Play Maker (Bitsberg Knights Duet)

I rolled my eyes. “Mom, this isn’t like that. I’m not looking for a husband. I’m not even looking for a boyfriend right now. I have so much going on. I don’t see how I could add one more thing.”

“There’s always time, dear. You’re far too young to be too busy for relationships and dates and love.”

I shrugged. She was probably right, but since getting admitted to law school, I hadn’t hit the brakes. “I want to get my job secured first. Build a routine that works for me. Then I can think about inviting someone else in to share it all with. I mean, what happens if I get my test results and find out I didn’t pass? Then I’d have to go back to studying around the clock, and I’d have to start my job hunt all over again. My position at the public defender’s office is based on the contingency that I pass. If I don’t, they won’t hold it for me. They can’t.”

My mom set her mug down. “Sweetheart, you worry too much.”

It was a common complaint from her and my dad. According to them, I’d been three going on thirty and had never really stopped trying to be a few decades ahead of myself.

“Maybe,” I conceded, staring at the contents of my mug. “I kinda invited Ross to Christmas dinner.”

“You did?” Her tone wasn’t upset, more shocked.

“He doesn’t have family in the area, and I hated the idea of him being all alone on Christmas.” I didn’t want to say too much about his family, granted I didn’t know all that much to begin with. “I hope it’s okay,” I said, peeking up at her.

She smiled. “Of course, it’s okay. You know we always make too much food. I’m happy for you.”

“Well, don’t go picking out wedding dresses and china patterns just yet,” I said, swirling my cup. “It’s early.”

My mom finished her cocoa, deposited her mug in the sink, and came around to give me a quick hug. “I know, but I have a good feeling about this one.”

She dropped a kiss on my forehead and swept from the room, leaving me alone with my cocoa and a whole lot of questions rolling around in my head.

10

Shelby

I woke up on Christmas morning in a mood that was more fitting for a small child, bursting with excitement over the prospect of finding whatever Santa might have left in their stocking. Ross wouldn’t arrive for several hours, but I wasted no time getting ready. When I walked into the kitchen for breakfast, both of my parents did a double-take.

My mom craned her neck from her place at the small kitchen island to check the large clock above the pantry door.

I laughed. “Yes, I know, it’s early.”

“Are you wearing false eyelashes?” she whispered, leaning closer to peer up at me as I rounded the island to grab a cup of coffee.

“Maybe.”

My dad laughed from behind his newspaper.

I filled a mug, added a splash of cream from the ceramic cow by the stove, and leaned back against the counter. I held the steaming cup in between both hands, my freshly manicured nails tapping at the sides. “All right, spit it out.”

“Nothing, pumpkin,” he said.

I wasn’t convinced. I planted a fist on my hip and tried again. “Come on. What are you thinking?”

He lowered the paper and pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I think you look beautiful.”

My cheeks went red and my hand slipped from my hip. “Thank you, Dad.”

“So, what time is Ross getting here?” my mom asked on her way to the sink. “I’ll be putting the roast in the oven in a couple of hours. After that, I’ll need help getting the side dishes and rolls ready.”

“No problem.”

“You sure you wanna do all that in those heels?” she asked, dropping a pointed look at the pumps on my feet.

“I’ll trade them out for slippers,” I said, giving a roll of my eyes.

The doorbell rang, and my dad hopped down from his perch. “That’ll be Mags,” he said, starting for the front of the house.

My mom waited until he was out of sight and then groaned as she sank down to grab something from the cupboard by the stove. She came up with a bottle of Irish cream and poured a generous amount into her coffee. “Guess we’re starting early today,” she mumbled, replacing the cap.

I giggled and patted her on the shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

“Hmm.”

“Merry Christmas!” Aunt Maggie yelled, strutting into the kitchen in a Christmas sweater that featured a 3D reindeer protruding off the front. Every year, her sweaters got worse and worse. I had a hunch she was going to Ugly Sweater parties in all the nearby office buildings and buying them off the victors after they’d claimed their prize. It was the only explanation that made sense.