Page 39 of Her Greatest Mistake

Braxton: Just want to make sure we’re on the same page.

I drag a hand down my face and heave a sigh. It’s a fair enough reason, but there’s something bugging me about it. Maybe it’s that I don’t want to plan this entire thing out with a list of do’s and don’ts. It will be more believable to just go with the flow.

That’s what I’m going with, anyway.

Me: Let go of the planner, Braxton. When it comes down to it, we need to be believable. That means we should do whatever is necessary to ensure it is.

Braxton: Okay. Yeah.

Me: You good now?

Braxton: Yes. Thank you.

Me: All good. Goodnight.

Braxton: Night. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.

They don’t, and two days later, I park my truck in front of Dad’s and step out into the afternoon sunshine.

My parents’ house is the same as it’s been since I was a baby—large and in charge but somehow warm and homey at the same time. A wraparound porch with flower baskets hung along the entire length of it, a looped stone driveway, big windows, and a balcony that comes off my parents’ bedroom and looks out to the trees at the back of the property.

Today, there are pink and white balloons and streamers joining the flower baskets on the porch, and I chuckle at the Happy Birthday banner hung above the door.

The driveway is full of vehicles that I weave around before coming up to the front door and pushing my way inside. The pile of shoes spread around the foyer isn’t the least bit surprising. My family is massive, and even in this big house, it can get a bit crowded.

“Where’s the birthday girl?” I shout after I’ve added my shoes to the pile.

“Is that what I am? And here I thought I was just an old woman now,” Mom teases, coming toward me with her arms open.

I step into her hug and squeeze her tight. “Happy late birthday, Ma.”

“Thank you, baby.”

After a moment, we pull back, and I toss my arm over her shoulder as she leads us through the house toward the backyard, where I assume everyone else is.

“Your gift is in my truck. I know how much you hate crying in front of people, and my present is a guaranteed eye gusher,” I gloat, feeling smug.

She pinches my stomach, and I bark a laugh. “You’re a little shit. I thought you already gave me my gift.”

“That was only the first one.” I give her a soft squeeze. “You know if I could have made this party work earlier, I would have, but—”

“No apologies. You’re here now. I know how hockey season is, especially right before playoffs.”

If anyone would know and understand the life of a hockey player, it would be the woman who married Oakley Hutton, but the guilt is still there.

I wish I had more time off around her birthday so that we didn’t have to celebrate it with the entire family well over a month later. But at least I was able to see her on the actual day, and I think that meant more to her than a big party.

“Dad spoiled you, yeah?”

She giggles. “Of course he did. You know him better than that.”

“I told him to buy you a yacht, and he laughed at me, so I doubt his gift could have been that good.”

“Youcould have gotten me a yacht,” she points out.

“You got me there.”

“He booked us a trip to Greece because I’ve been wanting to go since your uncle went years ago. I think he didjustfine.”

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