The Secrets of Attraction Read Free Page B

at home again, if necessary. You know, we’ll see. I have some time to think about it,” she said, pulling into our steep, narrow driveway and cutting the engine.
    It made me think of my own plans for summer design camp at NJDI. I was working toward the scholarship, but Mom had been putting money aside as a backup plan. There had to be a good five hundred; it might not cover the yoga training, but it was something.
    â€œI think you should go for it. You can use the money set aside for my design camp.”
    â€œAbsolutely not. That’s your backup plan.” She collected her bags and cup. I grabbed my latte and slung my yoga bag over my arm as I stepped out of the car.
    â€œI won’t need a backup plan—I’m getting that scholarship, or I could always get a job,” I said.
    â€œYou know how I feel about that. High school . . .” she said, coming around to my side of the car.
    â€œ. . . is my job,” I finished. “But it doesn’t pay very well.”
    She put her arm around me. “Ah, someday it will.”
    We walked up the stoop. My mother paused.
    â€œDid you forget to turn out the lights?”
    I shook my head. “I didn’t leave music on, either.”
    As we got to the top step, the door opened.
    â€œPaul,” my mother said, grinning.
    He filled the doorway, arms outstretched as he sang along to “Rosalita,” which was blaring in the background. Smells of ginger and something peppery wafted through the open door. Paul stood there, wearing a cook’s apron over dark jeans and a forest-green polo. He ensnared my mother in a bear hug before letting her pass.
    â€œAh, Mademoiselle Pryce,” he said to me, kissing me on one cheek and then the other like he always did when I first saw him, before closing the door behind us. “You look more like your mother every day.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œHey, would that be a bad thing?” my mother asked as she kicked off her clogs and put her cup down on the hall table. I plopped my yoga stuff next to the door.
    â€œI guess not,” I teased.
    She unwound the scarf from her neck and tossed it over the coat rack, then walked across the parlor to turn down the music. “You said Friday.”
    â€œYou should check your messages,” Paul called over his shoulder as he went back into the kitchen. “I had the opportunity to grab a flight from Houston today, so I took it. Hungry?”
    Paul Saylor was one of my mother’s oldest friends from high school and pretty much the only steady male presence in our lives. He was a captain for a commercial airline and whenever he had a layover in the New York metro area, we were his own private hub. In exchange for a place to rest his head, he cooked and brought baked goods from his various travels. We occasionally got to fly places. Not a bad deal.
    There were times I caught them looking at each other a certain way, which made me think that at one time they might have been more than just pals, but neither of them ever divulged more, even when I prodded them for information. They hugged and stuff, but it was strictly platonic—and after my conversation with Mom about Leif—it made me wonder what compartment she kept Paul in— nice man-friend with occasional travel benefit; makes a mean omelet ?
    â€œNot really,” my mother yelled back. “But it smells delish.”
    â€œVegetarian stir-fry.” He returned with two open long-necked Heinekens dangling between his fingers. He held out one to my mother but she shook her head.
    â€œHey, I’ll take it,” I joked, balancing my cup and fishing through my jacket pockets for my phone. My mother shot me a look. I checked my messages. There were three from Zach.
    â€œI think you should reconsider the beer,” Paul said.
    I stopped checking my messages. My mother raised her eyebrows. Paul looked at me, then back to my mother.
    â€œYou should