“Mom asks, sitting at my kitchen table and sipping black coffee. “Boyfriend?” I frown, cradling my own mug of milk-with-coffee and leaning against the counter. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” “Well then, no idea how you call it these days.” She waves a manicured hand and smiles at me. It’s kind of creepy how much she looks like me. And kind of nice, too. “That young man who’s holding your hand in the picture.” “The” picture is the only photo of me and Hawk the tabloids have managed to score so f...ar. It made quite the splash last month. We’re walking into a restaurant, and he’s holding my hand, glancing over his shoulders as the paparazzi flashes went off. Needless to say we fled the restaurant and had dessert in bed instead. “Don’t you know who that guy is, Mom?” “Some rich guy or other. The Fleming heir.” She sighs. “Don’t tell me you’re just friends.” Trust Mom not to know who Hawk really is. It’s a miracle she saw the picture.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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