Page 3 of Merry Ever After

How did she find out where I live? As soon as I begin to wonder, I mentally scoff at myself. Finding out where the skyscraper-size farmer dwells wouldn’t be difficult. Any number of town residents could have told her. Whatever method she used to get my address, she’s coming up the pathway to my house now with a baby strapped to her chest and a brown bag dangling from a couple of her fingers. Let me tell you, it’s a sight. Something’s got her a little mad this morning, but not mad enough to step on the chickens in her path. No, even through the window, I can hear her apologizing to them as she closes the distance to my door, and that makes me feel some kind of way.

Not sure what the feeling iscalledyet.

Only that she’s the only one who seems to give it to me.

A married woman. Of course I told amarried womanshe’s one of a kind. I’m surprised her husband hasn’t shown up with a shotgun yet to put a bullet in me. I wouldn’t even blame him. If she was my wife, I’d put the fear of God intoanyone who showed her interest. Especially out loud, like I did.

What’s she carrying in that bag?

I can hardly focus long enough to make an educated guess, because I’m distracted by the dark-auburn swing of her hair, how the morning light sets it on fire. She has a beautiful stubborn nose and an Irish chin. A wide mouth. I’m not going to marvel over her body now that I know she’s taken, but if I was ...

Ah, Jesus, she’s got nice sturdy hips.

A lot of men don’t notice that type of thing, but a man my size does.

She would handle me well.

And the fact that she already has a man should make me ashamed that I fucked my fist in bed this morning to thoughts of her bent over the counter of her shop, moaning while I gave it to her good and proper from behind, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangled in her hair. Yesterday, in my fantasies, I had her in the dressing room. I’ve had her all over town since the first day I saw her.

This infatuation needs to stop, but it only appears to be picking up steam. Case in point, my heart driving up into my throat now that she’s knocking briskly on my front door.

As much as I want to see her hazel eyes up close, I hesitate to answer, on account of still being embarrassed. First, I ripped a pair of jeans, thanks to my freakishly large frame. Second, I hit on a married woman.

Excuse me for wanting to remain hidden in the shadows.

“I saw you standing in the window.”

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, setting down my mug of coffee. Inhaling, exhaling, and crossing to the front door. Opening it to find the most beautiful woman to ever grace this property—hell, the planet—staring up at me, a touch defiant in itty-bittyjean shorts, a Santa Claus T-shirt, and red cowboy boots. Her sleeping baby has a little patch of red on the crown of its head, and I experience a sudden welling of envy toward whoever gets to call these two his family. Maybe it’s the holidays that have me wishing for ... more out of this simple life of mine. Craving someone to celebrate Christmas Eve with tomorrow night. But deep down, I know it’s not December at all. It’s this woman who’s got me pondering things I shouldn’t. “Good morning, Evie.”

“Good morning, Luke.” She holds out the bag. “Your jeans.”

A bus crashes into my chest. “What?”

“Go try them on, please. If they need adjustments, I’ll bring them back to the store.”

I can’t think of a single thing to say. This woman not only designed jeans big enough for my too-big body, but she also walked here to deliver them with a baby in tow.

It’s . . . amazing. Touching. Surprising.

It’s unacceptable, is what it is.

“I told you not to fuss,” I try to growl, but I sound winded instead. Iam. She’s knocked the breath out of me. As the oldest of four siblings, I’m the one who goes out of my way to make sure everyone has what they need. I’ve never had anyone do the same for me. The gesture makes me feel unsettled, like I don’t deserve such a gift.

“Why do you have such a fixation on fussing?”

“I don’t like it.”

“That much is clear.”

“I haven’t done anything foryou—” I cut myself off, feeling extremely foolish. “I’m sorry, let me get some money.”

“I don’t want it.” She still has that temper up. Why? Did her husband piss her off? Because I’d be more than happy to go sort him out ... “You trying them on and having themfit will be payment enough. We’ll call it an early Christmas present.”

A discomfiting thought occurs to me. “You don’t want me to come back to the store anymore. Is that it?” I hold up the bag. “That’s why you did this.”

Her hazel eyes soften slightly. “What? No.” The temper reengages. “I just wanted to show you what I’m capable of. A single mother made those jeans, okay? The fact that I made them in between feedings and naps and work and bath time is what makes me one of a kind. Not my tits. Got it?”

Single mother.

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