THIRTY-THREE.
Ever
——————————
Stress-eat.
I sit in the passenger seat of Tobias’s truck, staring through the windshield at the wide glass windows and heavy door of Mr. Jenkins’s law office.
My breath comes uneven and shallow, as though my lungs have forgotten how to take in a full pull of air.
I pick nervously at the corner of the red Tupperware lid balanced in my lap, resisting the urge to pop it open and stress-eat every last chocolate chip cookie Tobias insisted I bring along.
We ended up here without any real explanation.
The nerves that had been flickering in him all morning vanished the moment we pulled into the parking lot, replaced by the kind of quiet, hard-edged determination he gets when he’s pissed off just enough to act.
I asked him twice what we were doing here, begged him to at least tell me what he planned to do, but he only shook his head and told me he’d, “be right back.” That was at least ten minutes ago, and now my nerves are fraying.
At what point do I get out and go in after him?
Mr. Jenkins may be shady, but he’s still a lawyer.
My breath catches when the door finally swings open.
Tobias steps out, brows notched tight together, lips pressed into a firm line, jaw clenched so hard I half expect to hear teeth crack.
He yanks open the driver’s door and slides in, settling back against the seat with a hand curled around the steering wheel.
“What did you do?” I ask cautiously, unsure I actually want the answer. My mind is already racing through worst-case scenarios.
“We talked,” he says, voice deep and grumbly, still carrying the stern edge he must have used inside.
“Just talked?” I press, eyes darting down to his hands. No split knuckles, no redness, no sign of anything physical.
He turns his head and meets my gaze. The hard lines in his face soften almost instantly. “He said he’d stop,” he tells me, searching my eyes. “No more calls, no more pressure about selling or leasing or any of it.”
“Did you threaten him?” My voice drops quieter now, nerves twisting again at the thought of consequences. “Tobias, he’s a lawyer. You can’t threaten a lawyer. What if he presses charges?”
“He’s not going to,” he drawls, sounding so certain it almost convinces me.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because calling you every month, pressuring you to sell, trying to wear you down—that’s harassment.
He did the same thing to Linda for years, and I stood by and watched it happen.
I won’t do that again. Not with you.” His voice cracks with hurt and regret, then hardens with something fiercer.
“This is your home. I won’t let him take it from you. ”
The words land heavy, full of passion and pain he rarely lets show. It takes everything in me not to lean across the console and pull him close, soothe the guilt I can hear lurking behind his words.
“I know you said you didn’t want to make this a big deal, but this is something I had to do.” This time I reach over, take his hand, and lace my fingers through his. “I love you, Ever. And I promised I’d do everything in my power to protect you. I won’t ever stop doing that.”
“I know,” I tell him, because I do.
Every single time Mr. Jenkins has shown up at the house unannounced, called or sent one of his carefully worded emails trying to nudge me toward selling, Tobias has been right there—ready to stand between me and whatever pressure was coming.
“I just don’t want you to be taken away from me over something that could have been avoided.”
“You won’t ever lose me,” he reassures, voice low and certain. “I promise.”
His thumb traces slow, soothing circles across the top of my hand, and I force out a long breath, willing the tightness in my chest to ease.
“So what are these for?” I ask, nodding toward the Tupperware sitting in my lap. “Are you expecting me to go in there and offer them as a condolence gift or something?”
He chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. “We still have one more stop to make.”
“Okay, good. Because I might have had one while you were in there,” I admit, which only makes him laugh again—deeper this time.
“Have as many as you want.”
“I don’t know if you should tell me that,” I say, half-joking, because these cookies are honestly the best I’ve ever tasted—soft centers, crisp edges, chocolate melting just right. Part of me is already mourning the fact that we’re supposed to give them away to someone else.
“We might have to get a fifty-pound bag of sugar the next time we’re out,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“That’s probably a good idea,” I agree. I glance down at the container again, suddenly nervous with a different kind of anticipation.
“So where else are we going if this isn’t our final destination?”
“You’ll see,” he says quickly, then reaches over and cups his hand against my cheek.
His thumb brushes my skin, and he smiles—soft, almost shy. For some reason, I have a feeling whatever’s coming next is either going to make me melt or make me want to crawl under the seat. I can’t decide which.
— ∞ —
“The farmers market,” I mutter as Tobias shifts the truck into park and the engine goes quiet.
I stare wide-eyed out the windshield, taking in the familiar rows of tents and tables, the bustle of people moving between booths. My brain stumbles over itself trying to connect the dots—why he brought me here, why we’re carrying a container of freshly baked cookies.
“Are you actually trying to get me to sell cookies?” I ask. He shakes his head slowly, I can nearly feel the nervous anticipation rolling off of him.
Then it clicks.
“Am I meeting your mom?” I ask softer. He doesn’t answer right away, but I catch the slight nod.
I went to the farmers market plenty of times last summer and fall, always aware there was a chance I might run into her, but the market shuts down in the winter. This is the first time I’ve been here since the new year, and this time feels different.
Tobias and I have been together for a few months now. We’re in love. We’re talking about moving in together, sharing a life, making this place ours. Those are huge steps, and meeting his mom suddenly feels like another one I wasn’t quite prepared for today.
“Does she know about me?” I ask, tilting my head to get a better look at his face.
He grimaces, and I already know the answer before he speaks.
“Tobias,” I mutter, sinking lower in my seat like I can disappear into the leather. “Are you just now telling her we’re dating?”
“Sorry,” he says softly. I can feel his gaze on me, careful, gauging my reaction. “We can go if you want.”
“Does she know we’re coming?” He shakes his head, and some small part of me feels relieved, but another part immediately feels like we have to tell her now. “Is she nice? What if she doesn’t like me?”
“She already loves you,” he says simply.
“She doesn’t even know me.” I shake my head quickly, trying to find some kind of defense against the sudden weight of the moment.
“Her and Linda had been friends for years before she passed,” he says gently, and the words land soft but heavy, right in the center of my chest. “My mom would come over to the ranch and they’d bake cookies together.
Then they’d spend the afternoon crocheting all the way into the evenings.
They used to set up here together on the weekends. ”
My eyes start to burn as the image forms. My aunt and Tobias’ mom on the front porch, plates of warm cookies between them, iced tea sweating in tall glasses, laughter drifting across the fields while the sun sank slow. The ache in my throat swells until it’s hard to swallow.
“Her name is Macy, right?” I ask, voice barely steady.
He nods.
I let out a shaky breath, unsure if I’m ready for this but know deep down that I have to be. He brought me here because it matters to him—because she matters to him—and that’s more than enough reason to step out of the truck and face whatever comes next.
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he says quietly, giving me the out even though I can tell he hopes I won’t take it.
“I do want to,” I tell him, straightening in my seat.
I glance down at the Tupperware in my lap—the cookies we baked this morning following my aunt’s recipe—and suddenly understand why Tobias was so determined to find it. It wasn’t just for me. It was for his mom too.
“Now I feel bad for eating that last cookie,” I mutter under my breath, more humor than seriousness.
“There’s plenty more farmers markets coming up,” he says, and I can almost see it—the three of us at a booth together, trays of cookies and crocheted flowers spread out, the easy rhythm of family settling into place.
The image gives me something I didn’t realize I’d been missing: meaning that stretches beyond just me and the ranch.
“I really hope she likes me,” I say softly, almost a whisper. Because this is real now—meeting the woman who raised the man I love, the last piece of family he has left. What if I’m not enough?
“She’s going to love you,” he says with quiet certainty. I give him a doubtful look. “She will, I promise.”
“I think I’m just…” I pause, staring out the windshield.
Processing what I’m walking into—a family, a mother-in-law.
Panic floods me. “My mom was always disappointed in me. I never lived up to her expectations. I haven’t really…
” The sentence trails off as old hurt surfaces.
I try to gather my thoughts, but my mind feels like it’s unraveling.
Marissa and her parents will always be family to me, but it’s been years since I’ve had a true family.
“I think Linda and Ray were more like family to me than my mom ever was,” I say finally, voice soft as the truth breaks free.
“Ever since I moved back here, I’ve realized they were the ones who showed me there was more to life.
They told me I was made for more than what I thought I might be.
They always encouraged me to dream, to actually live.
I wish I could have been there more for them. ”
“They loved you more than anything else in the world,” he says quietly. “And they were so proud of you—for who you’d become. It’s why everyone in town knows about you. Even when you were in Chicago, they were still so proud.”
A tear slips down my cheek, and I let it fall without wiping it away. I really wish I had taken the time to know them better—kept in touch, visited for holidays, let them be the family I needed. It’s become one of my biggest regrets since taking over the ranch.
“I think you’ll like my mom,” Tobias says, his voice softening now. I wipe the lingering dampness from my cheeks and lift my eyes to his. “There was a reason she and Linda were friends. They’re a lot alike. A lot of Southern charm, and a lot to say. All the time.”
I manage a small grin and draw in another steadying breath, trying to gather the courage to actually get out of this truck.
“And also,” he continues, his tone shifting into something lighter, more playful, “I know you and your mom didn’t have a great relationship, but just think about it.
I spent a night in jail as a kid. You won’t disappoint my mom.
I’d honestly be surprised if you could. And I haven’t even told her I’m dating anyone, which puts me in not one, but two doghouses. ”
I laugh despite myself, the sound surprising me as it breaks free. He’s doing exactly what he always does—taking the weight off my shoulders, making the moment feel smaller and less terrifying. And damn him, it’s working.
“But don’t worry,” he adds, eyes narrowing slyly as he leans closer, “I’m already thinking of ways to make it up to you later.”
“Oh, is that right?” I tease back, because I can’t help it. He makes everything feel so easy, so natural, even when my heart is racing. “Well, then. Maybe we should hurry this up so we can get back home.”
“I’m ready when you are, Princess,” he says, voice low and warm.
I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting my gaze drift out the window again. I don’t know what to expect, but beneath the anxiety is something hopeful. I do want to meet her. I do want to have a family someday. And more than anything, I want that family to be with Tobias.