Susan smiles gently. “You’ll like them. And they’ll love you.”
I don’t believe her, but I follow her up the porch anyway.
Before she even knocks, the front door opens.
A woman in her fifties stands there in a flowing cream sweater and jeans that probably cost more than my entire closet. Her hair is silver-blonde, braided loosely over one shoulder. She has the kind of face that’s both soft and intimidating—someone who has seen a lot, lived a lot, and taken exactly zero bullshit along the way.
“I thought I heard the car,” she says warmly. “Get in here, you two.”
A cozy fireplace crackles inside the living room, filling the space with light. A wall of windows overlooks the cliffs and the restless ocean beyond.
Before I can take it in, someone new walks into the room.
Tall.
Dark curly hair.
Blue eyes.
College sweatshirt.
Broad shoulders.
A smirk that says he knows exactly what he looks like.
He takes one look at me and whistles low.
“Ma,” he says, “you did not tell me we were having a smoking hot guest for dinner.”
My entire face floods with heat.
“I—what—no?—”
My voice cracks like he just physically snapped it in half.
He circles around me once, playful but not unkind, then points at my hair.
“Did you do that, Ma? That cut? Damn, girl. You look like a mad Slovakian model with those cheekbones.”
I nearly choke on air.
“I’m not— I mean— I’m hardly a model,” I stammer, staring at my boots, patting the edges of my hair because it suddenly feels too short, too exposed, too everything.
“Jade, honey, no,” Irene says, stepping forward and cupping my shoulders with both hands. “You do not owe anyone an apology for looking gorgeous. That haircut is fierce.”
She glances at Aunt Susan.
“Susan, did you do that?”
Susan smirks. “You’re not the only one who’s good with a pair of scissors.”
Irene laughs—big and bright and genuine.
Her son snorts.
Susan blushes like she’s sixteen again.
“I’m Mason,” he says, offering a hand. “Please ignore everything I just said unless you enjoyed it.”
