Page 61 of Legs

I blinked rapidly and steadied my breaths. “What have you planned for the occasion? Flowers? Chocolate? Wine?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I am not an amateur.”

For a grumpy old man, his sweetness was endearing. “What does a professional husband buy his wife to celebrate their love?”

“A weekend away from me.”

I choked on a laugh. “You booked your wife a private getaway for your anniversary?”

Smug, he increased his incline. “Of course.”

He obviously knew the woman. If a pampered weekend alone would make her happy, more power to them. “I’m sure she’ll love the gesture,” I said.

He harrumphed, clearing his throat as though it were lodged with rocks. “I cannot gift her the one thing she wants. It is the next best choice.”

“What does she want?”

He paused briefly. “To reverse time.”

His wife must be one of those obsessive women, fighting age, filling her face with creams and Botox. I caught my reflection in the window, a transparent view of myself. I had my gran’s freckles and her slender build. My straight brown hair was all my father, along with my large eyes. The bend in my nose matched my mother’s, as did my fuller bottom lip. I was a living puzzle, my pieces shaped by my family. Altering even a bit of myself would be unthinkable.

Plus, Jimmy said he couldn’t wait to add laugh lines to my eyes.

As George and I walked in silence, I imagined Jimmy’s reflection next to mine—so different, so rugged. Yesterday, during our contest session, his hotness had distracted me. His hotness always distracted me, but this time I botched the tasting. The basement cellar had felt cavernous, only eight contestants left before the final round next week.

Mr. Master Sommelier was a shoo-in. Jimmy never broke a sweat, the tastings and serving tests like taking candy from a baby for him. I had my money on the Schnozinator for his competition. Although the blond, April, seemed competent, too. She nailed every service exercise, making me feel like I’d sprouted extra thumbs.

The tastings had been my strength, until yesterday. Not just because of how Jimmy’s T-shirt had clung to his biceps. My palate had been off. Glasses of Syrah were lined up before us, a grape I’d always admired. I should have discerned the acidity and earthiness of the old-world wines no problem, noted the fruit-driven qualities of those from Australia and the U.S. Instead the flavors melded, my answers more guesses than fact. It had been worse than my multiple choice psych exam back in college. I’d spent that painful hour circling letters based on the women present, guessing their bra sizes.

Any minute, I expected a termination email in my inbox.

But another impending disaster loomed larger: Jimmy’s meet-and-greet with my mom in a few hours.

My belly churned, the prospect of her horrified face souring my mood further. George and I walked at an even pace, both lost in our thoughts. He grunted in exertion, and I eyed my new friend. He was straightforward and as old-fashioned as they came. Maybe his opinion could prepare me for the worst.

“Can I ask you something, George?” He gave a sharp nod, and I swallowed. “Remember that advice I was after, about approving of your son’s girlfriend?”

His mustache twitched, but he didn’t reply.

“You made your opinion pretty clear. One I don’t agree with, by the way”—I shot him the evil eye—“but I’m taking my boyfriend to meet my mother tonight, and he’s the exact opposite of who she imagined me with.”

“Is there a question?”

I snickered at his snarkiness. “Yes, there is a question. What can I do to soften the blow for my mother? Anything that might help her get past the superficial stuff.”

He continued his soldier march, his paunch practically hitting the machine’s console. “Do you care for this boy?”

“I do,” I said quietly.

“Does he care for you?”

“Yes. I mean, I think he does. He says he does.” A flush crept up my neck, like I was in high school, whispering about a secret crush. “I’ve never felt like this about someone. I’m nervous I’ll mess it up. Worried my mother will scare him off. He’s really special, and he’s estranged from his family. They hurt him badly. So I guess I want my family to love him. Remind him what that’s like. He deserves it.”

My newfound fears lodged in my stomach. I’d gone from being afraid of rocking my familial boat to worried my mother would be so awful Jimmy would have second thoughts. Even if she hated him and couldn’t see past his tough exterior, I’d stand by my man. Shoulders back, head high, I’d prove how happy he made me. Still, the prospect of dealing with her dramatics was daunting. She would never cut me off like his parents—not permanently, at least—but her superpower was just as scary: Maternal Guilt.

Which meant Jimmy could face more parental rejection.

George slowed his treadmill until it stopped. I followed suit, waiting on his wisdom. The man could have nothing but wrinkles to show for his age, but I’d bet each line represented knowledge earned.