David

My phone rings, the sound piercing my skull like a saber saw. A high-tech lightsaber saw. Groaning, I fumble around on the nightstand. Must stop this aural assault before it completes the job that yesterday’s cookies didn’t. Or I’ll die like a possum crossing a highway. Finally, my hand finds the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Hello, Da— My goodness. Are you still asleep?” Mom’s voice is ultra-energetic.

“Yes. I’m on the West Coast.” I squint at my phone. Barely nine a.m. Ugh.

“So?”

“So that means I’m three hours behind you.”

“And? When did it become acceptable to be lounging around in bed at nine?”

When I was almost murdered by my assistant’s cookies and—having to neutralize the poison by hitting a couple of local bars with some coworkers—didn’t get home until well past two. Not that that’s something I can share with Mom. Even if I could, she wouldn’t understand. She’s a morning person—gets up by five every day of her life. A meteor could crash in her yard at two a.m. and she’d still get up by five.

“Actually, it would be acceptable to be in bed this late if you’re making me a grandbaby,” Mom says.

“Mom!”

Mister Fake Fiance: A Sexy Fake Engagement Romantic Comedy

Comentarios