Page 10

Because if that happened after waiting so long for the perfect woman to come along, it would probably kill me.

Abby

A few minutes after our impromptu make out session, Peter and I headed out into the storm again. The snow was still falling, blindingly white against the ground. The sun was setting, making it difficult to see where I was going, and I couldn’t say I minded it when Peter took my hand to keep me from stumbling. Again.

My clumsiness was a source of constant embarrassment for me. As a foster child, I’d always tried hard to be invisible. To fade into the woodwork. But it was hard to make yourself disappear when you managed to trip a few times a day.

My friend Melinda thought my clumsiness was some kind of neurological problem, but I knew that wasn’t it. I only tripped around other people. When I was home alone or around people I was one hundred percent comfortable with, I could walk in a straight line and make it across the room without an incident.

Clearly it was some kind of a nervous habit or something.

Speaking of being nervous, I hoped it wasn’t obvious to Peter’s mother that we’d been making out. When I’d stopped in the bathroom before we left Peter’s house, I noticed that my lips were red and swollen. I mean, we were both grown ass people, but I didn’t want to give her any fuel for her matchmaking attempts.

I was flattered of course, but I could tell that Mary Jeffers was looking for a wife for her son. The truth was, no matter how attracted I was to Peter, forever wasn’t for people like me.

“I want us to be sure, one hundred percent sure before we do this, Abby, because once I have you, there’s no way I’m going to be able to let you go. I want forever.”

Peter’s words from earlier played on repeat in my head. I’d been simultaneously thrilled and terrified. I only had to look into his expressive dark eyes to see that he meant what he said, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his mind. They always changed their minds.

A guy who lived his whole life on an isolated ranch was probably hoping to find himself a sweet little homemaker who could bake him brownies and bear him children. That wasn’t me.

First of all, I was too old to have children. Even if it was safe to do it, I’d lost both of my ovaries to burst cysts, one in my twenties and one in my thirties. Secondly, I’d pulled myself up by my literal bootstraps, working three jobs at a time to make my way through college and veterinary school. I loved my job. I loved protecting animals and healing them. There was no way I’d be content to hang out making doilies or whatever it was that a ranch housewife would do for Peter.

And then there was my main fear: people always seemed to grow tired of me. There was no way I was going to build a life with Peter knowing that someday he’d just get tired of me.

As soon as we entered the main house, Peter’s mother pulled me into a hug like I was a long-lost friend.

“You two made it!”

“Thanks for inviting me, Mrs. Jeffers,” I said politely.

“Please, call me Mary.”

“We got the tree up in the stand while you two kids rested,” Mary told me, gesturing over her shoulder to where a huge fir tree was set up in front of the picture window. Two huge stacks of boxes were stacked to the side.

“Let’s eat before we get busy,” she continued, gesturing for us all to sit down.

I followed her into the dining room where the table was set with a bunch of dishes in the center. I glanced at Peter and he just did that lip quirk thing that I already loved. He could say an awful lot without opening his mouth.

“Wow, I hope you didn’t go to a lot of trouble, Mary.”

She shook her head. “This is mostly leftovers, plus sandwich fixin’s and salad. No trouble at all.”

It was quite a spread, with more food on that table than I had in a week, but I didn’t comment. The four of us sat at the table, chatting while we ate. Well, Mary and I chatted. Peter and his father were mostly silent, which I suspected was typical.

Dinner may have all been leftovers, but it was delicious. There was a tray of cold cuts and cheese, leftover chicken fried steak that Mary had re-heated in the cast-iron skillet, mashed potatoes, some kind of casserole that they’d had the night before, freshly baked bread, and several salad variations. It wasn’t fancy, but it was perfect.

“What’s your favorite Christmas tradition, Abby?” Mary asked.

I froze, a roast beef sandwich halfway to my mouth.

“Um, I don’t have a favorite Christmas tradition.” I shrugged awkwardly.

“Oh, are you Jewish or something?” Mary looked sympathetic.

“I’m not really anything. I just...I grew up in foster care, so I didn’t really celebrate holidays.”

I resisted the urge to slap my hand over my mouth for saying too much.