Page 41 of Holiday Hopefuls
“Nah, she knows the way. I only really use a leash when we’re on the trails,” he answers.
“There’s my girl,” a female voice sings from the front door. A woman who can only be Oliver’s mom stands with the front door wide open, an enthusiastic Nacho standing to her shoulders and giving her all the doggy kisses. On the shorter side, the years have been kind to her. Soft through the middle, she reminds me of every mom whose natural waistline hasn’t been helped by Dr. Whatshisname that the women in my mother’s circle all use—which isn’t very many of them. Wavy blonde hair floats to her thin shoulders and her feminine features glow with laughter at the onslaught of kisses from the cutest granddog.
“Hey Mom,” Oliver calls from beside me, waving to the woman.
Releasing herself from Nacho’s iron grip, his mom’s eyes widen when they land on me. “You two, get on in here. It’s freezing,” she calls.
Looking up at Oliver, the love for his mom is evident. Natural. While this man always seems to look perfectly at ease in any situation, something about seeing him come home is truly moving.
A dull ache squeezes in the depths of my chest—a reminder of everything I’ve never had. But the possibility of one day having that kind of love with my own family propels me forward with this strange mission of ours.
The one where I pretend to be the doting girlfriend.
My hand surprises us both by reaching out and taking hold of his.
This bewilderment continues as his squeezes mine in return.
Then, one step at a time, we head inside.
If it weren’t for every nerve currently being lit on fire while I try to remember my sole purpose in being here, I would have thought I was in one of those made-for-TV holiday movies. Traditional furnishings have been given a facelift with all kinds of holiday decor strategically placed throughout the open floorplan. Hints of vanilla, lemon and rosemary hang in the air, with a dining table fully set for Thanksgiving just off to the left. Christmas music plays softly in the background, mingling with football commentary coming from an unseen television.
“Dad?” Oliver calls, letting go of my hand to shut the front door and sliding off his coat. Hanging it on the coat rack waiting beside the door, he holds out a patient hand for mine.
Removing my own, I do my best to ignore the immediate chill once our hands are no longer intertwined.
Oliver guides me further into the entryway when a small door next to the stairs swings open. A tall, older man emerges carrying a dust-covered box that hasn’t seen the light of day in years. My fake boyfriend comes by his height honestly. Dressed in jeans and a red plaid flannel, Mr. Rhodes looks ready to take in a football game on the couch instead of eating a fancy, chef-prepared meal like my father undoubtedly will.
I love him immediately.
But Oliver’s father also doesn’t hide his surprise when he sees me. “You must be Ollie’s girlfriend.” Mr. Rhodes shifts the box to his left arm, extending a calloused hand. “Marshall Rhodes.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Rhodes.” His handshake feels like a father who has never failed to lift up his kids, no matter how far they fell.
“Any girlfriend of Ollie’s can call me Marshall,” he insists.
“Marshall,” I repeat around a soft chuckle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Oliver’s told me so much about you,” I gush.
Raising wiry gray brows, Mr. Rhodes looks at his son. “Is that so?”
Beside me, Oliver shrugs. “Had to warn her.” But he grins across the cozy space at his father. “Oh, Dad,” his hand moves to the small of my back, “this is Callie Rutherford.”
If it’s possible, Marshall Rhodes’s eyebrows climb to their absolute limit. Recognition gleams behind tired eyes. “Rutherford?” he repeats.
Hackles raised, my smile threatens to wane, but I keep that sucker plastered in place.Flipper nugget, flipper nugget, flipper nugget. We’re screwed.
“Well, Calloway, technically.” Oliver smirks down at me. “But she prefers ‘Callie.’”
Marshall Rhodes looks between his son and me. “Oliver, are you telling me you brought home … a Rutherford?”
Oliver tenses beside me. “You know her family?”
Mr. Rhodes frowns, brow furrowing. “Son, everyone in this town knows her family. Tri-state area, even. And I’d imagine you both will be heading over to their house when you leave here?”
We nod in tandem.
Marshall whistles. “Talk about facing the wolves,” he laughs. Questioning eyes appraise me. Only when a toothy grin graces the man’s face does my nervous system begin to relax. “Ms. Rutherford, if you think this guy’s good enough for you, far be it from me to disagree.”
Stilted laughter chokes its way out of me. “Oh, I mean—”I glance up at a rather bemused Oliver whose hand is now firmly pressing into my back, pulling me closer“—I think I’m the lucky one. Personally.” And it’s true. How many professional therapists would offer to help make your family question everything they’ve ever known?
