Finally, she arrived, only fifteen minutes late. Better than usual. My mom had no concept of time, really. Throughout my childhood, she'd made me late for everything. Birthday parties, cheerleading camp, hell, even school. I'd always gotten lukewarm, leftover food at the parties, missed exciting games and never learned the right cheers. Come to think of it, maybe that was when my obsession with punctuality had started.

"Why are you wearing that color?" was the first thing she said, taking the seat across from me. She was an attractive woman in her early fifties. Short brown hair, eyes that were a mix of brown and gray-and filled with a kind of sadness and vulnerability I hadn't seen in a long time. Her slight build and petite height gave her a damsel-in-distress vibe.

"Are you all right?" I asked, concern growing.

She waved away my words and the action wafted a sweet fragrance of lilies in my direction. Lily was her favorite scent. Every time I'd cried over a boy, she'd wrapped her arms around me comfortingly and that smell had surrounded me.

"You should be wearing green," she said. "To match your eyes."

"In case you never noticed, my eyes are gray."

"Never mind that," she said, once again waving my words away. "That brown washes out your skin tone."

Why was she so concerned about my clothing choices? That was completely unlike her. "I like to look washed out," I said dryly. "Otherwise people are intimidated by my glorious beauty."

Her lips pressed together to prevent a smile. "Do you sass everyone this way, or just me? Never mind. I'm just glad you're doing it. I was afraid Richard had killed your spirit. Anyway, we were talking about your clothes and the fact that you should be wearing something green."

My eyes widened as it suddenly hit me. I almost groaned. She knew about Royce. That was the only explanation for this bizarre behavior.

She confirmed my suspicions with her next words. "Why didn't you tell me you're working with Royce Powell?"

Because I didn't want to, I silently answered. To her, I said, "How did you know about my job with Mr. Powell?"

"Mr. Powell, is it?" She tapped her pink oval fingernail against the table surface. "That's not what the Tattler says you call him."

I jolted to a perfectly aligned position any chiropractor would have applauded. "The Tattler has an article about me and Royce?"

"That's why I'm late. I saw the tabloid at a newsstand and almost died." Her pretty face scrunched with distaste. She pulled the tabloid from her purse and slid it across the table. The front page glared up at me.

It was a picture of me walking out of my apartment building. I looked… bad. Really bad. My face was all puckered up like I'd just sucked down two dozen lemons without a breath in between. My hair was anchored back in my usual twist, except my shadow made the twist look eight times larger, reminding me of Marge Simpson.

The caption read Has Royce Powell Been Brainwashed by Alien Female?

Mortification washed through me and I wanted to slink down in my chair. My cheeks reddened. My only hope was that I looked so hideous in the picture that no one would recognize me in person.

"Really, Naomi. Couldn't you have smiled at the photographer or something? You look…I don't even want to say it."

Not wanting to draw undue attention to myself, I kept my voice down. "I didn't know anyone was taking my picture."

She frowned and shook her head. "Sweetie, you need to be more aware of your surroundings. It's dangerous to be so oblivious to what's going on around you. A thief could run off with your purse or something."

As if I didn't know that.

"Don't feel bad," my mom added. "You're not the only poor female caught on film with Royce."

My shoulders straightened. "What! What other woman?" That bastard!

She blinked. "Well, this one." She tapped the corner of the paper and my gaze darted there. Royce stood next to Gwendolyn Summers, the gorgeous, leggy brunette he'd been photographed with before. They were in formal wear, looking fancy. Perfect together. Pieces of a well-matched puzzle.

What were they doing together yet again? Was Royce dating her? He'd told me she was only a friend. It was none of my business if he was dating her, but damn him to the hottest fires of hell! He'd asked me to marry him. He'd kissed me. Twice. He said he loved me. What a scum, rat, dog bastard. I wouldn't sleep with him now if I was dying and the only thing that could save me was a penis injection from him.

The sound of crumpling paper filled my ears and I realized I was gripping the tabloid too tightly. I also realized another photographer could be here, too, waiting to snap another shot of me. Immediately I pasted a pleasant, I'm-so-happy-and-not-a-hideous-monster smile on my face. I glanced around the room, showing that smile to everyone who looked in my direction.

My mom eyed me as if I'd suddenly sprouted braided nose hair. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," I said, still gazing around the coffee shop, trying to spot any suspicious characters. No one seemed out of the ordinary. No one sported a camera.

"Naomi, sweetheart, your face looks…I don't know, frozen. And that's the fakest grin I've ever seen."

I would have glowered at her but I didn't want to spoil my nonchalant expression. "What did you want to meet me for? And don't tell me it's because you were worried about me. I've already told you there's nothing wrong."

"Can't I see my daughter for no other reason than that I miss her?"

No. There was always a reason. I decided to turn this around and aim the spotlight at her. Still smiling, of course. "Why don't you tell me why you look so sad, hmm?"

"I do not look sad." She assumed an airy pose, though it clearly took a concentrated effort on her part. "I was just curious about your social life, is all. You call me in the middle of the night, asking about love and marriage, and now I learn you're working for Royce Powell. Are you considering marriage to him?"

"Not even if it would save my soul from roasting in hell!" Smile, I reminded myself. I bared my teeth in what I hoped was a happy grin.

"Well." Her pointed stare bore into me, probing deep and completely unnerving me as only my mom could. "Are you? Be honest this time."

"No." Smile, damn it. "Of course not."

"Why not? And stop smiling like that."

I allowed my facial features to relax, but only slightly. "You know why."

"Because you saw him in a picture with that Summers woman? Or because of Richard the Bastard?" She scowled. "Jonathan might not have seen the way Richard changed you, but I did, and every day I curse that lying scumbag to everlasting hell for what he did to my baby's hopes and dreams. You're a beautiful, intelligent woman and you should be-"

A waiter appeared, cutting off the rest of her sentence. What had she been about to say? That I should be comfortable with the idea of marriage? If so, I didn't know what I could say in response. Once, I did have dreams of marriage, children and happily ever after. When Royce said every girl pictured herself in a wedding dress, walking down the aisle to pledge herself to the man she loved, he'd been right in my case, though I'd never admit it to him. I'd wanted those things at one time, very badly. Now I wanted to rely only on myself. I wanted to be happy because I made myself happy.

I sipped my latte while my mom ordered an espresso. The second the waiter moved away, she picked up our conversation but maneuvered it down a different path.

"I have something to ask you, Naomi, and I want you to tell me the truth. I won't be upset, I swear."

Oh Jeez. This didn't sound good. "All right," I said, bracing myself for impact. "I'll be honest with you." Maybe.