Odd Mom Out by Jane Porter

Author:Jane Porter [Porter, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Romance, Fiction, General
ISBN: 0446699233
Publisher: 5 Spot
Published: 2007-09-27T00:00:00+00:00

During the weekend while Eva plans her slumber party, I put in some late nights in the studio to make up for my shorter workdays. Almost every night after Eva goes to bed, I head to my desk in the studio and get to work.

Saturday night I get a lot done; however tonight, Sunday night, I’m so tired that I can hardly focus.

Luke never called again. I told myself I didn’t expect him to, but the fact that he didn’t call stings. I liked him. A lot. Too much.

It’s ridiculous to get so interested in a man, especially as I keep telling myself I don’t believe in love and romance. If Tiana is right, that the brain is wired to lust to enable us to reproduce, then it’s great that I haven’t heard from Luke. It’s better not to have contact. It’s better to go through my withdrawals and just get this whole fascination/infatuation over with.

Now.

And speaking of now, I’ve been staring at my blank computer screen for nearly an hour, and I’m not getting anything done. I want to chuck the towel in and go to bed, but I can’t do that. Frank said we’d have a chance to present our proposal to the Freedom Bike Group sometime in the next couple of weeks, and so far, I don’t have a clear vision for an ad campaign.

Why? Because I’m thinking about Eva and Mom and Dad and Luke and Taylor and everyone and everything but work.

This bike thing’s a big deal, too. I can make it work. I know I can. I’ve just got to start somewhere, take some of my vague, disjointed ideas and find a theme to pull off.

Yawning, I rub my eyes and then the top of my head.

Can’t go to bed, can’t go to bed, must get work done.

Standing, I open the windows and door to bring in the cooler night air. The cool air helps.

Caffeine would help, too, so I search out the coffeepot in the studio’s miniature kitchen, pour the dregs from this afternoon’s pot into my mug, and zap the stale coffee in the microwave.

When the microwave dings, I take the hot mug back to my desk and turn on brighter lights before taking my first swig.

God. The coffee is nasty, so damn bitter that at first I don’t think I can possibly drink it. But I gag it down.

I take another sip and gag again, but as I swallow, I kind of smile. The coffee’s terrible. It’s the worst coffee I’ve had in years.

In the morning I like my coffee smooth, laced with milk and sugar. But there’s something evocative about this cup of really awful coffee. The dark, burnt bitterness reminds me of a badness I used to have, the badness I aspired to, denim and old leather and hard-core boots. Tough as in tattoos and long hair and a swagger.

I think of my old bike in the garage, a bike I haven’t ridden in months since there isn’t time and this doesn’t seem to be the place.

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