Chapter Twelve

Nobody ever asked me what I wanted to do. My family all had their own agendas, especially Mom, and the only way I could ever fit in was to join them as half of a married couple in the most standard "acceptable" type of relationship. I didn't know why they were so adamant that I do this. I certainly wasn't living in any way that should embarrass them.

But considering the family life we had growing up, it was very much what a 1950s ideal might have presented. Mom had never worked outside the home. Even when things got really tight during a layoff at Dad's plant, they just tightened their belts and squeaked by on his unemployment for a few months. If he hadn't been called back, I don't know what they'd have done. But it was their deal, and she expected him to hold up his end. After all, while he was waiting for the layoff to end, she continued to clean and cook and nag her children. She did her part.

My brothers were more modern, and their wives worked until they got pregnant, at which point they became stay-at-home moms. All of them were married and producing grandchildren for my folks. Couldn't that be enough? If I was happy being a self-supporting spinster sister who doted on the nieces and nephews and showed up for Sunday dinners, why couldn't they leave me in peace?

Sometimes, I thought they'd be disappointed if I ever did meet someone great and settle down because then who would they have to feel superior to? Looking at the two men I'd traveled here to meet, I knew they were beyond great. But I wasn't here to settle down. I was appeasing my mother and, at the same time, doing it in a way she'd never be able to accept. If I went home and said, "Mom, I've met two men older than you, they are shifters, and I am going to move in with them and live happily ever after," she'd be pinned in a corner, having to either accept them or back off, right? At least, that was the logic I was going on.

If they ever did ask me what I wanted and I told them, they'd have been more than disappointed. Shocked maybe. Judgy for sure. But here I was with these men, having committed to nothing more than a visit with them, and they were asking me what I wanted to do. It caught me off guard and instead of saying "Let's stay home and read and pet the cat," I blurted out the most preposterous idea I had ever come up with. I'd been reading the in-flight magazine on the plane and seen an ad for The Mountain Climb. Happy, athletic people wearing harnesses and helmets were climbing in the picture, and it had great reviews.

But when I said it, I think I wasn't expecting them to agree. After all, when had anyone at home done that? If I'd suggested "suiting up" and climbing a series of stairs suspended up the side of a mountain, they'd have laughed me off. Never taken me seriously. At least there was the long wait to get a reservation, right? The in-flight magazine had a note about that.

But from the looks of it, these guys were not only taking me at my word that I wanted to do it, they were excited and ready to make it happen. Nobody saying, "Oh, Monroe, you just stay here in the kitchen like a good girl and maybe we'll take you shopping."

"I suppose it will be months before there will be an opening," I murmured. "It's probably not even worth trying."

"It's the only way to find out," Edward said. "If that's the case, we'll take the reservation they offer and hope we can convince you to stay long enough to do it."

Was he serious? They had just met me, but they already liked me enough to hope I'd be staying with them months down the line? Unreal! Almost enough to make the terror zinging through my veins worth it.

Edward brought me another coffee, and I gulped it, liquid courage of the kind I liked. "Another?"

"Umm, maybe not quite yet." I was trying to listen in on the conversation Ansel was having with the venue people. So far, it didn't sound like he'd managed to get us a day or time. The image of that staircase from the magazine loomed in my view, making it hard to think. "Or, maybe one more shot of espresso."

"All right." Edward left me for a moment to go make the coffee then returned. "So, do you have a lot of mountain climbing experience?"

"No, but this isn't really actually that right? It's stairs made of steel, so that should be easier."

He set my cup in front of me and then reached into a cabinet and got out a package of biscotti. "Here. These come from a little import shop and they're so incredibly good."

I started to protest that I'd already eaten about ten times what I did most mornings, but the almond scent rose to my nose and I picked up one of the cookies. What difference did it make if I ate myself into oblivion? I was only here to make a point.

"Would it be rude if I dunk it?"

"That's what these are for." He dunked one in his own coffee and bit into it. "Yes, mmm."

My core tightened at his rumbling approval of the cookie, and to distract myself, I shoved my cookie into the coffee too hard and splattered the counter. "Oh no! I'm so sorry."

"Why?" He reached for a clean dish towel. "Just lift your cup so I can wipe underneath."

I obeyed, cheeks heating. "I made a mess of your nice clean kitchen."

"You consider this a mess?" He paused. "You should see when we do holiday baking. Looks like a bag of flour exploded and then someone poured a jar of honey over it."

"That's different. I was just going to eat a cookie. Real graceful, huh?"

He set the towel down and came around the counter to my side. "Anyone could spill a little coffee and I would assume everyone does. Watch." Picking up the towel, he gave it one swipe across the counter. "All better."

"Thank you." I was still embarrassed, but they were so nice not to make a fuss. "I'll do better."

"Oh my goodness, who did this to you?" Stroking a lock of hair behind my ear, he smiled down at me. "Whoever it was, we need to undo it. I think you're very graceful."

I couldn't tell him it was my mother who'd made me terrified to spill or drop anything in her model kitchen. Or maybe I could. "When I was growing up, spilling was a crime. Or"—and I'd never thought about this—"it was when I did it. Mom said boys couldn't help themselves."

"And I'll bet she made you clean up after them."

"Is it that obvious?"