The Singles Table (Marriage Game #3)(13)

“It’s you I’m worried about.” She leaned against the railing that kept the children from running out into the parking lot. “It’s Friday night. You should be out on a date, or going to clubs or bars with your friends, not having dinner with your mother. You need to find someone to share your life. What if something happens to me?”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he said abruptly. “You got your five-year all clear.” His pulse kicked up a notch. “Or are you trying to tell me something?”

“I just need to know you won’t be alone,” she said softly. “I got through my treatment because I kept thinking, who is going to love my boy if I’m gone?”

“Christ, Mom.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Don’t do this to me five minutes before I have to meet your biker boyfriend.”

“I want you to promise me you’ll try to find a partner,” she said. “Someone who loves you for who you are. Someone who will be there for you. Someone you can love in return.” She held up her hand when he opened his mouth to protest. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re busy with work. It isn’t the right time. But I’ve found something with Rick I didn’t even know was missing, and I want that for you, too. Promise me you’ll be open to the idea, that you’ll make an effort to find someone. No more Friday nights with your mom.”

“What about Sunday dinner?” They’d always had Sunday dinner together. Even when she’d been too sick to eat, they’d spent the evening drinking sports drinks and watching old movies on TV.

“We’ll still have dinner on Sundays. That’s our time. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Even without the worried niggle at the back of his mind, Jay couldn’t deny his mother anything, and she knew it. “Fine.” He sighed. “I promise.”

The rumble of an engine echoed through the small parking lot, and a heavyset biker drove up to them on a massive Harley-Davidson touring bike complete with sixteen-inch ape-hanger handlebars.

“Seriously?” His stomach knotted with tension. “You’re going to ride on that?”

“Stop scowling,” his mother said. “I like Rick so I expect you to be polite. One day you’ll meet someone who makes your heart sing and you’ll realize that life isn’t meant to be lived alone.”

Annoyed at the concession he’d been forced to give, he folded his arms across his chest. “I like to be alone.”

“He has a daughter . . .”

“Mom . . .” Thirty-four years old, CEO of his own company, and his mother was still trying to set him up. “I’m busy building something great. The last thing I’m interested in right now is a relationship, and especially not with the daughter of a man who can’t even sit in a car.”

His mother didn’t understand that being at the top meant he could finally breathe. It meant that when the time finally came to have a family, his children would never have to wonder where their next meal would come from or where they would be sleeping at night. It meant that if someone got sick, he could pay for the best medical care. It meant security, and that was all he’d ever wanted.

“It’s not just about a relationship,” she said softly. “It’s about love.”

“I don’t need love.”

“Everyone needs love.” She leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Especially you.”





? 5 ?



Compared to Zara’s previous law firms, Cruz & Lovitt was barely a blip on the Bay Area legal scene. With only two partners, three associates, and a handful of staff, the boutique personal injury firm couldn’t afford financial district rents. Instead, the partners had converted the loft of a historical residence in Lower Potrero into a unique modern office space. Zara loved the exposed brick walls and wide-plank wood floors that ran through the reception and kitchen area. Bright, airy meeting rooms had been converted from former bedrooms, and her spacious office had once been a dining room. Furnished with a large black leather couch, reclaimed-wood shelving, and a wide live-edge desk beside a huge casement window, her office would have been the envy of the city associates she’d left behind. Except for her unexpected visitor.

“Why are you sleeping on my couch?” She nudged Faroz Jalal awake. The firm’s private investigator had made himself cozy with the yellow throw and pillows she’d bought to match the Lion King musical print on her wall.

“It’s more comfortable than a cardboard box.” He yawned and rubbed a hand through hair cut military short. A former CIA operative—or so he claimed—Faroz wore combat boots buffed to a perfect shine, camo pants, and a tight gray T-shirt that clung to the planes and angles of his lean frame. He was in his late thirties and had been working with the firm for the last three years. “How did it go?”

Zara dropped her laptop case on her desk. She’d spent the morning on a movie set, and the afternoon in a tiny boardroom with her stuntman client and four sweaty insurance lawyers who didn’t seem to have heard of deodorant.

“We couldn’t come to a settlement so it looks like we’re heading for trial.” Zara grinned. There was nothing she enjoyed more than litigating a case in court. “I thought taking the insurer’s legal team to visit the movie set would make a difference. It’s one thing to read about someone jumping out of a burning helicopter; something else to see exactly how far our client fell when his safety harness snapped. But they still weren’t prepared to give us what we wanted.”