The Bride (The Boss 3)

“My mother wasn’t going to like you, no matter what. At least this way she has a reason that isn’t openly pathetic.”

“I don’t think it’s openly pathetic to dislike Michael’s loud chewing. Or his overly American accent,” Neil muttered.

“Somebody’s projecting,” I sing-songed. “I never once said that you were openly pathetic. You adopted that title on your own.”

The corner of Neil’s mouth twitched, but he squashed his smile before it could fully form. I lifted the hand he rested on the gearshift and kissed his fingertips through his leather gloves.

He pulled his hand back with a resigned sigh. “It’s only that I thought you were getting better at confronting difficult situations. We’ve been talking about the great progress you’re making—”

“Yes, progress. I’m not one hundred percent perfect.” I heard the defensiveness in my own voice and mentally started counting to ten. “I’m sorry, I just… Could you not bring up therapy? I’d rather argue.”

“Sorry, that was below the belt, wasn’t it?” He looked over, then back to the road.

“I’m working on it.” I had to. It had been a rocky year for both of us, with Neil’s cancer treatment and my sudden plunge into the world of medical caregiver. He’d spent a scary time in the ICU, nearly dying from a kidney infection that had struck while his immune system was down for the count; I’d been in full-time survival mode, both for him and myself. Then, for the month

s that followed, I’d never quite shaken that mindset. If anything annoyed me, I’d think, “But at least Neil is okay,” and feel incredibly guilty for being upset, especially if he’d been the cause of the annoyance. It had made for a very contentious few months of me pretending everything was fine until I exploded. Neil had constantly walked on eggshells to keep from upsetting me, until we both decided that seeing a counselor together was in our best interests.

Couple’s therapy should be bottled and sold at every available retail outlet.

“Look, this… it has nothing to do with you,” I assured him. “This was completely shitty of me, and I’m sorry. But I promise, I’m not doing this anymore. This is just the last one of my avoidance issues coming to a nasty head. And it’s not fair to you.”

He looked over to me, his expression softening. “Apology accepted. But really, Sophie, this puts me in a terribly awkward position.”

“I know.” Boy, did I know. And he couldn’t begin to imagine the half of it. Neil had grown up in an extremely wealthy family, jetting from their homes in England and Iceland to fabulous holiday locales. The Elwood brood had been sophisticated from birth, it seemed. My family had an uncle who painted his beer gut to look like a watermelon when he walked with the rest of his VFW buddies in the Fourth of July parade. Neil was about to get the culture shock of his life, no matter how laid back and easygoing he thought he was.

“If it makes you feel any better, at least you’re getting the biggest, most extended of the extended family gatherings out of the way first. After Christmas, any other interaction with my family will be a piece of cake.” I added, trying to put his mind at ease, “Besides. I’m sure everyone is going to be totally cool with you.”

* * * *

We were overrun the moment we stepped through the door.

“Becky!” someone—my cousin Steve, I think—shouted into the dining room. “Yer daughter and her fella got in.”

“Merry Christmas!” my aunt Marie shouted, wrapping her arms around me. Her hair was a graying blonde cloud of perfectly sculpted curls that got into my eyes and mouth as she hugged me.

Beside me, Neil Elwood, internationally known billionaire, swayed slightly on his feet. I really hoped he wasn’t going to pass out, because he was carrying two bottles of very expensive champagne in the sleek black shopping bag in his hand.

My aunt Marie stepped back and did a double-take as she looked Neil over. Her eyes went wide, and she bit her lips to try and disguise her mischievous smile. “Oh, your mom is going to shit.”

The back porch of my grandmother’s house was easily the most down-home place in the Midwest, decked out in laminated wood paneling and thick plastic rugs to protect the carpet in the high traffic areas. Christmas saw the room turned into a glorious buffet with my aunts and great aunts scurrying to bring hot dishes to the already laden-down folding table. A truly hideous light up clock of the Last Supper hung on the wall over the sliding glass entryway into the main part of the house.

I took Neil’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go see Mom and get this over with.”

When we stepped into the tiny, crowded kitchen, my mom was bent over a steaming sink, having just strained some boiled potatoes. She looked fabulous, as always, in wide-legged black trousers and a fitted, leopard-print cardigan. Her blonde hair—as fake as her nails and just as difficult to maintain—was perfectly straightened and held back from her face with a clip.

“I’m home!” I declared as she shook the last drops out of the huge stockpot.

She turned to face us, the corners of her eyes crinkling with happiness when she saw me. Then her gaze darted to Neil, and her smile did that telltale, split-second cessation of outward mobility, caused by an unpleasant shock she didn’t want to admit to. I’d gotten so used to it over the years. The I’m-freaking-out-internally freeze.

She hugged me, harder than absolutely necessary, and effused, “Honey, I’m so glad you made it! I was worried the airport would close down because of the storm yesterday.”

“It didn’t.” After stating the obvious, there was nowhere to go but introductions. “Mom, this is Neil. Neil, this is my mom, Rebecca.”

She put out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Neil. Sophie has had only good things to say about you.”

Turning to me with raised eyebrows, she said, “Not that she’s said a lot.”

“Yes, she mentioned that in the car on the way over.” He gave her what was possibly the most charming smile I’ve ever seen on him. Oh, baby. You’re wasting your energy. She already hates you.