Page 103 of The Christmas Wife

Weston turns to me; he jerks his chin.

I shake my head.

He glares at me.

I pale.

He holds out his hand.

I sigh. Okay, hell, I’d been hoping to put off this meeting with his family… Not that they are my in-laws or anything, but authority figures of any kind? I run a mile. And not because my own Ma was a strict disciplinarian—okay, maybe it is that. It doesn’t take a shrink to tell me my issues with not wanting to conform have to do with my home and the convent school I was educated in. Yeah, the nuns wouldn’t be happy with how I’ve turned out. I purse my lips.

"Amelie," Weston’s tone lowers to a hush. To anyone else, I’ll bet it sounds normal, but damn, if I don’t recognize the demand in it. Shit, I’d left home because I wanted to be independent, I thought… Until I met him, and the kind of disciplining Weston has in mind… Hell, if I don’t respond to it from that place deep inside that had resisted being told what to do. My head spins. Is that why I want his kind of dominance? Because I had hankered for it... A structure that imposes boundaries within which I can be myself... Had I held onto the illusion of control until I met a man who I trusted enough to hand it over to? Is that man Weston? I gulp.

Weston frowns, "You okay?" I hear his voice across the short distance.

Max whines, brushes against my leg. I bend, scratch his ear, then straighten. Best to treat this like breaking an egg. Just aim for the center, tap it against the side of the bowl, do your best… Either way it’s going to break, you just want to be around to catch the yolk. Me and my stupid metaphors. I walk forward, Max straining at the leash.

When I reach them, I pause. "I’m Amelie." I hold out my hand, "Pleased to meet you."

Weston’s mother smiles. The lines etched around her eyes deepen. "What a pretty name."

She takes my hand between both of hers.

"That’s very kind of you to say so," I reply, schooling my features into a neutral expression, "and thank you for having me."

Max yelps, she glances at him, and her face breaks into a broad grin. Her features brighten and those grey eyes sparkle. The resemblance between her and Weston becomes more pronounced. Strange, huh? Considering Mr Grumpy-grump's face rarely wears an expression that’s not borderline angry.

"And who’s this?"

"Max," I reply.

She releases my hand, bends down to pat the puppy. He wags his tail, jumps up at her.

"Is he yours?"

"Uh, he belongs to my friend Summer and her husband."

"Ah, the Sinclairs." She straightens, "Is that how the two of you met?"

"Yes," I say.

"No," Weston declares.

We stare at each other, for a beat, another. I scowl at him. This is what happens when you don’t get your stories right. And jerkalope here, didn’t want to talk about it before-hand.

I tuck my elbows into my side, open my eyes wide, stare at the alphahole.He got us into this one, he can dig us out of it. This should be good.

His mother chuckles, "Which is it, then?"

"I saw her shopping for groceries at my local supermarket. She was talking to herself as she decided which brand of chocolate to buy for baking, and that was it."

"Oh," I blink.Damn, but he sounds so sincere. I almost believe it myself.

"Ah." His mother nods. "Chocolate and sex—the unbeatable combination."

"Wha—?" I gape at her.

"Mother," Weston admonishes.

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