I barely have time to exit the car and put the cake on the seat before she’s enveloped me in a hug that can only be described as maternal enthusiasm.
“Oh my goodness, look at your hair.” She pulls back, her hands framing my face. “It looks awesome. And what’s this?” Her fingers brush my eyepatch, and she bursts into delighted laughter. “My daughter, always with the flair for the dramatic.”
“Good to see you too, Mom,” I say, leaning into her touch despite myself. “I brought cake and a boyfriend, not necessarily in order of importance.”
Her eyes shift to where Matteo stands. When he turns, and she spots his eyepatch, her smile widens. “And I see my daughter already has you matching,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Victoria, though I suspect you already knew that.”
“Matteo Russo,” he replies, taking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carter.”
“Victoria, please,” she insists, giving him the full maternal inspection that somehow manages to be both subtle and completely obvious. “Henry’s in the backyard setting up for brunch. He’s been fussing with the grill since dawn.”
I exchange a look with Matteo. We’d strategically checked into our hotel first—our compromise after I’d explained that my childhood bedroom shared a wall with my parents’ room, and there was absolutely no way I was subjecting any of us to that awkwardness.
“We brought Dad’s cake,” I say, carefully lifting the box from the car.
My mom peers at the box with undisguised curiosity. “Is this the famous baker you’ve been raving about? The one with the magical cream cheese frosting?”
“That’s the one,” I confirm as we head inside. “It’s German chocolate, Dad’s favorite. Complete with a tiny fishing rod made of fondant.”
The house smells exactly the same—lemon furniture polish, fresh flowers, and something baking that will definitely contain raisins because my mother remains convinced they’re a food group rather than Satan’s desiccated droppings.
Matteo’s hand finds the small of my back, steadying. His thumb traces a small circle against my spine—a silentI’m herethat makes me want to turn and kiss him senseless right in my parents’ foyer.
“The garden looks beautiful, Mom,” I say instead, following her through the house toward the back door.
Dad stands at the grill, turning knobs and whatnot. He turns when he hears us, his smile reaching his eyes in that way that always makes me feel like the most important person in the room.
“There’s my girl,” he says, setting down his spatula and opening his arms.
I hand the cake box to Matteo and step into my father’s embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave and charcoal. “Happy birthday weekend, Dad.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, then pulls back to assess the hair situation with an amused smile. “Very punk rock. Your grandmother would have had a stroke.”
“That’s half the appeal,” I reply with a grin.
Dad’s attention shifts to Matteo, his expression curious but open. The two men regard each other with careful assessment. “Henry Carter,” my father says, extending his hand. “I hear you’re the man brave enough to date my daughter.”
“Matteo Russo,” he replies, transferring the cake box to one arm to shake my dad’s hand. “And I’d say it takes more courage to raise her.”
My dad barks out a laugh, genuine amusement breaking through his composed exterior. “You’ve got that right. Come on, let me get you a beer.”
And just like that, the formal introduction phase dissolves into practical matters of food storage and drink preferences. I watch Matteo follow my father to the cooler, the two of them already discussing something that has my dad nodding appreciatively, and feel something in my chest loosen.
I’m helping my mother arrange pastries on a platter when I hear the side gate swing open, followed by the unmistakable sound of my brother’s laugh.
“The golden child arrives,” Leo announces, appearing with Ollie in tow. My twin looks absurdly healthy and handsome, his arm slung casually around his boyfriend’s shoulders. “And he’s brought bubbly stuff and wit in equal measure.”
“One of those things is welcome,” I call back, abandoning the pastries to cross the lawn.
Leo sweeps me into a hug that lifts my feet off the ground. “Nice hair, punk. Did you lose a bet with a flamingo?”
“Nice face,” I retort when he sets me down. “Did you lose a bet with genetics? Oh wait, we have the same face. Fuck.”
Ollie laughs, then gives me a gentler hug. “It’s good to see you. The hair is amazing.”
“Thank you, Ollie. This is why you’re my favorite Carter-adjacent.”
I turn to find Matteo watching us, beer in hand, his expression unreadable to anyone but me. I recognize the subtle tension in his shoulders—the way he’s cataloging exits, assessing threats, evaluating my family dynamics for weak points. It’s so fundamentally Matteo that I have to bite back a smile.
