"It's fine. They're your parents." I fiddle with my purse strap. "What did your dad say?"
Tucker's face lights up. "He was excited. Like, really excited. Started talking about cribs and babyproofing and all this stuff I haven't even thought about yet."
The enthusiasm in his voice should be reassuring. Instead, it makes my anxiety spike. His family is going to be so involved, so present. They're going to have opinions and suggestions and expectations.
And I have no idea how to navigate any of that.
"Sloane?" Tucker's voice is gentle. "You okay?"
"Just nervous."
"They're going to love you," he says with such certainty that I almost believe him.
Tucker's apartment building is just as intimidating as I remember—all glass and steel and obvious wealth. As he navigates the parking garage, I tell him, “It was really nice of you to come get me. I could have driven myself.”
“And miss out on alone time with you? Not a chance.” Hegrins and actually winks as he shuts off the engine and springs out to open my car door. “I paid my housekeeper a crap ton of extra money to make something delicious and have it ready to go. So hopefully you can help me pretend I cooked all day.”
Despite my nerves, I smile. There's something sweet about that—how much he wants to impress not just me but his parents as well.
The elevator ride to Tucker's penthouse feels endless. I can feel him watching me, probably trying to gauge my mood. When the doors finally open directly into his apartment, I'm surprised by what I see.
The loud art is gone, replaced by framed family photos. The bar cart is still there but pushed into a corner, looking less prominent. The uncomfortable-looking furniture remains, but there are new additions—a bookshelf with actual books on it, a soft throw blanket draped over the couch, small changes that make the space feel less like a bachelor pad and more like... a home.
"You redecorated," I say.
"A little." Tucker rubs the back of his neck. "I'm working with a designer on more changes. Making it more family-friendly."
Before I can respond, a woman appears from the kitchen—petite, with dark hair and warm brown eyes. She's wearing jeans and a casual blouse, an apron tied around her waist.
“Hey, Jamie.” Tucker hugs her familiarly and she smiles warmly. “Everything smells amazing.”
Jamie pats him on the arm. “Pull the casserole out when the timer dings.” She glances at me and lifts a brow until Tucker smacks his forehead. I wince at the word casserole, hoping there’s at least some flavor to it. But then remembering that anything with flavor makes me gag these days.
“Oh my gosh, sorry. Jamie, this is Sloane. Sloane, Jamie.” He seems like he wants to say more but the doorbell buzzes.
Jamie squeezes my arm as Tucker walks to the intercom to presumably buzz in his parents. “So nice to meet you, dear. We’ll talk more, I’m sure.” She slips out as Tucker laughs at the wall unit and before I can hyperventilate, I hear the elevator doors and a loud male voice.
“Tucky, this smells way too good for you to have cookedyourself.” An older version of Tucker sticks his head in the apartment. Ty Stag, legendary Pittsburgh hockey player, has graying hair, grey eyes, and a smile that sets me at ease despite the conversation ahead of us. “And you must be Sloane.”
He strides toward me as I nod, followed by a statuesque woman with a dark bob haircut and a look of concern. “Tyrion Stag, you know you have to ask permission before you hug—oh. Well, too late I guess.” Tucker’s dad has his arms around me and … it feels so fatherly, so affectionate, I can’t help but lean in until he pulls away, hands on my arms, a smile spreading across his entire face.
“Hey, Mom, Dad.” Tucker’s voice cuts across the greeting. “This is Sloane.”
“Yes, yes.” Tucker’s mom shoves his dad aside. I know she’s going to insist I use her first name, but I feel compelled to think of her asJudge.“May I hug you, dear? We’re a hugging family.”
“Oh, sure, that’s—” My words are cut off by a firm embrace that is, again, parental and affectionate and maybe a little magical in that the hug seems to radiate strength and power right into my veins.
“Okay, guys.” Tucker again sounds exasperated. “You’re being extra.”
“Can’t help it, buddy.” Mr. Stag ruffles his son’s hair. I stand awkwardly, not used to family dynamics at all, let alone this type of obvious love.
Judge claps her hands. “Tucker, get us some drinks and invite us to sit down. It’s getting weird, right Sloane?” She winks and strides toward the sofa, draping her coat on a peg I hadn’t noticed on the wall.
I follow as Tucker grabs bubbly water from the refrigerator, his massive hands each able to hold two cans without much struggle. “Sloane, you want the lime or the strawberry-peach?”
I glance between his parents, who have cuddled into one end of the sofa, and perch on the new armchair. “Oh, lime, please.” The chair is incredibly, unexpectedly comfortable and I sink in, remembering to cross my ankles, though I’m tempted to curl up and rub my face against the new throw blanket. Something very odd is happening in this building, to say the least.
Tucker hands out drinks and the hiss and pop of cans opening drowns out the sound of my heartbeat rushing in my ears. “So,” Mr. Stag says, gesturing with his can and biting his lip expectantly. I guess we’re just diving in.
