Sex, Straight Up by Kathleen O'Reilly

Author:Kathleen O'Reilly [O'Reilly, Kathleen]
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary, Fiction, Romance, General, Love stories, Fiction - Romance, Man-woman relationships, Adult, American Light Romantic Fiction, Romance: Modern, Romance - Contemporary, Scandals
ISBN: 9780373793921
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2008-03-31T16:00:00+00:00

CATHERINE SPENT the rest of the week cataloging high renaissance art, and trying not to think about Wednesday. Talking about dreams was a dangerous thing. Dreams were a fluid, fickle thing. One day, she wanted to be an artist. The next day, she wanted to be in love.

Art was static. No matter how many hours you studied a painting, it didn’t change, and it didn’t disappoint you. It was precisely, exactly the same. Art was safe, which was why by Friday, she had developed a taste for climbing the stairs rather than taking the elevator (better on the thighs), ate lunch in her office (economic and frugal), came in late (lots of sleep was excellent for the complexion) and in general had managed to avoid seeing Daniel for an unbelievable one and one half days. She wanted to be an artist. She didn’t want to fall hopelessly in love with a man who could probably never return that love.

That afternoon, she was so pleased with her problem avoidance that she changed into shorts and T-shirt and dared to walk along Riverside with her mother at lunch. The park ran north-south along the Hudson for over four miles, and when the weather was warm, like now, there were walkers, bicyclists, joggers, lovers and photographers. Of course, her mother had a severe caffeine habit, and because of said habit walked at seventy-five miles an hour, but today Catherine kept up.

Maybe she was huffing a little as they passed 145th Street, and yes, her back was soaked with sweat. Andrea Montefiore was wearing black spandex shorts and a sports bra that revealed absolutely no spare flesh whatsoever. Catherine sighed.

“Come on, Catherine,” her mother called, wanting her to hurry along.

Catherine broke into a jog, abandoning all pretence of capability. Her mother laughed, and then sat gracefully on a bench. Catherine, even further abandoning all pretence of capability, collapsed. A barge chugged down the river, the steam pipe billowing, and Catherine knew just how that overloaded boat felt.

“That flush on your cheeks looks fabulous, darling. Vibrant, healthy, like good sex.”

“Mother!” she exclaimed, partially because she was embarrassed, and mostly because, like the renaissance era, her sex life had, for one moment in history, been masterful, expressive, bringing humanity closer to paradise. However, like the renaissance era, it was over, done with, and was now fodder for the history books.

Her mother’s teeth flashed in a grin. “Oh, don’t be such a puddleglum. We’re both adults.”

“Well, yes, we are, but you’re still my mother, and there’re certain topics that you’ll never hear from my lips.”

“Sex being one?” her mother asked, brown eyes teasing her.

“That and the artistic influence of the rococo style. We’re never going to see eye-to-eye.” Catherine loved it, and passionately defended the overblown excess. Andrea Montefiore thought it sucked eggs.

“You’re a good daughter.”

“You’re the best mother I’ve ever had. How’s the audit going?” Catherine asked, hoping that at least her mother would tell her the truth, since no one else—Daniel—seemed to want to.

“Not well.” Her mother frowned.

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