The Bride (The Boss 3)

“Daddy.” A one-word admonishment was all she needed to give him.

He held up his hands defensively. “Fine, fine. That was the last one, I promise.”

“Sophie,” Emma said, putting her arms out. “Christmas hug?”

“Of course!” I’m the huggy type, but Neil’s daughter is not. For a while, I thought it was because of our strange situation—it couldn’t be easy, having your dad date someone who was your exact age—but as I’d gotten to know her better, I’d realized that she was quite sparing with her physical affection.

I guess that just made it mean more.

Downstairs, Neil introduced me to the eldest Elwood sibling, Geir, and his wife, Helen, who was a Canadian from Winnipeg. They’d met when she’d been plying her trade as a lawyer in the contracts department of North Star Media, the company the Elwood brood had inherited from their late father. Geir and Helen’s children weren’t with them for Christmas—they were all grown and busy with their own families in Canada and England. Geir looked more like Neil’s mother. He was shorter than his brothers, and plump, and he didn’t smile as easily, though he didn’t come off as a grumpy sort of person. Helen was slender and youthful, despite the gray streak in her effortless brown bob. She talked with her hands and showed tall white teeth when she smiled.

No one seemed to bat an eye at the fact that Neil had such a young girlfriend, but when I met Runólf’s wife, Kristine, I got an inkling of why. Though Runólf was fifty-two, his wife was in her early thirties. She was a former Olympic swimmer who was 6’ 1”, had long, sexy blonde hair I was pretty sure she stole from a 1990’s Glamazon, and her arms were more jacked than Michelle Obama’s.

I had this crazy feeling no one was going to crack a “trophy wife” joke about me in Runólf and Kristine’s house.

“Sophie, so nice to meet you!” Kristine gave me a welcoming hug. “Neil has told us so much about you.”

“He has?” I knew Neil talked to his brothers often, even if he only saw them every couple of years, but I had no idea he’d talked to them about me.

Geir chuckled. “The last time we saw him, he couldn’t shut up about you. When was that, the last time we got together for Christmas?”

“No, it was when your mother was in the hospital,” Helen corrected him. “It’s nice to finally put a face with the name.”

When his mom had been in the hospital? That had been… We hadn’t even been dating at that point, just casually fucking. And he’d been talking me up to his family?

I shot Neil a look, and he coughed, cleared his throat, and turned to Michael, who stood gazing out the windows at the lake. Probably trying to remain totally still, because protective father vision is based on movement.

“Michael,” Neil said stiffly.

To Michael’s credit, he didn’t look as terrified of Neil as he used to. He nodded and raised the glass in his hand, responding, “Happy New Year, sir. And a belated Merry Christmas.”

Michael was everything Neil had probably feared from the moment Emma had been born. Blindingly handsome, well-mannered, tall, dark, and charming, he was Emma’s fairy tale prince come to life, and met every one of the high expectations she had of men. Though Neil hated Michael, there were similarities between them that I would never, ever point out to him, because I was sure it would earn me a very withering look.

“Yes. Well. Same to you,” Neil said, then turned to Runólf and spoke something in Icelandic before they both headed off to the bar.

From somewhere in the room, a baby monitor crackled with the sound of a distressed infant.

“Oh good, she’s up. Finally!” Helen jumped to her feet with the glee of a mother about to hold a child she could give back to its owners, and she excused herself to go with Kristine.

Emma sighed. “Less than ten minutes. I owe Michael twenty dollars.”

I cocked my head in query.

“Less than ten minutes before my father got bilingual to complain about Michael, in front of Michael.” She shook her head with a resigned sigh. “He said, ‘I’m going to need a drink to handle this.’ Come on.”

Emma led me up the stairs, through the foyer and to the surprisingly industrial looking kitchen.

“Maybe he meant he needed a drink to handle bringing me.” I normally wouldn’t have so blatantly hinted for reassurance, but I was starting to get a little paranoid. “He’s been acting really strange, ever since Christmas.”

“There’s a time when my father doesn’t act strange?” She grabbed a glass-bottled soda from the ice bucket on the table. “Want one?”

“Sure.” I took something that looked grape. “You don’t think he’s weird about me being here?”

“Sophie, you know him.” Emma was as pragmatic as ever, and it was very welcome. “If he didn’t want you to be here, you wouldn’t be here. But the man misses you when you go off to the toilet, I don’t think he would want to spend a whole holiday without you.”

She had a point that I mentally conceded as I popped the top off my soda.

Then, with a halt, Emma had a visible realization. “You don’t suppose… Sophie, do you think he’s nervous because he’s planning to propose to you?”