She greets Knox not with a handshake but ahugof all things, practically cooing over him like he’s the savior we never asked for.
“I’m Marjorie. It’s so lovely to meet you.”
“I’m Knox,” he wheezes, foolishly glancing at me for help. “Thank you for having me, Ms. Renault.”
She lets go of him. “Please, Ms. Renault was my mother. We’re on a first name basis here. Marjorie is just fine. I’m so ecstatic to finally meet Staten’s boyfriend. She’s so secretive about her love life.”
Hold up. WHAT?
Oh, no. No. God, no. My mom thinks Knox is my boyfriend. I wasn’t planning on telling her anything about our arrangement. The less she knew, the better. What am I supposed to say? Should I tell her the truth? Should I break her fragile little heart and shatter her dream of becoming a grandmother at forty-nine?
How could she just…assume…something like this?! Someone’s getting fucked in the ass tonight, people, and that someone isme.
Heart bleating, I’m relieved when my mother excuses herself to the kitchen to bring in the other side dishes she slaved over all day, leaving me and my partner in crime to discuss what the hell just happened. At least Knox looks as nervous as I feel.
You know how grid waves signal incoming rip currents of death and destruction? This is our grid-wave moment.
“Your mom thinks we’re together,” he says. “You told her we’re dating?”
“I didn’t tell her. I guess she just assumed.”
I worry my bottom lip, barely cringing when copper geysers over my tongue. “How the hell are we going to pull this off?”
Knox pats me on the head, completely unfazed by the prospect of having to lie his way through family dinner. Now that I think about it, I don’t think this man has ever felt the nettle of anxiety in his entire life. He’s like…he’s like Superman without a Kryptonite weakness—which is equally as impressive as it is terrifying.
“Don’t worry, babe. I’ve got this under control. They don’t call me Casanova for nothing.”
Babe? BABE?!
I snort. “Nobody calls you that. You couldn’t paymeto call you that.”
Knox stretches his arms above his head, purposefully making his slightly damp T-shirt rise above his chiseled V-line and the neat trail of hair arrowing down to the heat he packs in his pants. Knox has a lot of…obnoxious…faults, but the worst one, by far, is his hot-dude self-awareness.
“Au contraire, everyone calls me that. Girls, guys. I have universal appeal.”
Ugh. I don’t have time to debate the validity of his statement. There’s a war drum behind my eyes—a pulse that heralds an inexorable headache. Unfortunately, it pairs terribly with my dry throat syndrome. “Fine. Just don’t make a big dea?—”
My mom comes waltzing back into the room, her arms loaded with a variety of dishes that have turned Knox’s contribution into a full buffet spread. Oblivious as ever, she begins to plate the table, humming to herself under her breath.
She only hums when she’s happy. Knox and I are going to hell.
Pulled BBQ pork sliders, sautéed green beans, homemade iced tea, buttered bread halves, and shoestring French fries sprinkled with garlic parmesan sprawl over the surface, barelyleaving any room for our individual plates and highlighting what is Knox’s triple-cheese monstrosity.
My mom has never worked this hard to impress anyone before, and I didn’t know Knox could cook pasta without burning the house down, let alone cook something that belongs in a Michelin restaurant.
Knox and I sit across from each other while my mother claims the head of the table, already acting like the gracious host she is and cramming our guest’s plate with enough food to feed an entire hockey team.
“This looks incredible,” Knox says in awe, accepting his bulky portion.
Despite the redolence diffusing the air, I’m too jittery to eat anything, and my belly is a bubbling cauldron of acid and nerves. I don’t overshoot when I scoop a small molehill of mac and cheese onto my plate, opting to stick with as minimal grease as possible.
“Oh, thank you. I’m gladsomeoneenjoys my cooking,” my mom jests playfully, her eyes sliding over in my general direction. “This girl could live off Top Ramen. I have to force her to sit down and eat a homecooked meal every now and then.”
Shit. This has to be a humiliation ritual. It’s the only explanation. How could I forget that my mother—who has a lockbox of all my most embarrassing habits—is just as much of a loose cannon as the man who has the mouth of a sailor and a shared interest in seeing me crumble before dessert. It feels like I’m trying to bail water from an already sinking ship.
“Well, Marjorie, if you ever need a plus-one, I’ll gladly join you for a home-cooked meal,” Knox drawls, wearing pure animal magnetism.
He even does the unthinkable andwinksat my mom. Winks! He’s lucky I lost our melon ball scooper months ago, otherwise I’d pop his fucking eyeballs out of his skull.
