So I gave it to him.
“Thank you for showing me it was worth taking a gamble again, darling.” I dropped my head until my lips were against his and finished, “It feels good finally to win and win huge.”
I saw the flash in his eyes and heard the rumble of his growl before his hand at the back of my head brought mine down the fraction of an inch it needed to go before his mouth took mine in another kiss.
Then he rolled me to my back and showed me yet again why taking a gamble on Max, on us, on Colorado and on life was absolutely worth it.
*
“I don’t know, Neenee Bean,” Mom said at the grocery store checkout, her face thoughtful, her eyes watching the clerk scan my purchases, “this feels like a celebration and a celebration doesn’t say ‘red wine, beer and pasta bake’. A celebration says ‘champagne and salmon en croute’.”
Mom and I were shopping for dinner that night. Max and Steve were giving us Nellie and Nina time. They were leaving the next day and Mom had announced upon their arrival to the A-frame that she wanted a testosterone free zone for at least two hours.
Prior to Mom and Steve’s arrival, Max and my love fest was interrupted by a variety of calls that were, as Max decreed, only slightly less annoying than Harry’s. They included Mom and Steve saying they were heading up the mountain; Linda saying Kami was coming with her for pasta bake; Brody calling to remind us this was also his last day in town and therefore getting an invitation for him, Mindy, Barb and Darren to come too; and finally, since Gnaw Bone was Gnaw Bone, Arlene heard about the party and called to alert us to the fact that she and Cotton would be there. She didn’t ask for an invite and she hung up before I could politely demur.
So our party of five turned into a party of twelve.
This did not make Max happy. Mom’s decree of a testosterone free zone made Max less happy. And what made him even less happy was when Mom pointed out his dining room table seated six and it needed to seat twelve. Thus she ordered Max and Steve off on the errand of buying more dining room chairs, this, her attempt to establish her testosterone free zone.
Mountain Man Max, not exactly the kind of man to be sent on an errand, did this only after his eyes cut to me and he asked, “This gonna happen often?”
“Is what going to happen often?” I asked back.
“Half the town sittin’ at our dining room table?”
I scrunched my nose and tilted my head because, at the look on his face, I didn’t want to say yes but the answer was yes. I liked to cook. I liked to entertain. I liked my friends around me. So it was definitely going to happen often.
Max read my face, sighed, hooked me at the back of my head to pull me in so he could kiss my forehead and then he took off with Steve to buy chairs.
“Individual,” Mom, at the checkout, finished.
“Individual what?” I asked, handing my credit card over to the clerk.
“Individual salmon en croutes,” Mom answered and I looked at her.
“Mom, I’m not making individual salmon en croutes for twelve people. That would take all day.”
“It’s a celebration, Neenee Bean! It doesn’t matter how long it takes just as long as it’s special.”
I signed the credit card slip and handed it back to the clerk. “Firstly, I just signed the credit card receipt. I’m not going back through the store to buy ten more bags of food. Secondly, Max gave you two hours and I know you like Max because he’s a great guy and there’s a lot to like. He also likes you. But take my advice, you shouldn’t test him. He’s a great guy but he’s also a mountain man. Mountain men aren’t fond of being tested. And lastly, I think mountain people will be happy with red wine, beer and pasta bake as a celebration. I think mountain people don’t care what they eat during a celebration, they just care who’s there to eat it with them.”
“Damn tootin’,” the clerk muttered under her breath and I turned my surprised gaze to her then smiled at her welcome solidarity. Maybe I was finding my mountain woman within.
Mom glared at the clerk. “Have you had salmon en croute?” she asked.
The clerk’s eyes came to me. “I saw five bags of grated mozzarella. Is that for your pasta bake?”
“Yes,” I answered and her eyes went back to Mom.
“Anything with mozzarella wins, especially five bags of it,” she declared, I laughed, thanked her then I tugged Mom through the checkout, commandeered our cart and headed to the car.
Mom fell in step beside me and she did this while pouting. I grinned at the cart full of food because I decided Mom was cute when she pouted. I had to admit I may have decided this because I had an amazing looking mountain man who was in love with me so pretty much anything would be cute.
Still, I said softly, “Stop pouting, Mom, we have today and then you’re off home. Don’t waste it pouting.”