Page 29 of Mail Order Bride

He nods. “I thought vampires only came out at night.”

“I guess I’m a rare breed.”

“Not a morning person, I presume,” he says, coming toward me like all is forgiven.

I cock my head. “I’m never better than just before dawn.”

“I couldn't sleep for thinking about you.”

“I think we suffer the same affliction.”

The sun is shining, and I watch as he takes a knee. The ground is frozen, but it is starting to thaw.

Joel reaches up for my hand and grins. “Marry me.”

It’s not a question, and I’ve never realized how much I prefer it that way. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth. “I’ll have to think it over.”

“I’ll give you until after breakfast.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Joel

The second we reach the house, Gina sprints toward the kitchen. I offer to take care of breakfast, or at the very least help, but she shoos me away.

“You're a guest,” she says. “If you really want to help, go keep the puppies company.”

The way she says it, the way she offered me the pup, it’s like she knows about Red, about how much I miss her, how eaten up I’ve been since she died. That’s ridiculous, of course. She couldn’t know, which makes it that much more meaningful.

“Just hang tight,” she says as though I have any other option. “I hope you’re not starving.”

“I’m good,” I tell her.

Her father is not up yet, and I can tell she’s anxious about me meeting him. That or she’s anxious over my offer of marriage. “I’ve never been to Texas,” she says, cracking an egg over the frying pan. “What’s it like?”

“It’s perfect,” I say. “No other way to describe it.”

“You travel much?”

“A little here and there.”

“Oh, yeah?” She moves about the kitchen with the manner of a mad scientist, flinging stuff everywhere, clinking pots and pans together. “Where all have you been?”

“All over, really. But I try to stay south if I can help it.”

“Arizona?”

“Sure, a few times.”

She offers a tight smile and then drops a slice of bacon in a pan and watches it sizzle.

This is about the time her dad came stumbling down the stairs and into the kitchen. He looks worn out, with deep circles under his eyes and a scruffy beard that looks like it hasn’t seen a razor in days. “Good morning,” he says, staring at me with a hint of disbelief, which is understandable. “I’m Ralph, Gina’s father.”

We shake hands. His grip is weak and his hand is swollen, probably from arthritis.

“You’re here a little early, aren’t you?”

“He has to get back on the road soon, Daddy,” Gina says. “He’s got work up in Willoughby, didn’t you say?”

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