Page 16 of Special Delivery

Who the fuck does she think she is? Daddy’s spoiled girl who thinks she can throw accusations at good people just because she didn’t get her way.

I don’t give two shits if she thinks I’m trying to mooch off Mom, but she sure as fuck shouldn’t be insinuating that Mom is doing the same to her precious father.

“How was the house?” Mom calls out as soon as I enter.

Our house smells like pancakes and home. The brown wallpaper still has the small tears I made when I was a kid, and it pains me to know neither of us will be living here soon.

“Good. Nothing special,” I respond and shuck the shoes off my feet. Mom has a strict no shoes in the house policy.

“Come here. I made food and you can tell me all about it.”

The only thing I want to do right now is cover my room in darkness and go lie down, but instead I do what she says. I find her in the kitchen wearing the off-white apron that has seen better days. She sports a wide smile, but I know exactly what’s behind it—worry.

She worries about my headaches. She worries about the fact that I dropped everything and moved back home. And when it comes to the events that transpired yesterday, she worries more about me than herself. Her heart is amazing, but the selflessness can become overwhelming. How could I ever live up to that standard? Another pang of pain zaps through my head, and Mom notices it straight away.

“Come. Sit. Eat.” She pulls out a chair for me, and I slump down into it.

“The house was great.” I place a couple of pancakes and a few pieces of bacon onto my plate and cut into it. It’s only ten am, and neither of us eats first thing in the morning, so it makes sense that the brunch she prepared is actually breakfast. “But it’s too big for me.”

She lets out a loving scoff. “Nonsense. You’ll have it filled in no time.”

I let out an internal sigh, not wanting to disappoint her. Family used to be on my to-do list, along with climbing the corporate ladder and buying the best place money could buy. However, just like my other previous goals, I’ve scrapped this one from the list, too. It’s obvious I’m not cut out for stress, and there’s nothing more stressful than being a parent. I adore Chrissy, but I know how much sleep Parker has lost over the years. I know how much he worries.

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s for me.” I give her a vague answer.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find something just right for you. If you don’t, I meant what I said yesterday—this place is yours.” She sits across from me, filling her own plate.

“You’re really getting married?”

She stops her hand mid-motion and glances up at me. “I love him. I know it’s a shock to you.”

“What about what his daughters said? About his previous marriages?”

She lowers her fork onto her plate, wiping her hands with a napkin. “I know all about his past. He wasn’t a criminal or a sex offender, he just got married a few times. I’m good with it. You should be, too.”

I hesitate for a second, searching for the truth in her eyes. Eventually, I nod. “Fine. But he better not hurt you.”

That makes her smile, and we continue eating in comfortable silence.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Paige

My teeth gnaw on the inside of my lip as I wait for Martha to join me in her office. I’m confident about the article I’ve sent in, but it’s still nerve-wracking. My gaze trailing the room, I try to focus on something else, but every detail of it is familiar.

There’s not a scrap of paper on her desk, not a speck of dust. Her office is so far off the ground that the only building visible through the wall of windows are too far away for people-gazing. She could really use some plants in here, but after the monstera debacle, I certainly won’t be the one suggesting it.

I remember the first time I was here. It was round five of my interview process for a part-time position with the magazine. I was shaking in my boots, waiting for Martha’s face to form an expression before she finally said, “I loved what you sent in.” A boulder dropped from my shoulders, and an hour later, she hired me.

Finally, the door swings open, the soft click of thin heels an unmistakable sign of who just entered. As always, she’s perfectly put together, putting my business casual attire to shame. I’m wearing my best shirt, but this place is one I never truly fit in.

The years I spent working at the office were a battle of imposter syndrome and trying to be something I’m not. The outfit I’m wearing today is one I bought back then. I splurged half of my intern paycheck on these pants that hit my stomach at just to right angle for them to be uncomfortable and this shirt that is a bitch to iron. They allowed me to work from home after I relocated to Fig Bay, which has been a blessing.

Martha scoots into her chair, placing both of her perfectly manicured hands on the desk. A giant exhale escapes me as her Botoxed face transforms into the closest thing to a smile. “This is good, Paige. Really good.”

The tension in my shoulders loosens, like a thread that was keeping them strung up finally snapped. I smile back, wiping the sweat off my hands on my too-expensive pants.

She turns to her sleek computer, clicking through what I assume is my manuscript. “I laughed, I was giddy, and I felt the tension.”