see that. “I have a business to run. I have a competition. Juan Pablo’s counting on me. I’m not working for you. I have a job.”
Mother adopts her placating expression. “Penni, honey. You know the time you put into those competitions doesn’t pay off. Not unless you get on some hit TV show, and you didn’t even try.”
“I don’t dance for Hollywood.”
“Teaching eight-year-olds how to foxtrot isn’t going to put a roof over your head in LA.”
“Then I won’t get a house in LA.” This is the first time I’ve thought about it, and the idea threatens to upend the smoothie.
“Move?”
My nod is shaky. I don’t want to move. I’d have to find a new partner. Start the studio over from scratch, and how the hell can I do that without Pierre? He owned a studio before and he’s been my mentor. My friends are in or around LA. Despite traffic, they’re still a drive away. But I have to make some tough decisions. I want to be independent. I’m not a trophy wife, but I’m not a trophy daughter either.
If I wanted to be a model and sell nutrition products, I would’ve. I’ve put hundreds—thousands—of hours into my work. If Mother wants my help, she can get it on my terms, or… Or I’ll find another safe house. Because Cannon was right. This was the best decision for me.
Mother lets out a laugh and runs her blender, a red one from her line of kitchenware to support her nutrition products. “Penelope, you can’t move. Tell her, Cannon.”
Waves of heat brush over my bare skin. He’s behind me. What if he has his shirt off? Roman’s a fit guy. He hits the gym like he’s a man obsessed, and I lived with strict orders to keep carbs out of the house. I have my beer and hot dogs with London and Holland.
“Tell her what?” Cannon slides onto the stool next to me, dressed back in his typical baggy clothing. His cedar scent laced with citrus wraps around me.
