Page 36 of The Pucking Proposal

When she stays silent, I finally tell her the rest. “I saw Marshall Cooksie. He’s home for the holiday. We caught up, and all the while, Dalton was glaring at me from the side of the dance floor like I was the one doing something wrong. And later, he came barging into my apartment acting like I was the type who’d take a guy home ten minutes after a spin around the dance floor. He was angry as hell, accusing me of this and that, and then ... you won’t believe what he did.” I take a big breath, ready to tell her the worst of it. “He tried to kiss me!”

She blinks, her face perfectly neutral as she waits for something more. “He tried to kiss me, Hope,” I repeat.

“And you ... didn’t want to kiss him?” she mutters slowly, puzzled with my anger.

I growl in frustration and remind her, “He’s an athlete, Shep’s friend, and gives away pony rides like he’s the county fair. So, no. I didn’t want to kiss him.”

She tilts her head, humming doubtfully, but when I scowl at her, she holds out her hands, talking softly like I’m a skittish dog that might bite. “Okay, let’s revisit what you did or didn’t, do or don’t, want. What happened when he tried to kiss you?”

The facts, just the facts. That I can give her. “I pushed him away and hewatchedme.”

It takes a solid three heartbeats of staring at me blankly before she realizes what I mean, then her eyes go so wide that I can see the whites all the way around the blue. “You let him watch you after all that?”

“Uh, more like ... Imadehim watch? And then it was supposed to be his turn, but he left! Said my pussy is his, whether I want to admit it or not, and left like the purebred asshole he is.”

Hope’s jaw falls open, and I can almost hear the gears in her mind turning as she plays and replays what I’ve told her. Finally, a smile starts to bloom on her lips.

I flinch away from her in horror and point at her mouth. “Why does your face look like that?”

“I stand by my earlier statement. You like him, Joy. That’s what all this turmoil, confusion, and jealousy is. You like Dalton Days.” She sounds completely sure of the absolutely wrong conclusion she’s arrived at, and when I shake my head violently to disagree, her smile only grows wider. “You do. But you’re scared, so you don’t want to admit it yet. That’s okay.”

“I’m not scared of anything,” I counter, thrusting my chin into the air like the fearless, badass bitch I totally am. “And at most, I just hate him a little less than I used to, so don’t get all carried away.”

“Okay, if you say so. However, I’d like this moment noted for later, so I can brag that I was right when you finally admit to liking him. Because you do. Like him.” She’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat, so damn pleased with herself, and I’m equally as pissed off, snarling like a feral tomcat who’ll do anything to defend his territory.

Except in this scenario, the territory is my heart. And I need to defend it against Dalton, because if Hope is right, I’m so screwed. And not in the good way.

She bites her lip, looking like she’s trying to decide on saying more.

“What?”

“I’m pretty sure he likes you too.”

Before I can refute that ridiculous assumption, she sashays back into the kitchen, whistling to herself.

Mom and Dad have been tag-teaming making our Thanksgiving feast for years and have it down to a science, virtually dancing around the kitchen to get everything to the table. In years past, we were assigned duties, but now, after having watched them so many times, we can step into the choreography and actually help. Before long, we’re sitting around a table piled high with a variety of options.

I make a plate as we pass hot dishes around, but when my fork is poised to take my first bite, I have an overwhelming urge to takea picture and send it to Dalton the way he sent me his holiday plate. Angry at the errant thought, I stab my fork into the cranberry sauce and smear it on a bite of turkey, ruining any photo-worthy ideas I might’ve had.

“It’s delicious,” Shep tells Mom and Dad around a mouthful of both mashed and sweet potatoes.

Mom smiles her appreciation, and somehow we manage to stuff our faces and catch up all at the same time.

Hope and Ben are prepping for another tour, but not till later next year, which Mom supports wholeheartedly, but she also asks if there’s going to be a bassinet on the tour bus anytime soon. “Mooom, no!” Hope screeches.

Ben laughs, but also says, “Not unless the universe plays a joke on us. We’ve got time.” He takes Hope’s hand, holding it on the table between them and making goo-goo eyes that’d probably be enough to get my sister pregnant, except I know she’s on birth control.

But Ben’s right. They’ve got plenty of time. Hope and I are only twenty-five, for fuck’s sake. At least she’s happily married. I’m still running away from even the possibility of a potentially more-than-casual, semifriendly situation.

Shepherd holds his hands up, already arguing with Mom before she says one word to him. “Don’t look at me. I remember what Dad told me when I was younger—don’t stick your dick in crazy. I took that to heart and am as careful as a fat zebra on the banks of a river full of hungry alligators. They’re not getting me.” He pats his chest, looking aghast at the thought.

“Time enough for women and babies after you get drafted, so be the zebra. Bring your own condoms, don’t trust hers,” Dad tells Shepherd, still praying for the dream and reinforcing his earlier advice.

Mom rolls her eyes at Dad’s crudeness, but then glances at me. Shehrrmphsand drops her gaze to her plate.

“Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom,” I huff. “Guess I’ll go live, laugh, toaster bath myself given that look of disappointment.” Idon’t know why I’m arguing with her. I’m not ready for kids, don’t even know if I want them, but the fact that she so quickly dismissed the very idea where I’m concerned is a cut I wasn’t expecting.

“Oh, Joy,” Mom tuts. “I know you’re focused on your career right now and doing amazing things with it. You’re doing exactly what you’ve always said you would, and I’m so proud of you.” She peers at me earnestly, making sure she’s smoothed things over well enough. Given I’m not really mad at her, I take the compliment. “And same to you, Shep. The only reason I asked Hope is because she used to talk about babies. That’s all.”

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