Page 152

“Are you coming back here?”

“Mom.”

“What?” She lifted her hands, palms facing me. “I'm just asking.”

“You're interrogating.”

“I'm interested.”

“You're nosy.”

“I gave birth to you. Forty hours with no epidural,” she played the birth-story-guilt-trip card. “I'm entitled.”

Aunt Laura leaned forward. “I think she should come back here. That man is worth a few frequent-flier miles.”

“I agree,” Auntie Bev added her two cents, “the man owns a ranch. He can't exactly pick up and move. Did you think about that?” Her brows lifted, as if she was delivering a groundbreaking revelation I hadn’t even considered.

“I'm aware of how ranches work, Auntie Bev.”

“Well, Kayla runs a company. She can't just pick up and move here either,” Auntie Reba argued.

“People make things work when they're in love,” Aunt Laura declared.

The room went quiet. Or maybe it only felt that way to me because the L-word had just been dropped into the conversation like a live grenade.

“It seems we’ve reached the unsolicited emotional fortune-telling portion of the evening.” I tried to make a joke out of the situation.

“Mikayla.” My mom said my name as if I were the one out of line.

“What? We went from geography to eternal devotion in under thirty seconds. Impressive.”

“Why are you getting so defensive?” Aunt Laura inquired, as if she honestly had no idea.

“I’m not.” I kept my tone even and calm. “I just don’t appreciate you turning my real life into a Hallmark movie with a moving van. Dating a cowboy does not automatically come with a marriage license.”

My mother tilted her head. “You know what they say about thou protesting too much.”

“Mom, don't.”

She reached over and squeezed my hand, offering support I didn’t ask for or need, which was somehow worse. I could handle teasing. I could handle interrogation. I could even handle my aunts discussing Damon's buns in disturbing detail. But I absolutely could not handle my mother looking at me like she knew something I was desperately trying not to admit to myself.

“You don't have to figure everything out today,” she said gently.

I swallowed. “That's good, because I have a very full schedule.”

She smiled. “You know, sweetheart, not everything in life needs a plan.”

I glared at her. “I'm going to pretend you didn't say that.”

She smiled and patted my knee. But her words followed me as I escaped across the room. Because I did need a plan. I always had a plan. Plans were how I kept things from falling apart.

And right now, everything felt precariously close to doing exactly that.

I was mid-mission of rescuing my phone from Julissa's purse when someone knocked on the door.

“Come in!” my cousin called out from the makeup chair.

The door opened and Deacon St. Claire stepped inside, looking far too relaxed for a man surrounded by women armed with curling irons.