real Linc Caldwell. That’s something I’m not going to compromise on and that wins out over my guilt right now.
I just need to figure out how to be myself without pissing her off any further.
“Rise and shine. Time to get up.”
I bolt upright in bed, holding my covers to my chest while Linc Caldwell stands inside my bedroom. I don’t have my contacts in and he’s a little blurry on around the edges, but he radiates sex appeal nonetheless. That I can see well enough. And it doesn’t help that he woke me up out of a sound sleep where I had just happened to be dreaming about the infuriatingly, sexy man. In a very naughty way.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” I hope my anger diffuses the lingering feelings of lust I was feeling and glad my first conscious reaction was to pull the blanket up. I’m sure my nipples are as hard as rocks right now.
With disgusting cheerfulness, he says, “We got places to go, people to see. Get up and get dressed. Breakfast is in ten minutes.”
I glance at the clock on the table beside me. It’s freakin’ 6:30am.
Stifling a yawn, I ask, “What could you possibly need to do this early in the morning? Aren’t you like on vacation until hockey starts back up?”
He rolls his eyes at me. “You clearly know nothing about professional hockey. Come get some breakfast and I’ll go over my schedule with you.”
Linc walks out, shutting the door behind him.
I lay back on my pillow and briefly consider going back to sleep. Despite the lovely dream I had been having just a few minutes ago, I had tossed and turned all night, replaying over and over in my head everything that has happened to me in the last few days. I’m heartsick that I lost the L.A. assignment. I want to be pissed at Linc for getting me in this situation, but I can’t ignore the fact that the article I wrote got me in this situation. Linc may be a slime ball but he didn’t make me write that story. And while it was an opinion piece, I may have stretched the truth a bit and I certainly disregarded his wishes about keeping the shoe story off the record.
And the guilt from that is actually starting to really weigh on me. How could I possibly want to be a legitimate journalist if I stretch my ethics just because some guy got my panties in a twist? It was beyond reprehensible and I’m feeling very low about myself.
I think about my mother. My dear, sweet, sweet mom. She’s a miracle of life and my inspiration. She’s been in remission from breast cancer for close to five years now. She’s had her body brutalized by chemo and radiation. She’s had her breasts removed. She faces the uncertainty that death may be around the corner, and yet she refuses to let any of that get her down.
As a true southern woman, her favorite saying is, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” I close my eyes and try to hear her voice saying that right now but it won’t come to me, and I so desperately need to hear her right now.
Rolling over, I grab my phone from my purse sitting beside the bed. I dial her number, hoping it’s not too early to call.
“Hello, Buttercup.” My mother’s voice is soft and sweet, with a lovely Carolina lilt.
“Hi, Mom. Did I wake you?”
“You did, but I can’t think of a lovelier way to wake up. How are you doing, sweetheart?”
Just her voice infuses me with peace. “I’m fine.” I hesitate, not wanting to dump on her.
“No, you’re not. I can hear it in your voice. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
And that’s all it takes. I pour everything out, starting from when Marc picked up the engagement ring until Linc woke me up a few minutes ago.
“Oh, honey. You have a lot on your plate right now, don’t you?”
“That’s an understatement. I lost out on a huge career opportunity all because I let my anger get the best of me. Now I’m stuck having to follow this frustrating man around. And I’m feeling guilty for what I did on top of
I just need to figure out how to be myself without pissing her off any further.
“Rise and shine. Time to get up.”
I bolt upright in bed, holding my covers to my chest while Linc Caldwell stands inside my bedroom. I don’t have my contacts in and he’s a little blurry on around the edges, but he radiates sex appeal nonetheless. That I can see well enough. And it doesn’t help that he woke me up out of a sound sleep where I had just happened to be dreaming about the infuriatingly, sexy man. In a very naughty way.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” I hope my anger diffuses the lingering feelings of lust I was feeling and glad my first conscious reaction was to pull the blanket up. I’m sure my nipples are as hard as rocks right now.
With disgusting cheerfulness, he says, “We got places to go, people to see. Get up and get dressed. Breakfast is in ten minutes.”
I glance at the clock on the table beside me. It’s freakin’ 6:30am.
Stifling a yawn, I ask, “What could you possibly need to do this early in the morning? Aren’t you like on vacation until hockey starts back up?”
He rolls his eyes at me. “You clearly know nothing about professional hockey. Come get some breakfast and I’ll go over my schedule with you.”
Linc walks out, shutting the door behind him.
I lay back on my pillow and briefly consider going back to sleep. Despite the lovely dream I had been having just a few minutes ago, I had tossed and turned all night, replaying over and over in my head everything that has happened to me in the last few days. I’m heartsick that I lost the L.A. assignment. I want to be pissed at Linc for getting me in this situation, but I can’t ignore the fact that the article I wrote got me in this situation. Linc may be a slime ball but he didn’t make me write that story. And while it was an opinion piece, I may have stretched the truth a bit and I certainly disregarded his wishes about keeping the shoe story off the record.
And the guilt from that is actually starting to really weigh on me. How could I possibly want to be a legitimate journalist if I stretch my ethics just because some guy got my panties in a twist? It was beyond reprehensible and I’m feeling very low about myself.
I think about my mother. My dear, sweet, sweet mom. She’s a miracle of life and my inspiration. She’s been in remission from breast cancer for close to five years now. She’s had her body brutalized by chemo and radiation. She’s had her breasts removed. She faces the uncertainty that death may be around the corner, and yet she refuses to let any of that get her down.
As a true southern woman, her favorite saying is, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” I close my eyes and try to hear her voice saying that right now but it won’t come to me, and I so desperately need to hear her right now.
Rolling over, I grab my phone from my purse sitting beside the bed. I dial her number, hoping it’s not too early to call.
“Hello, Buttercup.” My mother’s voice is soft and sweet, with a lovely Carolina lilt.
“Hi, Mom. Did I wake you?”
“You did, but I can’t think of a lovelier way to wake up. How are you doing, sweetheart?”
Just her voice infuses me with peace. “I’m fine.” I hesitate, not wanting to dump on her.
“No, you’re not. I can hear it in your voice. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
And that’s all it takes. I pour everything out, starting from when Marc picked up the engagement ring until Linc woke me up a few minutes ago.
“Oh, honey. You have a lot on your plate right now, don’t you?”
“That’s an understatement. I lost out on a huge career opportunity all because I let my anger get the best of me. Now I’m stuck having to follow this frustrating man around. And I’m feeling guilty for what I did on top of
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