“Positive,” I say, kissing him quickly again before he can press the issue. “Let’s go meet your family before I hyperventilate in front of your dad for making him wait.”
That gets a small smile out of him, but he still looks worried.
Fuck.
My hands fidget with the hem of my shirt all the way to the restaurant. I can feel Charlie’s eyes on me even as he reverses out of my driveway, his hand resting on my knee like he’s claiming it. Or grounding me.Or both.
Normally, that touch would calm me.
Today, it just makes the anxiety coil tighter in my stomach.
I can’t stop thinking about the letter.
About the name on it.
About everything I left behind.
About what could possibly be coming for me now.
“Talk to me,” Charlie says softly after a minute of silence. “You’re quieter than usual.”
“I’m fine,” I say again.
He gives me a sideways look. “You keep saying that, but your knee is bouncing like you just drank six espresso shots.”
Shit.
I clamp my hand down on my leg to stop it.
“Sorry. I’m just … nervous about lunch.”
That part isn’t a lie. I am nervous. Meeting the mum felt easy, fun, even, but meeting the dad? Entirely different energy. Dads are harder to charm. Dads look for cracks and weaknesses and any excuse to hate the guy dating their son.
And I’ve got cracks. I’m full of them.
“Dad’s going to like you,” Charlie says firmly. “He already likes you. Especially after all the gushing Mom did about you. She showed him your work. They googled the shit out of you last night.”
“Oh God,” I groan.
“Yeah. He doesn’t understand fashion, but he understood who your clients are and said that you have an impressive client base.”
My heart pulls tight. “He said that?”
“Yep. So, you have nothing to worry about.”
He squeezes my knee again, his thumb rubbing small circles.
And I wish I could relax. I wish I could let myself sink into this moment the way I did yesterday. But that letter is sitting in the back of my mind like a ticking bomb.
Charlie drives us into Beverly Hills, turning down a side street toward a restaurant that looks like a place where waiters wear suits and drinks cost more than my electricity bill. As soon as he parks, he leans over again, lips brushing mine. “Whatever’s going on in that pretty head of yours, we’re dealing with it together after lunch.”
My throat tightens.
Fuck, I love him.
“I know,” I whisper. “Promise.”
He lifts a brow. “So, something is going on?”
