“Oh.” I step back and peer down at myself. “No. I was in a questionably stained Tweety Bird sweatshirt and leggings with holes in unmentionable places. ‘Not exactly Sunday dinner attire,’ Mom said. I raided my closet upstairs and changed for her sake.”
More like you wanted Christopher to see you looking like a million bucks, if he finally came to family dinner, that taunting voice says in the back of my mind. You wanted him to see you looking good and feeling A-OK, just in case he’s worried you took a few companionable days and thoughtful gestures, and one glorious orgasm at his hand, then ran with it and now you have expectations that might have been dashed when he was gone in the morning, like he’s always been with everyone else he’s done that with.
Oh God. Everyone else.
That phrase is the emotional equivalent of a ripped cuticle—small, concentrated, sharply painful. A vicious double wave of jealousy and humiliation crashes through me.
“Where’d your mind go, Katie-bird?” Dad asks mildly.
I blink, wrenched from my thoughts. My dad’s smiling at me, patient, kind. Like always.
I absolutely cannot tell him where my mind went.
Still, I need some outlet for what I feel, so I wrap my arms around his waist and squeeze again, burying my face in his sweater, breathing in his scent—old books and peppermint pillow mints.
On a deep breath, I blink away tears. I’ve felt so weepy all day.
A soft kiss lands on the crown of my head. “I love you, Katie-bird. You can always talk to me, all right? I’ll just listen, if you want. No advice. No judgment.”
“I love you, too. And I know,” I mumble against his sweater. “I’ve missed you so much. You and Mom. Bea and Jules. Everyone.”
“We’ve missed you, too,” he says. “But as Grandma used to say, the ones we love are always with us. Wherever you’ve been, I’ve had you”—he taps a hand over his heart—“right here.” Smiling down at me as I give his ribs a break and release him, he says, “Every year that passes, you remind me of Grandma even more.”
I smile. “She was a badass. She also had no filter.”
He laughs. “She certainly spoke her mind.” His gaze dances over me. “When you wear that color, that deep blue, it changes your eyes, and you look”—he grins—“very much like her.”
“This was hers. Vintage cashmere.”
“I thought it looked familiar,” he says, returning his attention to the soup. “So why did you have to raid the closet to freshen up for dinner?”
I get out a salad bowl and tongs, setting them on the counter. “Ah, well, I’m a little behind on laundry, so I didn’t have anything nice enough to wear that was clean. I keep forgetting to go to the laundromat. I can’t handle the apartment’s basement laundry. Not since this thriller I read, the main character went down to the basement to switch over her clothes and—”
“Nope. Don’t tell me.” Dad shakes his head, tapping the spoon on the edge of the soup pot, then turning off the burner. “I don’t touch that genre for a reason. My worst-case scenario, doomsday-inclined imagination comes up with plenty of terrible possibilities without the help of thrillers.”
The doorbell rings, making both Dad and me jump.
“See?” he says, taking off his fogged-up glasses. “No help needed.”
“Probably just a delivery person leaving a package,” I tell him.
“Or Christopher,” he says.
My heart skids to a stop. “But Christopher doesn’t ring the—”
Now there’s a knock at the door. I frown, confused. Christopher doesn’t knock, either. He walks right in like he owns the place. He always has.
Who else could it be, though? Not Bea and Jamie. They’re missing Sunday dinner for Jamie’s office holiday party.
“Why don’t you go see?” Dad says. “Oh, and by the way, if it’s those two young fellows with their Bibles again, I’m not home.”
“I—”
“Look who I found.” Mom strolls in from the mudroom, Puck in her arms. His little bell jingles as she sets him down and he scampers toward me. “He’s lucky he’s cute, that’s for sure.”
“Where was he?” Dad asks.
“In the greenhouse, trying to eat my roses again. Who’s at the door?”
As if on cue, there’s another knock.
My eyes dart toward the front door, panic seizing my insides.
“Katerina,” Mom says, walking briskly past me toward the soup pot. “Why don’t you get that?”
“Me?” I ask pathetically.
Meow. Puck twines around my legs, then scampers off into the hallway, his little bell jingling.
Sighing, I follow Puck, because if my cat’s brave enough to face Christopher Petruchio, then I am, too.
“Okay,” I tell myself, as I try to regulate my breathing. “You are fine. Your pride is a little wounded that Christopher wasn’t around when you woke up and didn’t pull another stealthy pastry delivery or reach out all day. But that’s all right. You’re an adult. You can just move on.”
Meow, Puck says. I scoop him up and cuddle him close, comforted by his rumbling purr.
“Okay, maybe not move on,” I admit to Puck. “I can have a conversation with him about it, though. I. Can. Communicate! I can put on my badass big-girl pants and talk to him. And until then, hopefully make his eyes bug out of his head with this very flattering sapphire-blue, plunging-V-neck sweater.”
Meow, Puck agrees.
“Well, now it’s sapphire blue and covered in your white fur.”
Puck plops his head on my shoulder and purrs happily. I glide my hand down his fur in rhythmic, soothing strokes and take a deep breath. “I’ve got this. I can do this.”
Meow, Puck says, and with that encouragement bolstering me, I yank open the door.
Christopher stands on the porch with a small bouquet in his hand, a canvas bag in the other.
He’s in an emerald-green long-sleeve thermal that hugs his thick arms, expensive-looking dark-wash jeans, and saddle-brown lace-up boots. His hair is wet and a little messy, like he just got out of the shower, the waves curling around his jawline. I take a steadying breath and catch his scent, woodsy candle smoke and spice.
Not that it’s affecting me.
Not that I’m remembering when I sank my teeth into his neck like an animal last night and tasted that scent on his skin.
He clears his throat, then says, “Can I come in?”
I clutch the door, because the world feels like it’s tipping. “You always let yourself in. Why are you asking this time?”
His eyes hold mine. His throat works in a swallow. “Because they’re your family first, and if you didn’t want to see me, after last night, well, this morning—though I promise I can explain myself—if you didn’t want me here, I didn’t want to force myself.” He’s quiet for a moment, before he says, “I want you to let me in, Kate, but only if you want to.”
I’m as frightened as I’ve ever been, standing on more than one threshold—not just this physical space but one in my heart. I want to trust him so badly. And I’m so scared he’s going to break my heart before he even knows how long he’s had it.
I have hated Christopher Petruchio for so long not only—not even primarily—for his distance, his aloof superiority, but because it hurt so badly to be rejected and pushed away by someone I cared about.
But I’m Kate Wilmot. I’m a globe-trotting badass who doesn’t shirk risk or avoid a challenge simply because it might end badly. I’m brave in so many other parts of my life. I’m going to be brave now, too.
Slowly, I ease open the door and step back. “Come in, then.”
Christopher crosses the threshold. Our eyes hold as he steps closer and his fingertips brush mine, the lightest touch that makes a shiver race up my arm. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
“Christopher!” Mom calls from the back of the house. “What on earth were you knocking for? Come in!”
Christopher shuts the door behind us and follows me into the kitchen while I keep clutching Puck like he’s a life raft.
Carefully, Christopher sets the bouquet, then his bag on the counter, unloading a bottle of chilled white wine and a beautiful loaf of rustic bread whose crust glows golden, intricate leaves carved into its surface. Then he pulls out a small container whose sound immediately sends Puck leaping from my arms.