Idon’t quite know how to explain it, but I can see the moment Gabe turns himself into Bad Gabe. He slings his bag over his shoulder, and the playfulness drains from his face. One corner of his mouth twists up, and he runs his eyes down my body with a cocky smirk.
“You ready to get this over with, babe?” He jerks his head toward the house, then starts up the big curved sidewalk leading to the front door.
I’m too stunned to move for a second. God, even his voice is different. Smug and a little bored, like he’s agreed to do something he has zero interest in, and he’s going to hold it over my head forever.
But I’ve got a part to play too, so I yank my suitcase out of the back, struggling a little when the wheel gets tangled in the seat belt. Once it pops free, I stagger backward, then grab the bag of gifts and slam the door shut, trotting up the sidewalk after him.
“Get it over with? I thought you wanted to meet my family.”
He glances over his shoulder. “Of course I do, babe.” He whips back around and saunters to the front stoop, impatiently tapping his foot while he waits for me to join him.
Oh God, is my family watching this? I’m sure I look stressed because I’mfeelingstressed, dammit. He’s way better at this than I expected.
I finally join him, the chill seeping into my skin as my suitcase bounces up the concrete steps behind me, slamming into my calves. My hand’s on the doorknob when I realize there’s something important we haven’t covered.
“Kissing!” I hiss.
He looks startled, and his gaze snaps to the top of the doorframe. “Oh God, are your parents mistletoe people?”
“No! I mean, should we be kissing?” I can’t believe that in three weeks of calls and texts, we never thought to discuss it. “And holding hands? Hugging? People in relationships do that, right?”
My mind flashes back to Gabe not shaking my hand at our first meeting and then to his featherlight touch on my knee in the cab of his truck. I suppress a shiver; no contact is far safer for my peace of mind. But who brings a boyfriend home for Christmas and maintains a polite distance?
“Hey. It’s okay.” He spins me to face him, resting his hands on my shoulders. “We’ll just—”
Before he can finish that thought, the door flies open to reveal my mom. “Honey! Welcome home! Come inside. It’s freezing out.”
Gabe drops his hands, the warmth draining from his face, and steps through the door with his bag over his shoulder. I trail behind him, humping my suitcase over the doorjamb.
“Hi, Mom.”
She wraps her arms around me and folds me into a Mom hug. You know the kind: soft, comfortable, warm, a little too clingy, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Yet again I’m hit with doubts about what I’m doing here. This is way too dramatic. I’m the child who doesn’t complain or make demands. I definitely don’t run elaborate schemes designed to fool my whole family. The temptation to shout “Grinch!” surges, but I choke it back.
My mom releases me and turns to my alleged boyfriend. “Hello, Gabe. I’m Margaret. Let me look at you.” She reaches up to cup his cheeks.This is not a drill. She is resting her hands on his cheeks.“Do you know how much I’ve worried about my little Darby ending up all alone? And now she’s brought home such a handsome young man.”
I absolutely want to die. Thank God this isn’t real; an actual boyfriend would probably run screaming. But now the question is, what’s Gabe going to do? His expression is unreadable, not Good Gabe, but not Bad Gabe either. For a split second, I see the Good Gabe smile peek through. He’s amused. He thinks her concern over me is cute. He’s going to crack and ruin everything—or maybe save everything.
Then he pulls out that one-sided smirk I’m starting to recognize as Bad Gabe's calling card. He huffs a little laugh and glances over at me. “Wow, babe. If I’d known you were so hard up, I wouldn’t have tried so hard on our first date. You could’ve paid for your own drinks.”
It’s an appalling thing to say, which of course makes it perfect. My mother yanks her hands away, taking a step back and cutting her eyes toward me.
“He’s just kidding,” I say with a brittle laugh. “Aren’t you?”
He sucks in his cheeks before answering. “Sure. Kidding. So where are we sleeping?” He looks toward the stairs.
“Darby’s room,” my mom says. “Third door on the left.”
He nods and heads for the second floor, not waiting for me. But before he hits the second step, he calls over his shoulder, “I’m starving, babe. Think you could find me a sandwich?”
Then he continues climbing the stairs, and I notice something sticking out from the hem of his jeans and getting caught under his work boot.
“Hold up,” I call. “What’s that?”
I trot up to him and bend down to tug it loose. When I do, I end up holding the sleaziest black-and-purple thong I’ve ever seen.
“Oh shit. Sorry, babe.” He snatches it from my hand and crams it into his pocket. “Must’ve gotten mixed up in the laundry.”
That evil, evil genius. I’m desperately biting back a giggle as I slam my hands on my hips. “Those aren’t mine, Gabriel.”
