His hands shift to my waist, pulling me closer like he doesn’t want an inch of air to separate us. My arms wrap around his neck, inexplicably overcome with the same desire. I part his lips with my tongue, deepening the kiss and pulling the sexiest groan from him.
A throat clears. I break the kiss and open my eyes, but keep them on Wes’s face, ignoring my mother and her disapproval.
I also realize that I don’t want to look away from Wes. I want the assurance that I’m not the only one losing my grip. It should scare me that he doesn’t turn away from me either.
But with Wes’s soft brown eyes drinking me in, I can’t find one speck of me that cares. I’m choosing to drop my defenses, to let him see everything I’m feeling, to stop being afraid.
I hope he doesn’t make me regret it.
All eyes watch Wes and me enter the room, taking our seats beside each other—Brooks to my right, Chip and my ex-mother-in-law across the table.
What the fuck is she doing here?
My wide-eyed gaze snaps to Brooks, who mutters “What the hell?” out of one side of his mouth. Including my ex-husband in a Covington family dinner is foul, but welcoming his mother is unfathomable. It’s no secret that the woman questioned my worthiness; her dissatisfaction increasing the longer we didn’t have children. I became the cog in the wheel of that dream, and she never failed to let me know it.
“Is this a sick joke?” I flick my wrist in their direction, staring down my mother before sending my attention to my father at the opposite end of the table.
“It’s been so long since you’ve seen them,” Mom replies without a tinge of remorse. “I thought you’d enjoy having a reunion.”
“With my ex-husband and hismother?”
Wes’s hand lands on my knee, reminding me of his earlier words.We can leave right now. Say the word.I take a breath, trying to calm my thrumming blood, my pounding heart.
Chip drops his utensils onto the plate with an obnoxious and avoidable clang. “Are you suggesting that I should’ve left my mom, who’s alone this week, at home tonight?” Chip asks coolly.
“Typical,” Lorna mutters. A benefit of the divorce was supposed to be never having to hear that cutting tone again.
“I’m suggesting you and your mom could’ve had dinner somewhere else. You know, since you’re not a Covington.”
“I’ve been more of a Covington this past year than you,” he replies. My blood boils seeing Chip’s stupid smile.
“That’s not the insult you think it is,” I snap.
My father clears his throat, and the table falls silent. His entire attention has been focused on cutting his disgusting, bloody steak.
“There will be none of that,” he orders in his sternest tone. “The Rutherfords are guests in this house. They’ve been family friends since long before you were born, Isla. They will always be welcome here.”
I whip my head in the direction of my mom. “You want to know why I don’t return your calls? Why I don’t come see you? It’s because of stunts like this.”
She slowly takes a sip of red wine. “If you told me that you were bringing a date, I would’ve suggested a different night. You never tell me anything about your life, Isabella.”
“Because you weaponize it against me!” The shrillness of my voice makes me flinch. I take a breath, pulling air deep into my lungs and slowly letting it out.
I try to speak again at a normal volume this time. “Even if I showed up tonightalone,ambushing me like this would be out of line. I expected it, and still I’m here because I don’t want you to give Brooks shit for not being able to convince me to visit.”
“Isla, it’s been a year since we’ve separated. Can’t we be adults about this and co-exist for the sake of our families?” Chip places ahand flat against his chest. “You claim you’re in a relationship. I’ve moved on. Shouldn’t—”
“Huh,” I cut in. “You were texting two months ago about giving our relationship another chance.”
Lorna’s head turns sharply toward her son, lines creasing her forehead.
My father’s flat palm lands on the table, rattling the dishes. “Enough. Your mother is trying to speak.”
Mom’s lips turn down, and sadness creeps into her eyes. I don’t know whether to believe it; that’s how broken our relationship has become.
“What would you have me do?” she asks. “Send them home? Or can we have dinner like civilized adults?”
She won’t call me by my preferred name. I don’t know why I’d ever expect her to respect any other choice I make.
