10. CHAPTER 10
Jeremy
The instant Mom enters my office, I offer a brief hug—an obligatory gesture—before she takes command of the space, her presence filling the room like she owns every inch. She moves with a deliberate pace, her gaze sweeping over each corner and detail with the critical eye of a seasoned auditor. Today, she’s wearing a cream pencil skirt with a matching blazer over a black silk blouse. The pearl necklace and gold earrings speak of her refined taste.
Her attention soon zeroes in on the photo. She lifts it with a grace that belies her invasive scrutiny and carries it over to the seating area.
I remain perched on the edge of my desk, a silent observer to her inspection.
Her eyebrows lift. “And who is this?”
“Zuri.” I manage, striving for nonchalance. “She’s… coming to the wedding with me.” It’s critical for Mom to understand this. I must dismantle any schemes she’s brewed up.
Her gaze sharpens, then narrows, a familiar precursor to a barrage of questions. “Really? Why haven’t I heard about her until we spoke three weeks ago?” Her skepticism is palpable, each word chosen to dissect the truth I’m presenting.
Just as the tension reaches a crescendo, a knock disrupts the charged atmosphere, and Zuri strides in, her entrance as timely as if orchestrated by fate itself. “Jeremy Kress, you are not going to ghost me like that.” Her annoyance renders her even more endearing. The aroma of delectable food wafts from the bags she’s holding, diverting my attention. “Do you have any idea how that made me feel?”
“Zee, perfect timing.” The endearment surfaces as naturally as breathing, even as it catches me off guard. Since she’s oblivious to the additional presence in my office, I flick my gaze toward Mom, then back to Zuri, a silent signal of the company we have.
Zuri halts, her initial momentum tempered by Mom’s analytical scrutiny assessing her from head to toe—invasive, intense, calculating.
“Uh, I should’ve, uh, texted before showing up,” Zuri stammers.
“Actually, I’m glad you’re here.” I push off from my desk to bridge the gap between us. “This is my mother. Mom, meet my fiancée, Zuri.”
I lean in for a light kiss on Zuri’s cheek. Though meant as a mere performance, the act sends warmth through me.
Zuri then moves to the seating area and places the food on the table before she directs her attention to Mom and reaches out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kress.”
“Sara,” Mom corrects and accepts Zuri’s hand with far more formality than a genuine greeting—a habit of hers that has always irked me.
“You’re engaged?” Mom probes, her attention shifting between the photo in her hand and Zuri’s bare finger. “For a newly engaged couple, it’s quite peculiar that you’re not wearing your ring.”
“I’m always mindful about keeping my… sparkly, um, ring.” Zuri fumbles, brushing her empty ring finger as if to conjure an invisible band. She casts a glance my way, pleading for support. “You know, taking care of the diamond and all that.”
“She’s a chef, Mom.” Stepping in, I position myself beside Zuri, my hand finding a natural place on her lower back. Her casual attire, flowery leggings paired with a red top, opposes Mom’s meticulously chosen ensemble.
“I’m not officially a chef,” Zuri corrects, her confidence wavering. “I just wanted to cook something special for Jeremy today. After a slight disagreement, he, well, he ghosted me. So, I had to make sure he eats, especially when he’s buried in work.”
Her explanation warms me to the core, and I glimpse a possible future filled with minor arguments and tantalizing reconciliations. I can’t resist pulling her closer, my arm snuggling into the curve of her waist, my lips brushing the crown of her head, my nose inhaling the refreshing mint of her hair.
Mom watches with a critical eye before placing the photo on the table, not where it initially stood. Her gaze then locks onto mine, a challenge in her eyes. “Since your fiancée is here, she might as well join us for lunch.”
“No,” I need to shield Zuri from any unexpected interrogation.
“I’m quite busy.” Zuri steps back in a clear signal of her intentions not to linger. “I appreciate the offer, Mrs. Kress—”
“Sara,” Mom insists on the informal address.
“I have a lot on my plate today at the café.” Zuri deflects the invitation.
“Was this food prepared in a commercial kitchen?” Mom’s inquiry comes from left field, a pointed question that probes more than culinary curiosity.
“Not yet, but I plan to—”
“Do you have a food license?”
“Yes, I do.”
I remain silent, allowing Zuri to navigate this conversation. She’s more than capable of standing her ground. After all, if our paths are to intertwine more deeply, facing Mom’s barrage will be an inevitable part of our arrangement, especially the wedding week. The interrogation continues with questions about Zuri’s family, education level, background, and intentions. Zuri wrings her hands and scuffles her flats.
“Mom.” I snap my fingers, a protective instinct flaring. “I won’t stand here and let you interrogate my fiancée.” My voice carries a firmness I rarely use with her, signaling a boundary she’s perilously close to crossing.
“You know how many people die from food poisoning?” Mom continues, undeterred. Too bad, she never channeled her relentless scrutiny into her career, choosing instead to organize charity galas and high-society events—arenas where her meticulousness could shine without personal cost.
“I’m aware of the risks of food poisoning, but that won’t be an issue for us since you won’t be eating her food.” My patience thins. The absurdity of the situation isn’t lost on me. We’re discussing hypothetical health hazards instead of acknowledging the real, human connection forming between Zuri and me.
“I told your assistant to make us reservations at The Almac,” Mom announces as if the mention of the upscale restaurant can douse the flames of our confrontation.
With my hand still on Zuri’s shoulder, I lean in to kiss her head, her fragrance offering a momentary escape from the tension. Her presence transforms this unexpected family encounter into something I can navigate without losing myself.
Mom’s overt disapproval compels me to defend our decision to dine in my office. “Let’s not waste Zuri’s delicious food.” Maybe I can salvage what remains of the day. Mom doesn’t have to eat, but after how she acted, no way am I leaving this office.
“I’m not hungry.” A dismissive wave accompanies Mom’s predictable response. “I’ll just have water, if you have any.”
Zuri, ever gracious, strides across the room, retrieves two bottles of water from the fridge, and places them on the table before making a swift departure. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Kress.” She bypasses the formalities of a handshake, offering a wave instead. In her rush, she forgets our fa?ade, leaving without the pretense of a farewell kiss.
Who could blame her for escaping as quickly as she did? Assuming she hasn’t called off our deal completely.
I savor the first bite of Zuri’s warm steak salad. Inspired by her, I close my eyes and attempt to emulate her practice of pausing before a meal, though I’m unfamiliar with the specifics of her ritual. I’ll have to ask her to speak aloud next time, so I can understand and perhaps adopt part of her mindfulness into my routine.
As the enticing aroma soon overtakes the room, Mom ventures a cautious sample of the southwestern rolls Zuri included. Despite her earlier apprehensions, she seems to enjoy the taste and gobbles the entire roll.
“As long as I don’t get a stomach bug from this.” She dabs a napkin on her red lips.
While I don’t expect her to utter a compliment, I can’t help saying, “I’m glad you liked the roll, Mom.”
She ignores me and shifts the conversation to Sonya—the sole purpose of her visit, I presume.
“I told her you’re still single. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this… new girl.” She waves her black-painted fingernails, scrunching her face. “She’s not even your type.”
“I don’t think you know my type, Mom.” I fork my salad, not liking this conversation.
“You compare her to Sonya? Did you have to go for a woman who looks like your brother’s girlfriend?”
Seriously? I’ve never seen two women who look less alike. “Just because Zuri has the same skin color as Hope’s, doesn’t make them look alike.”
“Still, you and Sonya can work things out.”
Tension coils within me. What right does Mom have to imply I’m somehow at fault for moving on after Sonya ended things between us?
“She dumped me, and now I’m the bad guy?” I slam what’s left of the salad back onto the table. “I’m more than capable of making my own decisions.”
“Sonya learned a lot, which could be good for giving her a second chance.” Mom continues despite my obvious frustration, and an unwelcome nostalgia for what was misting her eyes.
As the conversation steers dangerously close to the boundaries I’ve been trying to set, I set down my fork and hold up a hand. “Can we, for once, not discuss my love life?”
She offers a smile that lacks genuine warmth. “Sweetheart, your happiness is everything to me.”
“Is it?” I challenge. Her actions and words often feel misaligned with the notion of my happiness being her priority. “If that were true, you’d understand I’m capable of managing my own love life.” With that, I’m marking my autonomy, reminding her my path to happiness is mine to navigate, regardless of her intentions.
Long after Mom’s departure, the office grows quiet as I work overtime. Today, I need the extra hours after the unintended disruptions. Amid the solitude, I glance at the furniture catalog Zuri left in one of the food bags, a reminder of our missed appointment. Did she want my input on her café’s interior? If so, her gesture touches me. Unlike Sonya, who preferred to present her decisions as done deals, Zuri’s approach is refreshingly collaborative.
I push back from the computer, unable to refocus on the digital reports flickering on my screen. Thoughts of Zuri nudge me toward action. After my mother’s behavior, I should reach out with an apology. I open my text app.
Jeremy: Sorry about how my mom behaved today.
Zuri: Sorry I couldn’t stay. Your mom is intense.
Jeremy: Don’t worry. You’ll have time to brace yourself for her at the wedding.
Zuri: Are you sure you still want me as your date?
Jeremy: Absolutely. You’re the perfect date. And I’ve checked out the catalog you left.
Zuri: I wanted your opinion, regardless of the designer you suggested.
I want to share my opinion with her. Well, mostly, I just want to see her.
Jeremy: Can I take you out to dinner tonight, so we can go over the furniture options?
Zuri: I’m cooking here, but if you’re willing to discuss furniture, I can plan for a late dinner. How late are you working?
It’s already six. My place is a short distance from the office, so I’ll have ample time to freshen up.
Jeremy: Pick you up at seven?
Zuri: Seven, it is.
Excitement jitters through me, an adrenaline and anticipation I haven’t felt in ages. The pretext may be the furniture, but it’s Zuri that has me rushing off. Everything about this feels right, a sharp contrast to the day’s earlier tension.