Page 70 of The Love Hoax

The private dining room is both simple and elegant with wainscoting and high ceilings. Several finely-coiffed young women in matching dresses who I peg as bridesmaids, mill about, sneaking glances at the men horsing around on the opposite side of the room. It reminds me of those movies set in Victorian times wheredebutantes carried dance cards, happy to be courted by the most eligible men in the county.

“Hey, honey,” Mom says, straightening my tie. “Don’t you look debonair . . . and happy.”

“Thanks. I am. Happy, that is.”

In reality, I've been spending most of my brain power tossing around ideas of how and when to share my feelings with Evie. My eyes cut to the door, realizing I’m searching for her, like a homing pigeon.

Home.

It's the first time I ever thought of a woman in those terms. But that’s exactly how it feels when I'm with Evie. Like home.

I’ve got it bad, I think, smiling to myself.

My mother glances at the door as well. “It’s wonderful to see you in love, sweetheart. I’m glad you found the one. Even if Ronna is?—”

I feel my hackles rise. Like a crossing guard, I put up a hand. “Mom, like I told you before, I don’t care about the age difference. Please don’t bring it up again.”

Mom purses her lips. “I was going to say, even if she is an East Coast dweller.”

Duly chastised, I'm about to apologize when Mom adds, “I mean, sure, I would have been thrilled for you to provide me and Dad with a few grandbabies.”

I bristle once more, annoyed that I thought things would be different this time.

Mom lowers her voice. “Don’t tell me you never wanted kids of your own.”

Having kids someday has always been in the back of my mind. But Steph is set on having a brood. Being Uncle Adam could be good enough.

I mentally slap myself. I’m seriously off the rails. None ofthis is real.

I try keeping my tone in check but the agitation seeps through. “Can we please shelve this topic for the time being?”

Mom waves away my comment, appearing to have a retort ready on her lips.

And this is why I don't share my love life with the family.

Judgment. With a capital J.

As if on cue, I watch as Steph and Brad peel away from two young men, their boxy black suits, regulation haircuts, and watchful demeanors, screamingFeds!

Must be Steph’s new co-workers.

Brad has a light hand on Steph's back as they walk toward me and Mom. Thin as a reed, Brad was never the guy anyone would have expected my loud, tough-veneered sister to end up with. With thick-rimmed Mad Men-style glasses, Brad is the most even-keeled man I've ever met. Still, in a wrestling match, Steph would take him down in a New York minute.

I bring Brad in for a bro hug.

“Congrats, buddy,” I say. “Thanks for giving the males in the family a fighting chance with a majority.”

“Happy to help,” Brad says.

Steph tugs Brad’s hand. “Let’s get this party started!”

Mom points to the door. “Look.”

My gaze lands on the door and my jaw drops.

“She looks like Cinderella at the ball,” Mom says.

It's exactly what I'm thinking.