Chapter Twelve
Amanda took her first vacation day since opening her security firm.
She’d never had a normal nine-to-five job, never punched a clock, or counted the minutes until the end of her day.
It wasn’t only because she was the boss.
Staying busy was her modus operandi. No one she knew would’ve believed it if she announced a personal day to tour a local attraction—though her mom might have celebrated taking time off.
At least, Mom would have until she learned Mandy was hiding from reality and avoiding a handsome stranger.
It hadn’t been that hard to ignore the real world while touring the Heritage Village, a reconstruction of a walled village from the pre-oil era.
She’d spent the day with camels and goats, traders and craftsmen.
It’d been fun, but it hadn’t erased her run-in with the man at LuLu’s.
She’d never be able to use her new earbuds without thinking about him.
A swordsmith hammered metal into a curved blade. Amanda watched as he bent the sharp edge until it resembled the letter J. Maybe the mystery man’s name started with a J.
John?
Jerry?
Jeez, this was as embarrassing as kicking him in the crotch. She turned from the swordsmith and followed a sign for the museum. A display of ceremonial blades welcomed her under a sign that explained the khanjar blades and their hook-like, J-design. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
She stormed passed the display. It didn’t matter what letter his name started with, and even if it were a J, the list of J names was endless.
She sidestepped a family engrossed in the history of Emirati poetry and mystical interpretations.
The mother read of a fabled curse—like a jinx.
Amanda could’ve hugged the woman for putting the word in her head.
J stands for jinxed, and jinxed had nothing to do with a man, because she was the living, breathing jinx.
How completely depressing and true. She gave up on the rest of the museum and followed the exit signs.
They spit her back into the village’s fray.
Sun and the scent of camels rolled over her.
The distant sound of swordsmiths hammering metal Js made her temples throb.
She’d had as much as she could take of her day off.
After five minutes sidestepping merchants and artists, Amanda crossed the walled, gated threshold and found herself immersed in modern times. Her cell phone rang. “What timing…”
The weight of the world fell off her shoulders when she saw the call identified as the White House Switchboard. She didn’t need a day off. Amanda needed her family. “Hello?”
“Hey, sweet pea.”
An invisible hug wrapped around her from the other side of the world. “Hi, Mom.”
“How’s my favorite world traveler today?"
She tittered. “Yeah, that’s me, and how many summits have you been to in the last month?”
“Which is why I’m calling.” Mom briefly spoke to someone else, then returned. “I found a teapot in Japan that you would love, and I liked it so much that I got one for myself, too.”
“You need new tea for the new pot.”
“I was hoping you might say that—hang on a second.” Her mother greeted someone.
Amanda could picture her mother walking through the White House before her day teaching.
She’d have on a pantsuit and stylishly, sensibly low heels.
Mom interacted with the White House staff, treating everyone the same no matter if they were presidential policy advisers or longtime residence staff who would remain long after the Hearst family had left.
Occasionally, political pundits would remark on the First Lady’s manners, which Amanda never understood. Acting like a decent person wasn’t good manners. It was just something people should do…like eating and breathing.
And, as often as the news pundits mentioned Mom’s manners, they would touch on Amanda’s facial expressions.
Sometime during her freshman year of college, a group of bloggers had decided she had a “resting bitch face,” and that was that; a blogger had spoken.
Amanda was no longer the rebellious, bored teenager.
She was the bored blond bitch who wore too much makeup.
Amanda had never had a conversation with the so-called journalists.
They were the same as the reporters who decided that she was snobby or problematic.
No wonder Amanda had been so quick to drop the name Mandy when she dropped out of public life.
If only she’d given the gossip slingers a harder time earlier—at least she had Jared Westin to thank for that.
He’d given her the phrase “tactical offensive maneuvers.” Once she had that, Amanda had operated on a whole new level.
Sometimes she’d drop anonymous tips on herself.
Sometimes she’d send the gossip hounds on a wild goose chase for shits and giggles.
Her offensive maneuvers drove her Secret Service detail to the edge. Only Dylan understood.
Her chin dropped. Sometimes she wished it were possible to go back in time so that she could listen to advice. Amanda tipped her head back and let the sun warm her skin. What would Dylan think of her stranger?
“I’m back,” Mom said. “You still there?”
She bit back the melancholy and hummed, “Yeah.”
“Sorry, that took longer than I thought it would.” Mom paused. “Are you okay?”
“Mm-hmm.” Amanda wandered to the taxi line.
“Where are you, honey?”
Oh, nowhere. Just a popular tourist destination. By myself. No security detail to speak of. Dylan would’ve lectured Amanda to kingdom come. “An outdoor market.”
“Okay.” Mom’s tone dropped in that familiar worrying way. “Are you alone?”
Amanda glanced at the milling crowds. “Not really.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m fine.” That wasn’t a lie, though she hadn’t taken nearly enough precautions to meet her parents’ expectations for times when she was alone in public. Those expectations never squared with their request for her to mix and mingle in society again.
A tense silence hung between them, her mother’s way of clucking disapproval without saying a word.
“Really, Mom. Besides, I’m heading home, anyway.”
Mom hummed, unimpressed with her excuse. “Well then, how about you tell me where to send the teapot. Your office or the hotel in Abu Dhabi?”
The man directing taxis pointed to Amanda and then to the third car in line.
She walked to her taxi. “I’ll be out here for a while longer. You can send it this way,” she said, then greeted the driver and provided her destination before returning to her mom. “I’ll be in and out for the next few months for smaller jobs, but this project remains my sole focus.”
Mom paused. “About our conversation last night…”
Amanda picked at her cuticle. “Now’s not a good time.”
“I only want to point out that it might be nice to have someone to chat with other than Halle.”
She’d never get away from thinking about that man. “Jared Westin’s assistant is my friend.”
Mom snickered. “Have you shared a conversation with his assistant about something other than work?”
Well…no. “Maybe.”
“Then that, sweet pea, is what we call a colleague.”
Great. Mom had jokes. “Friends can be colleagues.”
“And so that you are fully aware,” Mom continued as if Amanda hadn’t spoken, “if you do lunch together with this person, you might be able to classify the relationship as a work acquaintance.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “You can’t classify people like you do with elements in a science lab.”
“Oh, sure you can,” Mom sing-songed. “Hydrogen and oxygen come together and create something spectacular. Water.”
“Seriously.” The tips of Amanda’s ears burned. “Please stop.”
“The young man you mentioned? Separately, you and your romantic interest are like hydrogen and oxygen. Together—”
“Mom!” Amanda cringed as the taxi crossed into the business district. Another few minutes, and she could disappear into her hotel, swan dive into bed, and forget that she’d told her mother too much.
“You could make water.”
“You’re killing me.”
Mom laughed loudly. “Maybe he’s a not-so-romantic interest? When elements agitate, they can explode.”
Her blush sped from the tip of her ears to the base of her neck. “I can’t have this conversation.”
“I’m simply reminding you, my dear, that you’re not a robot, no matter how many rules and contracts you create. Human nature is human nature.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hearst.” She didn’t cringe.
Much. Though, perhaps Mom had a point. Amanda had tried to ice him out.
She’d learned that a watery middle ground wasn’t possible.
But steam? That kind of combustion was more than she’d allowed herself in a long time.
Either way, this wasn’t a conversation to have with her mother in the back of a taxi.
“If that’s all, this robot is going to go crawl in a hole and die of mortification now. ”
“Don’t do that,” Mom chortled. “At least, not before you figure out what you want from that man.”