ADDICTED

66

LEAH

Stifling humid air blew in through the open window beside me.

My hands rested on the top of the steering wheel, my wrists crossed. I imagined that an outsider might think I was posing for a photo or something.

In reality, I was just paralyzed with apprehension.

Despite the numerous warnings from James and even a stern call from Julia, I sat in my car, parked outside a quaint French bistro. In approximately thirty seconds, I would be expected inside.

My stomach was a jumble of interconnected emotions.

James begged me not to come. He said his mother went off her rocker and that she was unpredictable in this state.

His mother terrified me as it was. I knew shaking the already-agitated beehive wasn't smart.

But I also couldn't allow this woman to trample me for the rest of my life.

She needed to come to terms with the fact that her son and I were in love and we were planning a future together.

I wanted her to be involved, as much as detested her, because she was his mother, at the end of the day. She raised this man I fell so hard for.

This was her last chance, though. I would not be bullied by her childish, elitist mannerisms any longer.

I sucked in a breath and gathered my purse from the passenger seat. Sliding out of my Mercedes, I strode across the parking lot to the bistro doors.

Inside, the place was sparsely populated. A few older couples and a handful of people in church attire were seated at the tables spread around the room.

Midday sunlight streamed in through the windows. I fussed with my curled hair and made my way to the hostess stand.

My eyes searched the occupied tables for a familiar tuft of dyed hair. I felt more anxious when I didn't see anyone who looked even remotely like Marie Muller.

"Just one?" the hostess asked me.

"Oh, no. I'm meeting someone here. She might have made a reservation—"

"Leah," called a shrill, crisp voice.

The hostess and I both turned to acknowledge the woman herself.

She stood between us and the kitchen with a black pencil skirt and matching suit jacket. Her dark hair was styled fashionably in an updo on her head.

With one withering look, I felt myself instinctively retreat into my shell. This woman appeared ready for battle.

"This way," she said impatiently, gesturing for me to follow her.

I glanced at the hostess, who seemed just as startled as me. Shrugging, I hurried to catch up with the older woman's long legs.

"You're late," Mrs. Muller said.

"Sorry?" I checked my watch. "My watch has the time—"

"You're only on time if you're early, Miss Harris," she chided. "If you're on time, then you're late."

I scowled at her perfectly ironed back. What the hell kind of stupid rule was that?

And what did she think this was? A propriety lesson?

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to hold onto the resentment prickling at my skin. I let the feeling fester and take root in my chest so that I would remember to be strong for myself. I would not be this woman's doormat.