Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
“Sweetheart, this is important,” she says, and instantly, my guard goes up. “I want to meet for lunch tomorrow to celebrate your birthday.”
I freeze. Birthday? Tomorrow? I let out a groan, frustrated at myself for letting it slip my mind. “I’m way too busy.” Guilt cuts through me as I remind myself it’s the fucking truth. I need at least one clone of myself, if not two, to handle all the shit stacking up on my desk. “It will have to wait until next week.” Or next year. Right now, I’m buried under a mountain of paperwork. The client I’m currently dealing with has me cursing under my breath more than usual. It’s a sticky mess that leaves me questioning humanity.
There’s a small pause, and I can almost picture her shaking her head. “You’re always too busy.”
“Sorry,” I reply. I can hear her sighing through the call, but I’m too wrapped up in my cases to truly think about it. “The new associate we hired starts next week.” I couldn’t take Nora’s nagging any longer, so I finally agreed to bring a third lawyer into our firm. “Once he’s up and running, I should have more free time.”
“Fine! But you better pick another date soon,” she warns, the challenge evident in her voice.
“Sure. Now, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later,” I say, hanging up before she can argue any further. I’m a little shocked she didn’t put up more of a fight but I don’t have time to dwell on it.
Hours drift by as I wade through the pile of work. My head pounds as I take a quick glance at the clock, surprised at how quickly the time has passed today. My office door swings open without warning and I glance up, expecting Margot, but it’s my mother who strides in.
“Mother!” I grumble, half in shock, half-amused as she boldly enters my realm. “Ever heard of knocking?”
“Why waste my time knocking when you’re just going to tell me to come in anyway?” she quips, her grin matched by the light in her eyes.
“You sound just like your daughter,” I respond dryly, though I can’t suppress a smirk.
She waltzes over, unabashed. “Good! I taught her well,” she says, unapologetically proud, eyes flashing as she reaches into an immaculate designer handbag.
“Since you’re too busy to spend time with your dear mother, I had to bring your birthday present to you.” She pulls out an envelope with a flourish.
“You didn’t need to buy me a present.” I sigh, accepting the envelope.
“Open it!” she insists, excitement dancing in her voice.
I tear into it, my curiosity piqued. Inside is a glossy gold gift certificate. “A massage?” I say, raising an eyebrow. A fucking massage? I don’t have time to eat meals most days and she wants me to spend an hour getting my back rubbed?
“Exactly! You’re always so tense, Nash. You need to relax before you snap in half,” she declares with a knowing look.
“Letting a stranger knead my back into dough is your idea of relaxation?” I scoff as excuses to refuse jumble in my mind.
“You’ll love it,” she insists, and the look of determination on her face tells me I’m never getting out of this. “I’ve been getting massages from Leni every week for the last few months, and they are the bomb dot com.”
Motherfucker. I’m in family hell.
At nine am Saturday morning, I grudgingly walk into the dimly lit entrance of the Mellow Moments Spa. The name of the place alone threatens to send me into an allergic reaction.
My mother, in her infinite wisdom and persistent nagging, booked this massage as my birthday present, insisting I need to "relax." She tends to forget I’m a divorce attorney whose life is eternally tangled in other people's shattered vows. In the end, I figured it was better to endure an hour of sanctioned touching than to listen to my mother's lecture about not appreciating her kind gesture.
The atmosphere assaults my senses the moment I step inside. The mingled scents of eucalyptus and lavender, a concoction designed to lull the masses into serenity, fill the air. To me, it's like walking through a greenhouse at a yoga retreat. The hypnotic blend of flutes and chirping birds playing quietly in the background does very little to soothe me.
Striding in, I cast a quick glance at my watch and see I’m right on time. An hour of this, then I’m off to the office, back to the comforting chaos of infidelity and custody battles.
Just when I’m considering ditching this whole charade and making a dash for the exit, a massive figure fills the hallway. This guy looks like he moonlights as a sumo wrestler, with a gentle smile that somehow doesn’t fit his bear-like stature.
“Good morning,” he tells me. “Are you Mr. Hart?”
“I am.” I glance around uncomfortably, wondering if I’m the only person here. Fuck me. If this turns out to be a scam, I’m going to have a strongly worded complaint for my mother.