Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Not unlike her son . . .
“That said, I won’t mind in the least if my other two sons want to wait a decade before marrying,” she says, laughing. “All I’ve wanted for years is for them to settle down with a nice woman and make me grandbabies, but I’ll need a breather after this!”
Do not pry, do not fish, do not . . .
“Hopefully they’ll give you a bit of recovery time. Either of them close to the aisle?” I ask, oh-so-casually, as though simply making polite small talk as I wash my hands.
“My youngest definitely isn’t. Aaron’s always marched to the beat of his own drum, does things in his own way, in his own time. He told me when he was a boy he wasn’t going to get married until he could do so on the moon, and I half think he probably still thinks that.”
She smiles fondly.
“As for Thomas . . .”
I hold my breath, as she seems to give my question serious thought.
“I thought he’d be the first down the aisle. Both because he’s the oldest, and the most traditional. Obviously Jon beat him to it, but let’s just say I have a feeling he’s not going to give me the long break in between mother-of-the-groom duties I’m hoping for. And oh, gosh, as I say this, who am I kidding? I want so badly for him to find the right woman.”
I feel so transparent, as though every emotion must be written all over my face: the pain of knowing I’m not the right woman, the discomfort with not being as forthright with Mary as she is with me.
“I’m sure he’ll find her,” I say, hoping she doesn’t note the stiffness in my voice.
“You know, I think he already has,” she says, lowering herself to a conspiratorial whisper.
I freeze, not sure if it’s with hope or dread. Not sure what would be worse, her talking about me as future wifey, or some other woman. Thomas and I had agreed we weren’t exclusive, he has been a little distant tonight. Maybe the wedding and his family’s presence has nudged him back onto his original path, one that takes him away from Mac Austin.
“Yeah?” I force myself to ask. I have to know.
“I don’t know for sure. Of all my boys, he wears his heart on his sleeve the least, but I also think he feels the deepest beneath all the reserve. And he mentioned a woman to me once, on the phone a couple of weeks ago—just once, but with maternal instincts, that’s all it takes.”
She winks at me, and I give another of those pasted-on smiles. “Does he not usually mention women to you?”
“Hmm? No, gosh no. Not since he had a bad breakup a while back. This is the first time I’ve heard his voice like this since then. Excited, a little . . . smitten, you know?”
I make a noncommittal noise, my ears buzzing.
“More than smitten perhaps.” She is studying her reflection in the mirror, fluffing her hair with her hands, unaware of the furious butterflies in my stomach.
Me? Or someone else?
Both options feel equally terrifying.
“He even quit his job for this woman,” Mary continues, with a laugh. “So I guess I’d better not be losing the wedding planner’s number after all, huh?”
“What do you mean? Why would he do that?” The question is a little too sharp, and Mary looks at me in surprise, though her smile remains friendly.
She lifts her shoulders. “Apparently, this woman worked for him, and the company didn’t allow for relationships with subordinates. He asked what he should do, and I told him it was relatively simple: he had to decide which was more important, the woman or the job. The next day, he called to tell me he’d quit.”
Mary’s gaze meets mine steadily in the mirror. “I guess he decided he wanted the woman more.”
I’m not sure how I exited the bathroom. I know it wasn’t with any sort of polite conversation, and my eyes are so blurred with tears that I practically mow down the person entering the bathroom as I try to exit.
Small hands that belong to someone as short as me find my elbows, steadying me. “Mac? Is everything okay?”
Reeling, I blink through the haze of tears, enough to make out the cute features of Stephanie Price, who swears softly when I stare mutely at her.
“Stupid question. You’re so not okay,” she says, maneuvering me through the crowd and out a side door onto the balcony with surprising strength.
It’s brutally cold outside, cold even by November in New York standards, but I barely notice. I register it.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I ran into Thomas’s mom in the bathroom.”
“Okay? First time meeting her?”
I nod. “Only she didn’t know who I was, so she thought she was talking to a stranger about her other son’s future nuptials, and . . .”