Forever Wild (The Simple Wild #2.5) - K.A. Tucker Page 0,47

you hunt them so don’t even try to tell me you won’t eat that.”

I’m halfway up the path when I hear him admit in an oddly somber tone, “I’m too scared to talk to her.”

My feet stall.

“She lost her mother, and the man who raised her. She’s lookin’ for someone to replace them, and I’m a grumpy old man who’ll disappoint her. I’ve got no love to give anybody. Not her, not her kids.” His lips twist. “I don’t even remember how to love anymore.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” I trek back to him. “And I don’t think she wants to replace them. She wants to get to know you.” I know because I was in her shoes, once.

He studies his worn gloves, and I make a mental note to buy him a new pair of those, too. “Not much to know. I’m a pretty boring guy.”

I chuckle. “You’re a lot of things, Roy, but boring is not one of them.”

He shakes his head, still unconvinced. “After what I did to her mother?”

“Maybe she’ll ask you about that,” I agree. “Maybe she’ll want to know why it happened. And maybe knowing that you’ve regretted it every day since will give her the closure she needs. You won’t know until you talk to her. But what I do know, from experience, is that it’s never too late as long as you’re both willing to try. And she is, Roy. So have the guts to pick up that phone and call her. Or write her. It’ll be the best decision you’ll make for the rest of your life.” I hesitate. “I can be there when you do that. If you want.”

Roy seems to chew on that offer. “You’re gonna turn into a Popsicle if you stand out here any longer. Get on inside now, ya hear?” He starts his engine and takes off down the driveway, Oscar and Gus chasing after him.

I smile as I watch him go. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

I’m halfway up the path to the porch when the power comes back on, treating me to a dazzling display of white twinkling lights.

Chapter Twelve

“One more here,” my mother says around the bobby pin held between her teeth. She uses it to tuck in a stray hair and then steps back to survey the loose updo we spent the last hour crafting. She smiles, her dazzling, hazel-green eyes drifting the full length of my fitted wedding gown. Connie proved to be a magician, working late into the night, several nights over, pulling apart stitches, snipping excess material, and sewing it back together to tailor fit to my frame. “Perfection.”

“Absolute perfection,” Diana echoes, stretched out across our bed as if posed for a photo shoot, holding both bouquets. I told her to wear whatever she wants. She chose a sexy Boho chic dress in cranberry that will pop against the frozen backdrop and matches the shade of my mother’s dress that Diana brought from home.

“Everything is. Every detail.” A lump flares in my throat. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

My mom’s eyes turn glossy as she collects my hands in hers. “Of course, honey. I’ve only ever wanted this day to be memorable. For you.”

I barely notice the pointed lens anymore as Lacey discreetly captures moment after moment, stepping around us almost as if she’s not there. She showed me some of her winning shots and there’s no doubting her talent. I’m already dying to see the pictures and the day isn’t over yet.

The last six days have been a mad flurry of shopping, scavenging, collecting, crafting, and cleaning. We stripped the tackiest of the signs and pictures from the Ale House’s walls, tucking them away in boxes for the time being. Surprisingly, my mom wanted to leave the moose and deer heads. They add to the rustic charm, she insisted.

Now they quietly loom over an astonishing transformation that even caught Muriel momentarily speechless when she walked in this morning, to take in the forests’ worth of greenery and the lanterns we begged, borrowed, and bought to create ambiance. Toby and Jonah hauled tables over from the community center and lined them up into one long, banquet-style table adorned with rented copper and crystal dishes and ornate candelabras, and every available blush and burgundy flower within a hundred miles of Anchorage. Archie smelled like a florist’s cellar when Jonah arrived yesterday with the haul.

“Knock … knock,” Simon calls out from behind the cracked bedroom door. “I’ve been sent to tell