“This was Wayne’s suggestion,” my mom says, giving my dad a look. “He said something about it being quiet, cozy, and perfect for meeting people you want to like.”
My dad shrugs. “That, and mostly, because I have good taste.”
Pippa laughs, and I swear something inside me shifts. “Good choice. This place has the kind of atmosphere that makes the space feel intimate, like the world outside doesn’t exist.”
Our waiter returns, and we order our food. Mom goes for the roasted lamb with herbs, Dad chooses a beef stew, it’s grilledsalmon salad for me, and Pippa hesitates just a fraction before settling on the wild mushroom risotto. The waiter notes it down with a friendly smile. Within seconds, he’s back with a bread basket. He puts it down, and the smell of freshly baked bread fills the air almost immediately.
We start chatting about the city, about our favorite restaurants, and before I know it, Pippa has launched into a hilarious anecdote about the sightseeing morning, telling my parents all about the wind, the ferry, and the gurgling toddler behind us.
“And to make matters worse,” she says, glancing slyly at me. “Rhett somehow manages to look like he’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial while I’m clinging to the railing for my life, fighting my hair like it’s trying to kill me.”
“He does have infuriatingly nice hair,” my mom agrees, nodding.
Pippa grins and turns to my father. “He claims it’s all down to coconut shampoo, but I think it’s just pure genetics.”
My dad laughs. “I think I like her already.”
I swallow hard, feeling an unfamiliar tug of guilt somewhere in my chest. She’s wonderful, they adore her, and they have no idea that I have involved them in an elaborate lie. I suddenly realize just how much they want me to settle down and give them grandkids. I look down at the napkin on my lap so no one will see the guilt in my eyes. A little voice in my head chimes up, ‘but this could be real’. Yes, it could, and that is what I’m counting on. If I can win Pippa away from undeserving, wet George, then, my parents never need to know that we began with a lie.
The conversation drifts naturally to family stories, New York life, and some of our favorite childhood memories. Pippa laughs at my dad’s puns, even though they are terrible for the most part, and teases my mom about her honey lavender obsession, which my mom insists is the new pumpkin spice. They’re relaxed,joking with her as if she’s always been a part of the family, and I watch it all, my heart feeling both proud and guilty.
The meals arrive, all of them steaming hot, fragrant, and perfectly plated. Pippa’s risotto steams gently, the aroma earthy and rich. I watch as she takes the first forkful, and her eyes light up.
“Oh wow,” she exclaims in an impressed voice. “This is incredible.”
My mom leans in towards her. “I’m glad you like it. The Chef here is wonderful. He is European.”
“Well, the food is really comforting,” Pippa says, smiling warmly. “Not just the food, but the whole place.”
“Exactly,” my dad adds proudly. “That’s why I suggested it. I wanted a place that didn’t feel intimidating for an English lass, you know?”
“I do,” Pippa says. “And I appreciate it. It was very kind of you to think of me.”
For the next fifteen minutes, the conversation flows like water. We talk about travel, more of our favorite childhood stories, and of course, my mom brings up the worst of my embarrassing college exploits. Throughout all of it, Pippa is engaged, attentive, and charming.
And then, like a perfectly timed moment in a play, she excuses herself to use the Ladies. The second she’s gone, my parents rush to lean in closer, their voices dropping to conspiratorial whispers like Pippa can somehow hear them all the way from the bathroom.
“She’s really nice,” my mom says, her eyes shining. “Not like the others you usually run around with, Rhett. She’s so grounded. So thoughtful. I think she’ll be good for you.”
My dad nods. “She’s different from the airheads you usually date. This one’s a keeper.”
Another guilt pang shoots through me. I swallow it down and clear my throat. “I know,” I say quietly. “I know she’s different.”
My mom smiles approvingly. “Don’t let her get away, Rhett.”
“I don’t intend to,” I admit, and that at least is the truth.
When Pippa returns to the table, she smiles sweetly and slides back into her seat. And just like that the room is whole again, filled with her radiant warmth and laughter. I watch her settle back in, her dessert fork poised, and I know I’ve made the right decision.
Yes, I’ve bent the truth I’ve presented to my parents, but watching her now, seeing how perfectly she fits in, how alive and charming she is, it cements the one truth I can’t deny: I want her.
Not just for a fleeting affair. But forever.
Now, even the thought of George makes my insides burn with jealousy.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rhett
