Well. You get the picture.
“Loren, this is my mother, Margaret Adams. Mom, this is my beautifulwife. Loren.”
“So I gathered.” She tips her chin, appraising me from across the kitchen.
“Mrs. Adams, hello. Nice to meet you.” I dash over and shake her hand, pumping a little too aggressively to appear comfortable. But this elegant woman Ijust met probably just witnessed me making out with her son. And I’m guessing she’s here because she’s suspicious of our marriage, and prepared to deconstruct our every move.
I’m not sure we can survive Margaret Adams’s levels of scrutiny. What if one over-aggressive handshake messes everything up for Bridger? For us?
I am the least comfortable woman in the world right now.
Maybe in history.
“You look different from your pictures.” She steps back to continue her survey, and I’ve never wished for the skill of teleportation more.
“Pictures?” A frantic laugh drills out of me.
“You sent quite a few,” she says. “An entire album of them, in fact. Videos too. I would’ve expected you to remember your own wedding.”
“Ah, yes. Right. Of course. The wedding,” I stammer. My cheeks are ablaze, my lips feel scorched, and my new mother-in-law is examining me more closely than my gynecologist. “I’m sorry. I’m usually more put together than this, I just …” I pause for a cringe. “Actually, I’m not usually more put together. This is pretty much it. What you see is what you get.”
For some reason, I dip into a little curtsy. And if you’re wondering whether this decreases the awkwardness factor, it does not.
“I appreciate the honesty.” Margaret arches one perfectly penciled brow. “But there’s no reason to be nervous.”
“Who, me?” I squeak. “I’m not nervous. I’m just excited to meet you.”
“Yes. You certainlyseemedexcited,” she remarks.
She casts a glance at Bridger, confirming that she was, infact, here, lurking under the archway, when we kissed. This kitchen is big. Even cavernous. But how could my peripheral vision be that bad? Then again, I did barrel in here with a one-track mind. To connect with my husband.
And his mouth, apparently.
The weirdest part of all this is that just weeks ago, Sayla was filming artificial kisses between Bridger and me for Operation Fool Margaret. And now our first genuine, intentional, on-purpose kiss took place in front of her. Live and in person.
Not the honeymoon I envisioned.
“I must admit, Loren, that was quite the performance,” she says.
“Performance?”
“I wasn’t sure whether to clear my throat or start clapping.” There’s a gleam in her eye, and her lip quirks like she’s amused. I sure wish I knew what she finds so funny.
“So, Mom,” Bridger interjects. “Did you get settled in all right?”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “The room is quite lovely. If I’d known you and your bride required more privacy, I would have taken more time to unpack.”
Bridger zips a look at me. “I put Mom upstairs in the guest suite. I hope that’s okay with you, kitten.”
“Of course,” I say, even as my stomach bottoms out. She’s clearly staying here. With us. But how on earth did Bridger move his things out of the guest suite? “Don’t worry about privacy, Mrs. Adams. We have nothing to hide around here.” I press a shaky hand to my throat. Yep. Still flaming. “Should I call you Mrs. Adams? Or … Mom?”
“Margaret will be fine,” she says.
I arrange my face into a smile, like I’m not dying inside. “Did anyone ever call you Maggie? Or Meg? I never really understood how the nickname Peg came about.”
“I’ve always been Margaret,” she says evenly.
“Me, too,” I chirp. “I mean, I’ve always been Loren. L.O.R.E.N. My mother’s maiden name. Loren Cane. Well, Loren Cane Adams now.” I offer her another curtsy, which is just as awkward, in case you were wondering.