This sea change was happening whether Lani came on board or not. All he could do was cross his fingers and hope.
She stepped out the front door as he climbed down, his boots crunching on a shallow layer of overnight snow that was already starting to freeze. Sunshine was a precious commodity in the winter and only a few hours of it remained on this Christmas Eve Day.
He walked to meet Lani and resisted the impulse to hug her. “You could have driven over, after all.”
She held his gaze. “I chose not to.”
“I’m glad.” He escorted her around to the passenger side and helped her in. “I like driving you around.”
She smiled. “I think that’s why you bought this truck. To impress the ladies.”
“Initially. Until I found the one Thunder liked the best.” He closed the door and jogged around to the driver’s side. When a sneaky patch of ice almost took him down, he grabbed the fender and saved himself.
He might want to slow down. But damn, he was eager to get to this meeting.
Lani glanced at him as he swung into the driver’s seat. “I’m relieved to hear Thunder approves of me.”
“Oh, he does.” Buckling up, he turned the key and shifted into reverse. “You don’t fiddle with the radio, put your feet on the dash or spit out the window.”
“Spit out the window? You’ve had girlfriends who did that?”
He laughed. “No. It was just fun to say. Reminds me of when you wanted me to chew tobacco to mute my sexy factor.”
“That was a terrible idea.”
“And pointless. My sexy factor can’t be muted. It’s infinitely resilient.”
She grinned. “You’re sure in a good mood.”
“I am. Which is surprising since I’ve handed the Wenches my heart on a platter.”
“They’ll be gentle. They all adore you.”
“They all adore Mom, too, but they don’t sugarcoat their comments when it comes to evaluating a manuscript. She warned me about that last night. They believe in tough love.” Nothing they said would bother him. This meeting wasn’t about him. It was about expanding Lani’s horizons. Maybe.
“Tough love is what you want from a critique, assuming nobody’s on an ego trip.”
“They’re not. But speaking of egos, have you ever met someone who admits they’re a narcissist?”
“Is that what Irving told you?”
“Pretty much. His therapist advised him not to make this trip and he did it anyway.”
“Why didn’t the therapist want him to come?”
“Because Irving is lousy at apologies — his words, not mine — and he’d only hurt his family and screw up our holiday for nothing.” The jury was still out on that. “He says he’s a borderline personality who’s not likely to change.”
“So given all that, why did he come?”
“He’s from a long line of writers and his other two kids aren’t into it. He figured I might be because of Mom. When I accidently let it slip that I’m writing, he was ecstatic. The chain is still unbroken.”
“Is he related to Jeremy Quick, the guy who wrote historical fiction?”
“That’s the one. And before that there was a mystery writer.”
“Huh. Are you interested in these ancestors?”
“I guess not. I haven’t bothered to look them up online.” He might, though, once the dust settled.
