“Miles Kent, sir. I’m the friend.” Miles extends his hand to shake and waits patiently as my father sizes him up and waits just a hair past comfortable to accept and shake the offered hand. “Ma’am,” Miles says politely to my mother as he offers his hand to her as well.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Miles. Eleanor Franks, but please, call me Nora.” She holds his hand in both of hers, a smile pulling at her lips as she takes full stock of Miles from head to toe.
My mother turns her sparkling eyes on me, and whatever is about to pass through her lips is going to embarrass me like I’m back in high school and she’s meeting my first real crush for the very first time. Not just any crush—Dallas.
“Jake, sweetie, go get your bag from Nonna’s car. I’ll get you unpacked, so your mama and Miles can show Grandpa what they’ve been up to this weekend.”
Dear sweet Jesus, is this really happening?
I toss my hand out to the side, and my dad doesn’t hesitate to lead the way inside, bestowing an ear scratch on Bronson as he does.
“Let’s see what you got up to here, Kent,” he grumbles.
My mother loops her hand through my arm and smiles slyly as we file into the house after Miles. Of course, she doesn’t miss the way Bronson barely contains his shit when Miles stops to greet him.
“Well, isn’t that interesting?” she murmurs.
While she might think I’m the only one to hear her comment, the subtle shake of Miles’s broad shoulders indicates that he heard not just the words, but also the insinuation in her tone.
I’m torn, not sure whether it’s best to run interference with my dad for Miles or face the inquisition by my mother.
Thirty-four years old, and I’m still nervous with a boy in the house, meeting my parents for the first time. A boy with muscles and a cocky grin. A boy with a classic car and capable hands. A boy who makes my heart flutter when I thought for sure it was broken beyond repair. A boy who makes me feel things I never thought I’d feel again.
The decision is made for me when my mom gives me a gentle shove toward the kitchen, saying, “Let’s see what we can pull together for a nice lunch, sweetie. We’ve got some hungry men. Jake, baby, bring that bag in here for me.” And just like that, my mama is running the show.
Footsteps creak lightly overhead, the TV buzzes from the living room, and the scream of my mother’s silent questions echo in the kitchen. She rummages through my refrigerator, pulling stuff out for sandwiches and salad fixings. We work side by side for a few moments until she can’t stand it any longer.
“So…” That single word, hanging in the breeze is all it takes to get me talking, and she knows it.
“Like I told you, Mom, when I got home on Friday to grab Bronson, water was pouring through the garage ceiling. I called my friend Erin, and next thing I knew, Miles was swooping in, taking care of everything.”
“Mmm, friend.” Her implication rings loud. “And Bronson? He’s only greeted one other person that way.”
Don’t I know it. “Mmhmm,” I respond, busying myself with chopping veggies for a big green salad.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.” I fight the smile threatening to pinch at my cheeks. “He’s Jake’s rugby coach. He works with my friend Erin. That’s it, Mom, nothing more.” At least, nothing I’m ready to talk to my mother about.
No matter how good our relationship, she doesn’t need to know that the countertop where she’s laying out lunch hosted a scorching make-out session just last night. My cheeks flush at the memory of his touch, his lips on mine. The way he moved me and fit so deliciously against me.
“Maybe it’s time for more,” she says softly. Turning to face me fully, my mother leans against the counter and looks at me, seeing me the way only she can. “Six years, Chloe. Dallas would want you to move on, live your life. He’d want more for you than living with just his memory.”
“It’s not six yet, Mom, not until this summer. And I know he would. It’s just hard to?—”
“Mom, is lunch ready? I’m starving. Grandpa wouldn’t stop on the way home,” Jake complains, bursting into the kitchen. “He said he had to get back and make sure the plumbing was the only thing being taken care of.” His words are muffled as he paws through the pantry, but there’s no question what my father was hinting at.
If he’s okay with saying that to my mom, I don’t want to think about what he might be saying to Miles right now.
“Just about, baby. Go yell for Gramps and Miles, okay?”
As soon as his back is turned, I shoot my mom a fullwhat the helllook, and bless her, she just laughs and waves a hand through the air. As if that little motion is enough to bat away my annoyance at my dad’s comment in the car. Thank God Jake’s still oblivious to innuendo. At least, he seems to be.
“Oh, lighten up, sugar. Your dad’s just looking out for you.”
My quiet call of bullshit is swallowed down as my father’s booming voice floats down the stairs along with him.
“That’s a fine vehicle out there. You get her that way, or did you put in the work?”
