Free Maybe Never by Nia Forrester Page A

knew now why they called it falling in love. She fell a little more every single day, her emotions a heady mix of euphoria, fear, anticipation, exhilaration . . . And yet, he was also the solid ground beneath her feet, holding her firmly and securely, and sometimes holding her together.
    “There’s a pretty little bridal shop not too far away from here,” Brendan’s mother said now. “I always wanted to go in there, but never had the occasion to.”
    Tracy looked up and smiled at her.
    Mrs. Cole was tall too, maybe about five-ten, making Brendan’s height even more understandable—and a striking woman with strong, vivid features, smile lines about her eyes and a straight, almost sharp nose. Brendan’s symmetrical features were also somewhat visible in her face, though upon a superficial glance he seemed to be more his father’s child.
    “Tracy’s buying some sickeningly overpriced designer gown, Ma,” Brendan said, grabbing a fork and sitting across from her with his eggs.
    “I am not . It’s . . . Riley’s buying it, and . . .” Tracy blushed, then shot Brendan a warning look. It was true, her dress was obscenely expensive. She would be mortified if he made her say how much out loud.
    “I got married in a courthouse,” Brendan’s mother said dryly. “Wearing a little yellow Easter suit-dress, during my lunch break. So I’m not about to have any objections to a woman wanting to do it up on her wedding day.”
    “So, no big wedding Mrs. Cole?” Tracy asked.
    “Please Tracy, call me Ma, or Nancy, whichever makes you comfortable. And no, no big wedding. We were in a little bit of a hurry . . .” Then she looked at her husband and smiled. “Somewhat like you all.”
    Tracy looked down at her fruit salad.
    “Nobody wants to hear about their parents knockin’ boots . . .” Brendan said with a full mouth, shaking his head. “So if you don’t mind. . .”
    “My son is such a prude,” Mrs. Cole said, walking up behind him and squeezing his shoulders.
    Tracy lifted her eyes just in time to meet Brendan’s gaze, which was the way it almost always was when he looked at her—blazing hot.
    If she dared, she would beg to differ. Brendan Cole was no prude. Rather than contradict her mother-in-law to be, she decided to change the subject.
    “We should go to the bridal shop anyway, Nancy,” she said. “So we can find you something.”
    The morning and afternoon with Brendan’s mother were like visiting a foreign country; a country where Tracy didn’t quite know the language. It was a country where women and their daughters looked at pretty garments and tried them on, offering each other compliments. Where they suggested other more flattering choices and fetched each other accessories, or gave opinions about the best hairstyles to accentuate the look. A country where you sat over a pleasant lunch and laughed about everything, like celebrity marriage gossip, and reality shows on television and the latest fashions.
    Over dessert, Nancy carefully looked away as she made a comment that Tracy knew was bound to be loaded, just from the change in her demeanor before she spoke.
    “So Brendan tells me you don’t see much of your mother,” she said.
    Tracy stiffened. After a day of warmth supplied by the present company, it was like having a bucket of cold water tossed in her face to be reminded of her mother. The mother who had declined coming to New York for a week before the wedding to help her with last minute preparations.
    “Not as often as I should,” she said, using the coffee-cake in front of her as a reason to look down.
    “Well, when you get . . . further along. I hope you know you can always call me, and I will be there in a second . I can’t tell you how . . .” She grasped Tracy’s hand. “Brendan was . . .”
    She stopped and would not—or could not—continue. But Tracy wished she would because she still wasn’t sure she knew how Brendan was taking it. He’d been so sweet about