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Maxwell sighs. “Dude. I think you need to sit down with your mother and just give it to her straight. Tell her to respect your boundaries, or you’ll take legal action, or something like that.”
I nod, even though the idea makes me faintly queasy. “You’re right,” I say. “Let me just get it over with. Thanks, bud. Talk again soon.” I hang up.
With a sigh, I dial her number. “Mason. Baby,” she cries happily. “I knew you’d call me.”
“I am not calling because I want to see you in any way, shape, or form. I am calling to sit down, see what the hell you want this time, and then that will be it. You understand? Meet me at the Milky Way Café on Broadway, one week from today, 11 a.m. Don’t be late.” She’s always freaking late.
“I’ll be there. Oh, honey, I’m so—” I hang up the phone, wishing it were a land line so I could slam the receiver down.
THE DAILY SNITCH
The Daily Snitch
Date . . . Do you care? Time for the tea.
This star stalker stands corrected. It was brought to our attention that the woman seen at the Rovers game flirt-arguing with a certain hunky forward was in fact just arguing... with her client.
Mason Raker is still on the market, ladies. Turns out she’s his publicist. Our bad boy has been working on cleaning up his public image with the help of a professional.
We have to admit, Mason Raker in costume is adorbs. Kudos to the woman we’ve learned is a junior publicist, Rowan James of Queensby Publicity. Whatever influence she’s had on him has us all swooning.
We reached out to Mason for a comment, and he had this to say:
“Strawberry has been good for me. She’s a pain in the rear (word has been modified for obvious reasons), but I’ve enjoyed my time with these kids, which is something she organized.”
What we wouldn’t give to spend time with the hockey stud.
26
ROWAN
“Hey, devil-woman. Dealer of evil costumes.”That’s how Mason greets me when I pick up the phone.
It’s a weeknight and I’m in my apartment, pacing the floor and buzzing with a restless energy. I’m not sure what I want to do tonight.
I lean against the wall, closing my eyes and trying not to picture Mason naked. It’s like trying not to think of a pink elephant. Now I can’t imagine anything else. “Hey, Legend in His Own Mind. That’s my new nickname for you. Also, you’re not exactly giving me an incentive to dial back on the costumes.”
“I am not a good man to cross, woman,” he growls.
I let out a giggle. “Ooh, you’re so cute when you try to be scary.”
“We’ll see how cute I am. How about a dozen pizzas at your doorstep, with shredded coconut topping?”
I glare at the phone as if he can see me. “Not unless you want to be Raggedy Ann at your next hospital appearance. Don’t think I won’t. By the way, did you call me for professional reasons or to give me grief?”
“Can’t it be both?”
I heave a melodramatic sigh. “The things I put up with for my clients.”
“I hope you’re not like this with all your clients,” he says, a warning clear in his tone.
“Caveman. What do you want?”
“Right now? I wanna know what you’re wearing.”
Ratty sweatpants and a stained T-shirt. “I’m wearing a lacy pink bra, a thong, and six-inch spike heels.”
He lets out a bark of laughter. “You almost had me until you got to the heels. You hate heels.”
