Page 54 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband

"That's basically my family in a nutshell."

She's about to respond when my phone rings. Mom's contact photo—her and Emma at last year's Christmas—fills the screen.

"Perfect timing," I mutter, but I answer anyway because ignoring calls from Mama Kingston is like ignoring a natural disaster. It'll just get worse.

"Hey, Ma."

"Dax Patrick Kingston." Her voice has that tone that means I'm either in trouble or about to be. "We need to talk."

"What's wrong?"

"You know what's wrong. Emma's convinced you deflected her questions last weekend, but she's not giving up. She found some gossip blog speculating about your love life, and now she's more determined than ever."

My blood turns to ice. "Ma?—"

"She's driving to Chicago again tonight."

I look at Tessa, who's gone completely pale.

"How long do we have?" I ask.

"About six hours. And this time, son, I'm on her side. So you better start talking."

CHAPTER 13

TESSA

I'm elbow-deep in Dax's kitchen cabinets, reorganizing his disaster of a spice collection, when his phone rings. The ringtone is different from his usual notifications—something upbeat and familiar that makes him grin like an idiot.

"Emma," he says, answering on the second ring. "Hey, what's up?"

I can hear her voice through the phone, animated and determined. My stomach drops as I catch fragments of the conversation.

"...driving down tonight... can't wait to meet her... bringing cookies..."

Dax catches my eye and makes a face that's somewhere between panic and apology. "Em, that's really not necessary?—"

"Too late!" her voice carries clearly through the speaker. "I'm already on the highway. I'll be there in about half hour."

"Shit," Dax mutters after hanging up. "I'm so fucking sorry. She's... persistent."

"Tonight? Jesus Dax, you said next weekend." My voice comes out higher than intended, and I'm pretty sure I'm gripping the oregano container hard enough to leave dents.

"Apparently so. She will be here in half an hour." He runs both hands through his hair. "Look, I can tell her you're busy, or sick, or?—"

"No." The word surprises us both. "No, I want to meet her. It's just... what exactly are we telling her about us?"

Dax moves closer, his hands settling on my waist. "What do you want to tell her?"

"The truth would be nice, but 'hey, I'm your brother's secret wife who's pretending to be his professional supervisor while we sneak around behind everyone's backs' doesn't exactly roll off the tongue."

"We could go with 'girlfriend I'm completely crazy about,'" he suggests, his voice dropping to that low register that makes me forget my own name. "That's technically true."

"Technically true but missing some crucial details." I lean into him despite my anxiety. "What if she asks how we met? What if she wants to know about my job? What if?—"

"Hey." His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. "Emma's going to love you. You're smart, funny, beautiful, and you somehow manage to put up with me. What's not to love?"

"I'm freaking out," I admit.