“Please. With women like you around, I can’t see them paying me the least bit of attention.” Where did she get such a beautiful dress? The floral corset makes her waist look so tiny.

I press a hand to my own stomach, soft from too many desserts. Old Bonnie always told me that I could be slimmer if I tried. But I refuse to let my desire for trimmer hips and a smaller waist hinder my happiness. And sweets make me happy.

Any man worth his salt will love me either way.

Nia takes me by the shoulders. “When I turn twenty-five this August, we can celebrate me. Until then, it’s your time to shine.”

The cottage door opens once more, revealing a wafer-thin woman with short-cropped white hair that curls beneath her sharp jaw. “Good heavens!” She tumbles back, barely catching herself on the doorframe.

Nia rolls her eyes. “Calm down, Mother. It’s only Kerris.”

Aunt Cordelia blinks, then shakes her head as the color slowly returns to her cheeks. “Right. Of course it is. I’m sorry, but for a moment, I thought you were my sister.”

My chest starts to tighten all over again.

“You are very welcome, dear,” my aunt goes on. “It’s been far too long.”

Swallowing past the growing lump in my throat, I offer a warm smile. “Thank you so much for having me.” I never would’ve been able to afford rent in the city without her generosity.

“Sure, what else could we do? Leave you to choose one of those mountain heathens? I think not!”

My father may be a “mountain heathen,” but he is a good man. That is my only condition for a partner, someone who can love me the way my father loved my mother.

Just don’t ask me how I’m supposed to do that in only six weeks. It’s not a requirement to find a mate by one’s twenty-fifth birthday, but for women, every year after twenty-five seems to make her less desirable, whereas men only become more sought-after.

It’s asinine and makes no sense whatsoever, but I don’t make the rules.

I’m merely governed by them.

My aunt disappears back into the house with a shout for my uncle to bring my trunk inside.

Looping her arm through mine, Nia tugs me toward the cottage. “Tell me all your news.” Under her breath, she adds, “And by news, I mean, your requirements for a mate. Are you interested in men or women? Would you rather they have light or dark hair? How tall should they be? Do you prefer someone who works with their hands or an office sort? Personally, I’d go for the first. There’s something about a man with calloused hands that makes my blood sing.”