An Imperfect Match / Next Comes Love. Kimberly Van Meter

with an expectant stare until Annabelle shook her head. “Right. I didn’t think so. Although it’s a stereotype that only old women quilt. Dean knows this. He used to quilt himself.”

      Dean bit back a groan, unable to believe his own mother had outed him like that. His cheeks flooded with warmth. “Not to rush you, Mom, but what did you come by for?”

      “Well, I came by to see if Annabelle would like to volunteer on D-Day. We still need volunteers and I haven’t heard from Brandon and his girl, Jessie. We need some young, strong backs to carry supplies and run refreshments to the crews.”

      Bewildered, Annabelle asked, “D-Day? As in the battle of Normandy?”

      Mary chuckled, her stout body jiggling with mirth. “Goodness no, child, but kudos to you for knowing your history. No, D-Day in Emmett’s Mill is Restoration Day. We’re restoring the mill next month.”

      Annabelle stared blankly. “What mill? And why do you call it D-Day? Shouldn’t it be R-Day or something like that?”

      Mary gave Dean a look that said he was falling down on the job if Annabelle didn’t even know about the town’s namesake and why they were restoring it. “My dear, Emmett’s Mill was named after our very own Waldon Emmett. The Halvorsen family is directly descended from the original Emmetts who settled here, which is why Dean’s father and I chose Emmett as Dean’s middle name. As for why we call it D-Day, the committee wanted something grand to commemorate this auspicious day in our local history, and since Waldon Emmett was of French descent, well, we thought calling it D-Day would give it a sense of importance.”

      “I see.” Annabelle looked a little lost and Dean didn’t blame her. The committee’s logic was tenuous at best. “Well, it certainly does sound grand,” she agreed, looking to Dean as if for a sign that she hadn’t somehow offended his mother. It was endearing but unnecessary. Mary Halvorsen had skin thicker than a rhino.

      “Mom, don’t bore Annabelle with our family history,” Dean said, smothering a chuckle. “Not everyone is fascinated with other people’s history. It’s like watching home movies of total strangers. Those kinds of things are barely tolerable for the people who are in them.”

      “Oh hush. No one asked you,” Mary retorted, eyes dancing as she returned to Annabelle. “Am I boring you, dear?”

      “No, I think it’s fascinating. Please do continue.” Annabelle reached down to pick up Honey, who had begun to fuss a little. “I think it’s great that you know so much about your family and that your history isn’t something you’d rather hide.”

      Mary turned a triumphant smile Dean’s way before continuing. “Thank you. So, as I was saying, Waldon Emmett built the flour mill in 1832 and made his fortune selling freshly milled flour to the neighboring cities, except by the time he died his son, Waldon, Jr., wasn’t much of a miller and quickly drove the business into the ground. Wallie, as he was called, spent most of the family’s fortune on a host of get-rich schemes that inevitably failed. All that remains is the mill. It was finally donated to the historical society and we’ve formed the nonprofit organization heading the Emmett’s Mill Restoration project.”

      “Aren’t you sorry you asked?” Dean asked Annabelle wryly, but she looked taken in by the story. “Are you a history buff?” he asked.

      “Not particularly, but I enjoy hearing about local history. It must feel wonderful to have such deep roots here in Emmett’s Mill,” she murmured.

      His mother jumped in, loving her captive audience. “You should come to dinner tonight—”

      “Mom,” Dean interjected, alarmed at where the conversation was headed. Mary blinked at him in annoyance for interrupting her, but he wasn’t about to let his mom drag Annabelle to a family dinner. A Halvorsen dinner wasn’t for the faint of heart. It was loud, chaotic and usually there were at least three conversations happening at once. He couldn’t see Annabelle feeling comfortable at all. Not to mention he was having enough trouble dealing with his inappropriate mental wanderings, he didn’t need to complicate matters. “Leave Annabelle with a flyer. I have to get going.”

      “So go.” Mary dismissed him, alighting on Honey without missing a beat. “Who is this angel?”

      Annabelle smiled with genuine joy. “This is my daughter, Honey. She’s sixteen months old.”

      Mary sighed with longing. “A granddaughter. That’s what I’m missing. I adore my grandsons but I’ve never had anyone to pamper. I’m holding out hope that one of my sons will deliver. Your mom must be thrilled to have a granddaughter.”

      Annabelle shot Dean a quick look, which he wasn’t sure was one of distress or one of annoyance for his mother’s questions but she answered just the same. “My mother died before Honey was born.”

      Mary’s expression lost some of its happiness. “Oh dear. That settles it. You have to come to Sunday dinner this weekend. I won’t take no for an answer.” She turned to Dean with instructions. “You’ll bring her? I don’t want her driving that road at night with a baby. You know how those twists and turns can be tricky for people not used to them.”

      She pulled a flyer from her purse and placed it in front of Annabelle with a warm smile. “I have to go. Here’s the information about the project. Please give it some thought. It’s a wonderful way to get to know your new community and it’s a worthwhile project.”

      And then she was gone.

      Dean expelled a heavy breath and suddenly felt the all-over body fatigue that always happened when he got caught in the maelstrom that was his mother.

      He turned to Annabelle, hands spread in apology. “She’s pretty passionate about some things,” he said by way of explanation, but he realized Annabelle hadn’t minded.

      “You’re so lucky,” she said with a catch to her voice. “Tell your mom I’d be honored to be a part of the restoration project, but I’ll have to pass on dinner. I don’t think it’s a good idea to cross the lines,” she said, shocking him with her refusal. He’d thought he might have to somehow dissuade her, but she’d beat him to it.

      He couldn’t agree more. So why did he feel so disappointed?

      “Are you sure?” he heard himself blurt. “There’s plenty of food. My mom cooks enough to feed a platoon. It’s a miracle none of us grew up to be fat. It’s probably a good thing we all work in jobs that are fairly physical, otherwise all that good eating might’ve gone straight to our waistlines.”

      “I didn’t think guys cared about stuff like that,” she teased lightly.

      “Are you kidding? We care. We just hide it better. No guy likes to see his gut hanging over his belt. And that’s the truth even if we don’t want to admit it.”

      “Really? Well, from where I’m standing, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

      The innocent comment made his mouth dry up. Had she been checking him out? Noticing him in the same ways that he couldn’t help but notice her? He started to stammer a response with all the eloquence of a prepubescent boy but Annabelle unwittingly saved him from himself when she sighed wistfully.

      “I really like your mom and I’m betting dinner would be great, but it’s just not a good idea, you know?”

      He did. Thank God, one of them was thinking clearly. “Don’t worry, I’ll let my mom down easily.”

      “Thanks.”

      “No problem.”

      No problem—except for the part where he wanted her to come to dinner. Wanted to ignore that blinking caution light in his brain. And wanted to get to know Annabelle in a way that was more than professional.

      Dean wanted everything he’d told his son he absolutely didn’t want from Annabelle.

      And that didn’t feel so good.

      CHAPTER