Chapter Eleven
Sunlight streamed intothe room, rudely awakening Stacia. She opened one eye and peered balefully at the skylight, which last night had seemed so romantic and beautiful when the moonlight had streamed in. Now, with the sun up and only a couple of hours of sleep under her belt, she had to rethink the design element. A heavy weight pinned her to the mattress. Jason’s arm. She nudged him, but he only groaned and pulled her closer. She pushed him harder.
“What the hell time is it?” He glared at her out of one squinty eye. “If you’re a morning person, get the hell out of my bed. I’m tired.” He promptly rolled over and started snoring again. Probably faking it so she would leave.
She slid out of the bed and grabbed his shirt from last night, tossed on the floor, a victim of their passion. It would do for a bathrobe.
What were the odds he had coffee in this place? Probably low, but a girl could hope. She closed the bedroom door and went downstairs in search of her morning heaven. A few minutes later, she had the coffee maker percolating, filling the small kitchen with the aroma of a hearty breakfast blend. No wimpy flavored coffee for Jason.
She sucked in a deep breath. No cream or sugar in the house, but at least there was coffee. She always had an emergency stash of creamers and sugar in her bag. She stirred both into the java, and sucked in the sharp scent of Sumatran blend. It was good. No cheap stuff for Jason.
She sighed and leaned against the counter, savoring the quiet and the beverage. She was just drifting to her happy place when the doorbell rang. She jerked and coffee spilled over her hand. “Damn it.” She wiped her hand on the dishcloth and walked down the hall. She opened the door and an older woman dressed in a magenta velour track suit turned.
“So, you must be the new chippie who’s sunk her claws into my boy. Well, you’re certainly not his usual type.” And she brushed by Stacia, rolling her suitcase over Stacia’s bare foot, causing her yelp.
Uh, her boy? Holy crap, Jason’s mother? Stacia tugged the shirt lower, trying to cover more of her legs and followed the woman into the living room, almost running into her, spilling her coffee again.
The woman glanced at the cup. “You have coffee? Good. It’s been a long flight and it’s way too early.”
“You could have stopped at a coffee shop,” Stacia muttered under her breath and followed the older woman into the kitchen. “So, you’re Jason’s mother?”
Probably a good idea to ascertain who this woman was before assuming, especially since she didn’t fit the image she had of his mother, not that she had been thinking of his mother at all. I mean, who thinks of their boyfriend’s mother? And was he a boyfriend, a client, or what? Too heavy questions after way too late a night. But she had a feeling that she’d better figure it out quick.
Shit, too complicated a discussion for this early in the morning. She returned her attention to the older woman. A magenta track suit, cheap tennis shoes, very heavy hand with the makeup and did they still make blue eye shadow in that shade of electric? Maybe only in Jersey, where Jason was from, according to his bio, and where his mother still lived.
When she rounded the corner, the woman was standing by the counter, cupping a mug of coffee and sipping appreciatively. She opened her eyes and fixed a stare on Stacia.
“Let’s sit and talk, shall we?”
Without waiting for a response, she settled herself at the table and gestured to the seat opposite her. Stacia blindly followed and sat across from her, yanking discreetly on the shirt again, making sure everything was covered.
“So, who are you?” Definitely from Jersey, based on the accent and blunt manner. Having little experience with morning afters, especially morning after conversations with her lover’s mother, she sipped her coffee and studied the woman over the rim of the mug. The high cheekbones and sharp eyes reminded her of Jason, especially the guarded look in them, suspiciously checking her out. This woman was rounded and soft, but not tender and sweet. She was a mama bear protecting her young, even if he was in his thirties.
“I’m Stacia Kendall. I’m helping your son with his media image.”
The other woman studied her for several long moments, eyes seeming to pierce her soul. Seeming satisfied with what she saw, the older woman nodded then reached across the table and grasped Stacia’s arm, a look of pleading and hope replacing wariness. “Can you help him?”
Stacia immediately relaxed and smiled. “I’m trying, Mrs. Friar.”
“Call me Celia.” Both women laughed and Stacia sagged back in her chair.
*
Jason woke slowly,blinking rapidly against the sun shining in his eyes. He stretched his hand out and only felt cool sheets. He suppressed a stab of irritation. He had to break Stacia of that habit of rushing out after sex while he was sleeping. He ignored the fact that he was usually the one leaving in the middle of night. He did not appreciate her sneaking out on him, again, and he cursed the unusual feeling. Dammit they were more than fuck buddies. Hadn’t last night proved it?
He tossed the sheets aside, determined to have the discussion immediately, clear up any remaining misunderstandings. She belonged to him, by his side. After all her attempts to get there, she’d better be ready to stay there. At the thought, he stopped, shocked by the turn of his feelings. Not once in his life had he ever wanted a woman to stay the night, much less the next morning. The idea that Stacia was getting under his skin, becoming a part of his life, was not scaring him as it would normally.
Despite the fact he hadn’t wanted her here in the first place, she’d steamrolled her way in and should have had the decency not to run out. Although he vaguely recalled a brief conversation earlier where he may or may not have kicked her out. If she wouldn’t leave then, she damn well better not have left now.
The sound of voices drifted up the condo stairs, both clearly belonging to women. A bad feeling wafted over him, and dread dogged his footsteps. As he walked further down the steps, the second voice became more and more clear.
He stepped into the kitchen, smelling coffee and another scent, a perfume from his youth, reminding him of conversations over dinner and unconditional love. Passing it off as delusion and lack of caffeine, he muttered, “Must have coffee.” He slid the carafe out and started to pour but only a few drops trickled into his cup. “What the—?”
“Watch your language, young man.”
He froze, an icy chill grabbing his balls in a vice-like grip. Slowly, he turned and faced the small dining area. Stacia waved, a smile playing about her lips. And the other woman scowled at him while dressed in something that hurt his eyes. “Mom, what the hell are you wearing?”
“Jason.” Her tone threw him back to his childhood, the tiny kitchen, closet really, in New Jersey, and his hand flew to his ear, already feeling her tug it as a correction.