“Who cares who picks!” one of Logan’s cousins shouts from the kitchen, piling a plate high with what’s left of the finger sandwiches. “If we don’t speed up this operation, the bride will still be opening presents on the honeymoon.”
Logan wraps a big, protective hand around my thigh, sparking a warm humming sensation across my skin. “No wife of mine is doing anything on our honeymoon other than sitting in her beach chair and drinking as many fruity cocktails as she can handle.”
He shoots me a wink and a warm smile, but I’m too hung up on the word wife to respond. Just one more day until I officially take on that role, and while I don’t want to wish away this precious family time, I would turn the clock forward just to make him officially mine already.
“Why don’t we save some of these for tomorrow?” I say, checking the time for the first time since we sat down. It’s nearly one o’clock, a full hour later than the invitations said this brunch would wrap up. The last thing I want to do is make a bad impression on my soon-to-be relatives.
“You can’t open these tomorrow, silly,” Jillian says. “These are shower presents. Tomorrow you’ll have wedding presents. That’s a whole different can of worms.”
All I can do is shake my head and laugh. This isn’t just an outpouring of love . . . it’s an entire avalanche. Lucky feels like an understatement to describe how I feel.
Before I can slip too deep into my feelings, Austen, who has the task of keeping track of who gave which presents, holds his wide-ruled notepad in the air. “Wedding presents? Do I have to take notes on those too?”
“No, sweetie.” His mother lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make Graham be in charge of that tomorrow.”
Graham’s glare could melt steel, but it’s quickly interrupted by Aunt Molly volunteering her present to be next.
“Open my tea towels!” she shouts, then claps a hand over her mouth, wide-eyed at her mistake. “Shoot. I mean, uh, open my gift. It could be anything at all!”
The room breaks out in laughter so loud, it drowns out Graham’s permanently bad mood. When I pull two plush tea towels from Aunt Molly’s gift bag, I still make sure to act surprised. Each one has a perfect letter T embroidered in pale pink thread. My soon-to-be new last name has never felt so official.
“Thank you, Aunt Molly,” I say with a grin. “These will be so gorgeous in our kitchen.”
Our kitchen, in our home.
Logan’s apartment on the Boston Common is plenty big enough for two, so we’ve arranged for me to break my lease and move in with him for the duration of his contract with the Titans. After that, I’m crossing all my fingers and toes that he can secure a transfer to the Denver Avalanche, putting us just a hop, skip, and a jump from Lost Haven. It’s a long shot, but crazier things have happened.
Like us falling in love in the first place.
“Speaking of kitchens, let’s do my present next!”
Jillian leaps to her feet, scurrying to the pile of presents and carefully selecting the largest box from the center. She winces and grunts as she struggles to lift it, and when she places it in my lap, I can see why. The heft of it makes me recoil.
“Jeez, Mom.” Logan laughs, lifting the box to take some of the weight off my thighs. “What did you get us, a box full of bricks?”
She smiles and rolls her eyes. “I guess you’ll have to open it and see.”
I shimmy the sheer blush bow off the box, then peel back the matte silver paper a few inches. That’s all it takes for my eyes to light up with recognition. I’d know that familiar shade of aqua anywhere.
“No way,” I whisper, blinking in disbelief at both the thoughtfulness and the expense of the gift. “It’s just like yours.”
Jillian nods, beaming at me with a huge smile, her blue eyes twinkling. “It sure is. The exact same make and model and everything.”
A murmur of what is it makes its way through the living room until I finally peel back the paper all the way, revealing the box to everyone. It’s a state-of-the-art stand mixer in aqua blue, exactly like the one Jillian used to teach me how to make bread.
Warmth fills my chest. It may be crazy, but this mixer, those memories . . . it all makes me feel like part of the family. And family is something I never thought I’d have again.
Several pairs of expectant eyes are still appraising us, so I blink away the happy tears.
“I’d never done much baking before meeting Jillian,” I explain to the family, weaving my fingers into Logan’s. “She taught me everything I know, which admittedly isn’t very much.”
“But now you can learn on your own. Open the box. I sneaked something else in there.”
I turn toward Logan, letting him take over. He pops open the lid and sticks one arm inside, emerging with a spiralbound book with a laminated floral cover.
“It’s a cookbook,” Jillian says. “Of all the Tate family recipes.”
Logan sets it in his lap, and we flip it open together. The very first recipe? Jillian’s famous currant scones. Only she’s renamed them Summer’s Scones.
My throat prickles, and I swallow hard to chase the threat of tears away. I can’t cry now. I’m reserving that for when I walk down the aisle tomorrow.
“Mom, this is perfect.”
I can hear the rumble of emotion in my fiancé’s voice, so I take his hand again, tracing the lines of his palm with my thumb.
“Absolutely perfect,” I tell Jillian. “I don’t know how we can ever thank you.”
“Anything for my Summer-in-law,” she coos. Of all the nicknames she’s tried out on me, this is by far my favorite.
It takes another hour to finish opening all the presents, but no one seems to mind. We’re all just so happy to be together, to swap hugs and stories and sample the different beers Graham brewed for tomorrow. The Summer Shandy will of course be the signature drink of the evening, but the complete menu of options Graham came up with could rival that of any taproom in New England.
As grumpy as he may be, I swear that man has a soft spot for me. Good thing I have every family holiday for the rest of my life to confirm that.
As for Matt and Austen, they’re tipsy and playing dodgeball with wadded-up wrapping paper by the end of the brunch. That’s the thing about being home. Something about it makes you act like a kid again.
“Knock it off, assholes.” Graham scowls as he blocks a ball of silver wrapping paper that one of his brothers lobbed at his head. He grinds his teeth, scrunching the paper in his fist. “Keep it up, and you’ll both need crutches to get down the aisle tomorrow.”
“Graham!” Jillian frowns at him. “Of all days, can we not tonight?”
He opens his mouth to argue, then shakes his head and stomps toward the staircase. Logan pushes to his feet, ready to follow him, but I hold out a hand, keeping him safe at my side.
“Not today, honey,” I plead. “It’s not worth it.”
He pauses, then heaves out a sigh, sinking back onto the couch. “You’re right,” he says. “You’re always right.”
“And don’t you forget it!” Grandpa Al shouts. Suddenly, the tension is gone, replaced with more raucous laughter.