Mama’s Boy by Avery Flynn
Chapter Fifty
Fiona
Hourslater, Fiona lay tucked up against Dixon as they both watched the moon through the skylights above his bed. They’d slept, then had another round of slow lovemaking, the kind you had when you were memorizing every inch of the other person, trying to make them part of the central memory bank. Now she was too tired to be awake and too happy to sleep.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?” she asked.
Chuckling, he brushed a kiss across the top of her head. “Is this a job interview?”
“Yes, it’s a rigorous position and cannot be trusted to just anyone.”
“In that case,” he said, playing along even though there was no missing the tired note in his tone, “I want to have positioned Beckett Cosmetics as the number one luxury line in each of the major product streams. How about you?”
Nervous jitters made her breathing quick. She’d never told anyone before. With her track record for not making the best judgments, she hadn’t wanted to open herself up to her siblings or her friends, even though she knew they had the best intentions. Sometimes dreams only got to live in a person’s mind. Still, Dixon was different.
“A friend who’s a grant writer and I have been talking for years about starting a charter school, one that really focuses on individualized education and performance.” They had a business plan and a core curriculum worked out already. It was close to pull-the-trigger time, and that had Fiona twisted up with anxiety. “That’s pretty pie in the sky, though. I’m just a third-grade teacher. A more manageable goal is probably just to finally buy an apartment instead of dealing with my landlord who keeps jacking up the rent each year.”
“Those are both good goals.” Dixon trailed his fingers over her hip. “And you are not just a third-grade teacher. You are the third-grade teacher—your kids told me so at lunch.”
She chuckled, and they settled into a comfortable silence as her eyes got heavier and heavier.
“So what happens tomorrow?” she asked.
He curled his arms around her tighter, his breathing evening out. “Whatever we want.”
That sounded about as close to perfect as her life was apt to ever be.
