Mama’s Boy by Avery Flynn

Chapter Thirty-One

Fiona

Fiona’s necklace was gone, and she was trying not to cry over it.

She’d searched the bag she’d taken to Gable House. She’d looked everywhere in her apartment, which, considering it was the size of a large walk-in closet, didn’t take long. She’d even gone downstairs to the building’s laundry room to check all the washers and dryers only to come up empty.

Her teaching mentor had given her the heart for the hard days when she’d wonder why she had chosen such a job. She’d put it on her first day of teaching and had never taken it off. It had become her talisman of sorts, and now it wasn’t anywhere.

The last place she remembered having it was the tent two nights ago, and she was fighting her hardest not to remember that night at all. Sure, Dixon was the kind of guy willing to share outrageously coveted hot chocolate and not come until she’d had two orgasms, but the fact that she wanted to soften toward him was only proof that he was awful. Her judgment was flawed. Until she could figure out how to fix her internal jerk detector, all she could depend on was that if she wanted to say yes, she should definitely say no.

Falling belly-flop-style onto her bed, she let out a loud groan. It was almost midnight and she needed to be wide awake tomorrow so she could educate the minds of almost two dozen third-graders—but every time she closed her eyes, she just saw him.

Girl, you are so screwed.

Her phone buzzed on the pillow.

DIXON: You up?

Two days of radio silence and now this? Really? She rolled her eyes and tapped out a response.

FIONA: Forget about it.

DIXON: What?

Was he still playing at that whole mama’s boy act? Yeah, she didn’t believe it. Not after the other night. Her gut said it was true, so obviously he was just a wolf in the-kind-of-guy-you-take-home clothing.

FIONA: Really? Like you don’t mean “can I come over?”

Good sex didn’t mean she’d drop everything—okay, which was nothing right now—to bang him.

The three dots in the text bubble appeared and disappeared four times before a real message appeared.

DIXON: I was texting to find out what kind of cookies you eat.

She rolled over and sat up. Read the message again. Then, for good measure, read it again. From anyone else she’d met on a dating app, her assumption would be that he wanted to watch her eat another girl out. Why? Because signing up for a dating app seemed to give some guys permission to ask if she’d send a pic of her tits before they even knew anything else about her. The block button was a godsend.

Thumbs positioned to give him a what-for, another message popped up on her screen.

DIXON: I have to send you something.

She was making the awww face before she could stop herself.

No.

Not good.

Cheater Chad the Asshat had been all about gifts, too. Yep. Just remembering that jerk was enough to have her summoning her inner badass.

FIONA: I believe the proper post-tent-sex parting gift is diamonds. Didn’t your mom tell you that?

Zinger delivered, she gave herself a high five. Dumb? Yes. Satisfying? Uh-huh.

DIXON: My sex life is the one thing we don’t talk about.

How did he do that? How did he manage to make his text sound sincere? She’d been level-bazillion snarky for her and he’d just answered. Honestly. Without a fuss. He’d reacted as if she hadn’t just negged him for being close to his mom—as if there was something wrong with that. She let out a long sigh, the empty space in her chest filling up with guilt instead of oxygen.

Not so badass now, are you, Hartigan? Nope. Just mean.

DIXON: So what kind of cookies? They were sugar cookies, right? Where did you get them?

That he was just moving on only made the whole thing worse. He could at least be a jerk back, make some comment about her getting stuck in the window or the fact that her brothers had come and gotten her caveman-style. Guilt? Oh, she’d just take a triple order of that.

FIONA: I baked them—or at least I would have if I hadn’t eaten most of the store-bought tube raw.

DIXON: That can’t be healthy.

She chuckled, despite the rock in her stomach.

FIONA: Report me to the CDC.

DIXON: Maybe that’s where we’ll go for our next date.

Atlanta? With him? Alone? Her panties would last all of about sixteen seconds in a hotel room with Dixon Beckett. Once was just giving in to the attraction. Twice was exploring the possibilities. And three? That was disaster.

FIONA: Nope. No more overnighters. Tell your cousins I refuse.

DIXON: Just teasing. It’s Griff’s turn next to pick a date.

She pictured the hulking tatted-up cousin.

FIONA: Does that mean we’re going to an underground cage match?

DIXON: More like a symposium on CBD-infused CC cream or the skin’s microbiome.

Her eyebrows went up and she let out a little “huh.”

FIONA: Not what I expected.

DIXON: That’s Griff.

And Dixon, according to her completely unreliable total-jerk-face meter. That shouldn’t disappoint her, but she sighed anyway. It would be nice to think that there was a guy out there who was just what he said he was. Who was nice. Who was honest with his motives upfront. Who saw people for who they really were. The only place to find those guys was on the holiday movies cued up on her to-watch list.

And that’s what you need to remember. You’re in it for Nana. He’s in it to win some ridiculous bet. There’s nothing else there.

Yeah, tell that to the steam-o-vision going on in her head every time she had five minutes to herself. It had been two days and she’d already had to replace the batteries in her vibrator. Good thing masturbating to a fantasy wouldn’t get her heart broken, because otherwise she’d be in a world of hurt. Time to end this little chat now before she forgot that.

FIONA: Night, Dixon.

DIXON: Sweet dreams.

Sweet? That’s definitely not how she’d describe her dreams lately. Not even close.