Forever Wild (The Simple Wild #2.5) - K.A. Tucker Page 0,41

ideas.

“Muriel’s calling in a lot of favors on your behalf,” Simon notes quietly.

“She’s like the godfather of Trapper’s Crossing.” All her pushiness and meddling is paying off.

Simon peers at me from over the rim of his glasses. “Any strong opposition to grouse we should be aware of before we let them go too far down this path? Speak up now.”

“No. The owner of the lodge made it for us once. It was tasty.” If we weren’t inviting Andrea and George as guests to our wedding, I would have asked them to cook the meal.

His brow furrows. “So, does it taste like chicken?”

“No. It’s gamey.” I frown. “You don’t remember that partridge dinner Mom was talking about, do you?”

“Not the foggiest clue,” Simon admits sheepishly.

Chapter Eleven

“She pull this kind of shit at home?”

I pause peeling a potato to watch an incensed Jonah hover at the window, his muscular arms folded across his chest, his gaze on the gloomy sky through the windows. The few random flakes sailing down from the sky earlier have multiplied exponentially, sending us toward blizzard territory.

Mabel is almost a full hour late.

“Sometimes,” Agnes admits from the sink where she scrubs a pot. “If she’s in a mood. She seemed okay today, though.”

“I’ll tell you right now, things are gonna change when you guys move here in the summer. She won’t be trying this with me around.”

“Why not? You’re around now, and she’s not trying it, she’s doing it.” Björn studies his cards for a long moment before laying one down on the pile. He, Muriel, Simon, and my mother are playing a game of euchre around the coffee table, while Astrid and Teddy face off at the Swords and Shields board game. We lit several of Phil’s old lanterns and positioned them around the main area for added light as the day shifts to night and the power remains out.

Jonah’s eyes narrow on his stepfather. They’ve done a decent job of sidestepping each other since the major blowup two days ago, but I fear that’s about to change.

“You forget what you were like at that age, don’t you?” Astrid pipes in, likely sensing the impending squabble. “Stubborn, argumentative. You were always right.”

“So, you’re saying I’m about to marry thirteen-year-old Jonah?” I tease, handing Toby the peeled potato to dice and drop into the pot.

My mother guffaws. “You’re one to talk. If you weren’t screaming at me about how unfair I was for not letting you traipse all over downtown Toronto, you were locked in your room, sulking.”

“That’s so not true!”

“Simon? Would you say that’s accurate?”

“I’m going to make it hearts, for my partner,” he announces, seemingly missing her question. Or choosing to ignore it.

“Simon—”

“Teenagers need to be kept busy.” Muriel shifts the cards around in her hand before laying one on the table. “Deacon and Toby never had time to get into mischief. They were too busy workin’ at the resort. Don’t you worry. We’ll get Mabel occupied with cleanin’ cabins and cutting grass, collecting trash. She can even work in the kitchen on busy nights. She’ll be so busy makin’ money and learning responsibility, she won’t have time for mischief. She’ll be asleep on her feet at night!”

“And she wonders why I never learned how to talk to women,” Toby murmurs under his breath, earning my snort.

“Maybe they’re hanging out at the cabin and not getting my messages.” Agnes dries her hands on the tea towel. “I think I’ll boot over there and see.”

“You want me to go?” Jonah offers, taking a step toward the door.

“No, no, you stay put,” Agnes is quick to say, heading for her coat and boots. “I could use some fresh air, anyway.”

And if Mabel is over at the cabin, an angry Jonah blowing up at her won’t go over well.

“Last one.” I slap the peeled potato into Toby’s hand and reach for a homegrown carrot. Muriel was right—yet again. I’m feeling immense satisfaction knowing that everything we’re eating today, short of the turkey, was grown in the garden I once despised.

“Oh!” Agnes exclaims at the open door, and for a second I assume it’s Mabel, back from her ride, the sound of the snowmobile drowned out by the generator. “It’s good to see you, Roy. Calla wasn’t sure if you were coming to dinner.”

Roy is here?

Roy is actually coming to Christmas dinner?

In the split second of distraction—and shock—I skate the peeler over the corner of my thumb. I drop the carrot with a curse, assessing the stinging damage. It’s a