The Broody Brit for Christmas (Holiday Springs #1) - M.J. Fields Page 0,7
moments like this right here.
“I think gifts first is a great idea.” Annie smiles.
The idea came from a recording of Hope on her birthday. Before she blew out the candles, she would tell all of us what she would wish for us for her birthday before making her own. She did it every year. Her wishes ranged from sweet to snarky, eliciting an aww, or laughter, depending on the company. Her wish for me was always, ‘More love than the year before.’
Since he saw that, he decided he would keep her tradition going, and as he became more and more mature, his wishes became more thoughtful, whether a joke or something from the heart.
Did I find it odd?
Absolutely.
Did the therapist suggest I encourage him to stop doing so?
Of course.
Will I?
Never.
It obviously makes him happy.
“You first, Dad.” He smiles.
“I normally get my wish last. I can wait.”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
Seeing the candles burning further and further down, I decide not to banter with my boy and simply nod. “Okay, fine.”
In a room full of all those who loved Hope, still love Hope, will always love Hope, he looks up at me and simply states, “Mum’s wish for you is to find someone to love like you loved each other, and for her to love you like Mum did. Maybe not the same way, but perfectly in your own ways.”
Rule Number Three
Nothing Good Ever Happens On A Monday
Nikki
Two weeks later
As soon as my ass hits the black leather of my car, my phone rings.
I hit answer call on my steering wheel. “Do you have a tracking device implanted in me, or are you psychic?”
Jenny laughs. “It’s not like you’re hard to figure out. It’s Monday. You visit your grams and pops at Shady Oaks retirement home between ten and noon. It’s five minutes after.”
I roll my eyes at her, even though she can’t see me as she continues.
“When you get home, you’ll spend the entire day applying for jobs near the city that you’re overqualified for, then you’ll drink a bottle of cheap wine on your own while scrolling through social media to see if you can catch a glimpse of that despicable excuse for a human—”
“Jenny,” I sigh heavily.
“I agree, we should skip Monday. The memes are right. It’s a horrible day unless your kids have gotten on your last nerve all weekend and you all but push them out of the vehicle at drop-off, only to look at the clock when you’re pulling in, and you see you’re the first one there… again, and you’re half an hour early like I was today. I redeemed myself by taking a picture as they walked in and posted it on Facebook using the hashtag #blessed.”
I can’t help but laugh as I open Facebook—which I never paid attention to because IG is more my speed—and see the picture of her boys walking in while looking over their shoulders and scowling at her.
“Tuesday, you’ll nurse a hangover, sleep the day away, then spit shine your aunt and uncle’s entire house, including that bitch of a cousin’s room, and finally,” she sighs in mock exasperation, “retire to your room, slash Gloria’s sewing—”
“Knitting,” I correct her.
She literally growls before continuing, “Okay, Cinderella.”
“Aunt Gloria is so far from an evil stepmother, she’s—”
“Sweet as pie,” she says in that fake as hell voice she uses. “But she cursed that cousin of yours by naming her after Nellie Oleson from the Laura Ingalls Wilder books.”
“Grams says Nellie’s been stopping in more since I came back, so maybe—”
“Buttering her up so they don’t give you the whole damn shop?”
“I don’t want the store. I want—”
“The Bad Apple.”
“The Big Apple,” I correct, looking down at my phone, closing out Facebook and opening IG.
“What are you doing?”
Jesus, like seriously, she must be psychic.
“Nothing.”
“Same thing my boys said this weekend when I caught them being quiet for ten minutes. You know what those little shits did?”
“What?” I stare at the Instagram stories, scrolling through Townes’s friends’ stories, and hoping to catch one of them posting pics from their weekend.
“They caught the cat on fire.”
“Well, that’s nice.”
She yells, “Nikki!” I jump, and my phone goes flying across the Jeep to the passenger seat.
“What!”
“Get off that devil app.”
“I was—”
“I told you they caught the cat on fire, and you said that’s nice!”
“So!”
“We don’t even have a cat!”
“Sorry, I’m sorry I’m just—”
“Go do your Monday thing, alone. We’ll chat tomorrow over coffee.”
“Shoot, Nellie asked me to cover her morning shift.”