"Love you too." He grins, then his expression shifts slightly more serious. "Just don't let them railroad you into anything you're not ready for. And if any of them makes you feel bad or pressures you or?—"
"Ben." Mom's voice is firm. "We talked about this."
"I'm just saying?—"
"You're being overprotective," Papa says. "Which is sweet, but unnecessary. These boys are good ones."
"How do you know?" Ben challenges.
"Because," Dad says calmly, "they asked permission to take Bea out. And more importantly, they make her smile. That's all we need to know."
Ben looks at me, and I see the worry in his eyes. "You're happy?"
"I'm terrified," I admit. "But yeah. I think I am."
"Okay." He nods once, decisively. "Then I'm happy. But if any of them?—"
"Breaks my heart, you'll break their face. I know." I move to hug him. "Thank you for caring."
"Always," he murmurs into my hair. "You're my little sister. It's my job to be annoying about it."
"You excel at your job."
"I really do."
I pull back and look at all of them—my chaotic, loving, overprotective family. "I love you all. Even when you're embarrassing."
"Especially when we're embarrassing," Dad corrects. "That's when we're at our best."
I'm about to respond when the doorbell rings.
"That's them," Papa announces.
My heart drops into my stomach. "Oh god."
"Showtime," Ben says with far too much glee.
I grab my jacket and purse, moving toward the stairs where I see them already downstairs gathered by the door. "We're just leaving. Quick hello and we're out the door?—"
"Beatrice Marie Wilson," Mom calls up the stairs. "If you think you're running out of this house without properly introducing your dates to your family, you have another think coming."
"Mom!"
"We're just being polite!" Dad adds.
Papa's opening the front door it with a welcoming smile that doesn't quite hide the protective alpha gleam in his eyes.
River stands on the porch in dark jeans and a navy button-down that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. Seth's beside him in khakis and a light blue sweater that matches his eyes, looking nervous but determined. And Grayson—Grayson's in all black with a leather jacket, his tattoos visible on his hands and neck, and I temporarily forget how to breathe.
All three of them are holding flowers.
The mingled scent of all three hits me even from here—River's warm cedar and clean pine, Seth's soap and something sweeter like honey, Grayson's ink and leather with that darker spice I remember from yesterday. My body responds before my brain catches up, my own cinnamon-apple scent flaring sweet and interested.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This is REAL. This is actually happening.
"Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wilson, and Mrs. Wilson," River says warmly, offering a bouquet to my mom. "These are for you. Thank you for trusting us with Bea this evening."
"Oh my," Mom takes the flowers—a beautiful arrangement with honeysuckle and fresh greenery that I immediately recognize as Sadie's work. "That's very thoughtful. These are lovely—from Meadow's End?"
