Mom put the two jugs of milk on the counter, and then helped me offload the eggs and eggnog.
While the clerk rung us up, she beamed at me. “Did you see Doc’s face this morning while he watched Addy and Layne open presents?”
“No.” I’d been busy watching my kids, too. “Why?”
“He loves your kids. Trust me, Doc will be ten times the father Rex could’ve ever hoped to be.”
“Don’t be counting chickens before they’re hatched, Mom. We’re not married yet.”
She handed the clerk a wad of cash. “I know, but I have a feeling wedding bells will be in your future very soon.”
I grabbed the bag with the eggs and one of the milk jugs. “Keep that to yourself, please. I don’t want you and Dad scaring Doc away with a bunch of talk about commitment and raising my kids.”
She grabbed the other gallon of milk and the eggnog. “I’m more worried about you running off than him.”
“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to start in on me about my lousy history with the male sex.” I shouldered open the door, holding it for her.
“Not today, dear. It’s Christmas.”
“Thank Santa for that.”
She paused on the way past me. “But have you considered that Doc might want a child of his own someday with the woman he loves?”
I shuddered at the notion. Raising twins on my own had burned me out on the idea of babies. They were cute to hold, but I liked giving them back these days.
While reliving the soul-sucking middle of the night feedings and the frustration of day-after-day teething whines, I followed my mom to the snowcat, where Reid was showing my dad something behind the blade.
If Doc wanted another kid, that could be a major snag in this happily-ever-after fantasy of mine. I’d closed the doors to my baby-making factory after Addy and Layne popped out, and I didn’t plan on reopening the plant ever again.
Chapter Fourteen
I spent the next few hours ducking Susan so many times that I felt like quacking.
After eating some of my mom’s blue ribbon–winning bacon and cheddar cheese quiche, and then letting the kids open a few more presents that weren’t from the North Pole, I joined Aunt Zoe, Harvey, and my mom in the kitchen. Christmas dinner preparations were the main topics of discussion initially as the three of them got a rhythm going, and while my cooking skills were shitty at best, my dishwashing abilities were legendary. Not to mention that staying within range of the oven kept me away from Susan, who also made a habit of avoiding anything having to do with the culinary arts.
One way or another, I was determined to get through the day without ruining Christmas, and that meant keeping my distance from my sister. My mother might have made a strong case at the minimart for pardoning Susan’s enthusiasm for bareback riding my boyfriends, but I wasn’t naïve enough to forget the tinsel tart’s ability to wreak havoc in my life in general.
“You tryin’ to rinse all the color off that plate, Sparky?” Harvey asked, dishtowel in hand.
“Shush up and dry.” I shoved the dripping plate at him.
He took the plate and grinned in the direction of my mom, who was rolling out a piecrust over on the bar. “Did she get her quick temper from you or her pa?”
Mom pushed a loose strand of blond hair away from her face, smearing flour on her cheek in the process. “Blake always says Violet is a chip off Zoe’s block.”
Aunt Zoe looked up from the prime rib she was checking for temperature. “She does have the stubborn streak that runs deep in our family line.”
And a killing streak, too, I thought as I scrubbed out the pot in which Harvey had boiled potatoes.
“Make sure ya save those meat drippins,” Harvey told her. “I’ll need ‘em for my Yorkshire pudding and the gravy for the taters.”
I licked my lips, remembering the last time he’d made Yorkshire pudding. Forty-plus years of playing bachelor had turned Harvey into one hell of a cook. If it weren’t for Doc, I’d pester the ol’ boy to move in with me and the kids to take care of our bellies.
“Speaking of family business,” I said while rinsing out the pot, “a little birdy told Mom and me today that you recently turned down a marriage proposal.”
Aunt Zoe froze.
Harvey hooted. “Well, slap the dog and spit in the fire.”
“Is that true?” I asked, handing the pot to Harvey.
She shoved the prime rib back in the oven and slammed the door. “I’m going to clock Martin in his glass jaw for running his big fat yap.” Scowling, she pointed the thermometer at me. “You need to keep your lips zipped about that. Nobody else needs to know about it, not even Doc.”
“Blake knows,” Mom said as she cut out a pattern in the pie dough.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I dried my hands with a corner of Harvey’s towel.
“Well, for one, I turned him down, so it’s a moot point. For another, I didn’t figure it was anyone else’s business. Apparently, Reid thinks otherwise.”
“He did find a way to join us for Christmas,” Mom observed, fitting the dough on top of the heap of cherries in the pie pan. “Something tells me he didn’t hear your rejection in his heart.”
Aunt Zoe scoffed. “He should’ve. I did my damnedest to punch it in there.”
“Don’t be mad at Reid.” I dropped onto one of the bar stools across from my mom, who was pinching the edge of the crust. “He was only explaining to Dad what his intentions are this time around.”
Mom giggled. “Reid did share your response to his proposal, which couldn’t have been easy in front of the three of us.”
Poor Reid. I’d been witness to more than one dose of humiliation doled out by my aunt. The first time was when she’d punched him hard enough
