That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe (Abieville Love Stories #4)

Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Sara

“Crap!” Three blurts somewhere behind me.

Seconds later the front door opens, and his boots clomp onto the porch.

“What was that?” My mom’s eyes widen, filling the phone screen. Her hair is perfectly coiffed, and she’s wearing a winter-white cashmere sweater and matching slacks at nine in the morning.

Very Katherine Hathaway.

“I have no idea.” I make a show of peeking over my shoulder even as the door clicks shut. Three better not be trying to go somewhere without me. But I need to deal with my mom without giving his presence away. “Probably a bear,” I say.

My mother frowns. “That’s not funny, Sara.” She’s in her standard perch on the Chesterfield sofa in the living room. The New York City skyline jags behind her through the sliding glass door to the balcony.

“You’re actually just hearing the TV in the other room,” I tell her. “I got Netflix, Hulu, and Prime set up for our future guests.” This part’s totally true. I figured out all the streaming platforms last night before my first check on Three. But I can’t think about him and his white T-shirt and his sleep-rumpled hair right now. Not while my mom’s examining me like this.

Or any other time. I’m freshly inoculated.

“Well, thank you, dear.” My mother sends me wry smile. “I would’ve known that already, if you’d called to update me. I’ll admit, I was a little worried at first when we didn’t hear from you. But Daddy assured me you had everything under control. You do have everything under control, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” I force a quick scoff. Good thing under control is relative. “And again, I really am sorry I didn’t text or call. I just got … busy.”

“Yes. With all the streaming platforms. So you said.” My mother’s lipsticked mouth quirks. “So what else has been going on there? Tell me everything.”

Everything?

Three’s warning not to mention him leapfrogs across my brain, and he’s not wrong. My goal in coming here was to prove how competent I am, not to demonstrate I can’t operate an oven. So I’m going to focus on the agenda I did promise, and eliminate the rest.

“Well, I can tell you the pictures from the contractors don’t do the renovation justice,” I gush. “The kitchen is a perfect blend of modern farmhouse”—minus a few extra reindeer—“and the property is even prettier than I remembered. Then again, the trees weren’t covered in snow when we stayed here in the summertime. They’re like these tall, silent sentinels surrounding the house. It’s really beautiful, Mom.” My throat clogs a little, as I think about all the details I’m leaving out. “Oh. And you should see Abie Lake. It’s one big sheet of ice now. I’ll bet you can even skate on it.”

“That all sounds lovely, Sara.” She peers at me, then leans in closer to the screen, her eyes roaming my face. “Are you sure you’re all right, though? ”

Whoa. My mother must know me a little better than I thought she did. “I’m great,” I chirp. “Which you’ll see for yourself. At the gala.”

“Ah, yes.” Her expression brightens. “And another birthday for you, too. I can’t believe my perfect little angel’s going to be twenty-nine.”

“I sure am.” Something twinges in my abdomen. “But I’m not so perfect, Mom.”

“Well, you’re there handling the evaluation so we could stay in the city,” she says. “Daddy and I are just so grateful.”

“Of course.” I press on a weak smile. “I know how important the fundraiser is to you.”

“Not as important as you are.” My mother straightens on the sofa. “Did I tell you we went to Rockefeller Center last night to see the tree?”

“You didn’t, but I’m glad.” My parents may have their issues, but they sure do love each other. Any shred of faith I have in love is a result of their almost-forty-year marriage. “So where is Dad, anyway?” I ask. “I have a new idea for Hathaway Cooke’s scholarship program. I could run it by him now.”

My mom shakes her head, simultaneously tsking . “He went into the office about an hour ago.”

“On a Sunday?”

“You know your father. He has trouble relaxing.”

I smirk. “Trouble relaxing is an understatement.” My dad’s a founding partner who values his firm almost as much as his family. Hopefully, once I’ve worked there for a while, he’ll feel better about taking a back seat, and trust me to continue the Hathaway legacy.

“Truth be told,” my mom says, “your father probably went to work to escape me.”

“Why?” I snort. “You’re a complete delight.”

She waves my comment away. “And you’re being sarcastic.”

“Absolutely not.” My lip twitches. “So what’s going on?”

“We decided to include a two-week stay at the lake house in the gala’s silent auction, and we’ve set our highest fundraising goal ever.”

“That’s great, Mom.” I offer her a reassuring nod. “This place will be a perfect addition to the fundraising."

“That’s what I’m hoping, but the gala’s only a few days away,” she points out, like I don’t already feel the burden of responsibility. “And if we can’t promote the property as a Platinum Stays home, the bids won’t go nearly as high.”

“Ah.” I glance across the kitchen into the living room and dining room. “Well, everything here is gorgeous. The perfect blend of upscale and rustic. So try not to worry too much.”

“Not worrying isn’t my strong suit.” Her face pinches. “Did you confirm the appointment with the evaluator?”

I nod. “His name is Ryan Detweiler. He’s coming today at eleven.”

“And don’t forget, you’re not allowed to be on the premises while he’s there.”

“Yes, Mom. I remember. He’s going to let himself in when he arrives.”

“He has access to the lockbox?”

“I texted the code to him and I sent a backup email too.” I take a beat, meeting my mother’s gaze. “Like I told you, I’ve got this handled, Mom.”

She lets out a long sigh. “I’m sorry to be so … particular. I’ll try to relax and trust the process from now on.”

“Trust me ,” I say .

“Right.” She folds her hands primly. “Thank you again for taking the lead on this, Sara. Your father and I are very proud of you.”

“You are?” I swallow against the lump in my throat.

“Always, dear.” Her eyes soften. “You’re our perfect little?—”

“I know, Mom.”

I square my shoulders and dredge up a smile even as a familiar wave of pressure crests in me. Each year, on my birthday, my dad insists on recounting the story of his perfect little angel to everyone at the fundraising gala. As the legend goes, he and my mom had tried for ten years to have a baby, and after more than a decade of unsuccessful attempts, they’d finally wrapped their hearts around adopting. They were about to start the process when my mom discovered she was pregnant.

With me.

So I’m a miracle baby. Their only child. The long-awaited answer to years of prayer. And for better or worse, I carry the weight of that role on my shoulders, whether they’re aware of the heaviness or not.

“Call me when you have some news,” my mom says. “I’ll try to be patient this time. Hopefully we’ll have even more to celebrate this year on Christmas Eve.”

“I can’t wait.” I gulp down the swell of emotion in my throat. “I miss you, Mom.”

“Well, you’ll be home soon. And in the meantime”—she hoists a brow—“steer clear of those bears.”