I sigh and haul myself upright. “Okay. Guess it’s time for round two. Shall we?”
A light sparks in his eyes. “I’ve got a better idea. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a headache after driving you here, and I can’t possibly spend any time with your parents tonight. Want to bring me dinner on a tray?”
“Absolutely,” I say slowly. And I prove that he’s not the only evil genius among us. “But only if you text me constantly with requests that have me running up and down all night. Maybe send the sandwich back a few times until it’s perfect.”
He barks a laugh. “Love it. I’m very picky. Sandwichsquares, not triangles. And I better not see any crust.”
He holds up his hand for a high five, which I return. It’s possibly the most platonic thing that’s ever happened in this room—and I was a virgin until I was nineteen. Speaking of.
“Hey, about the kissing thing.”
He smiles lazily. “Still thinking about it, huh?”
“No!” Yes. Very much. “What should we do around my family?”
He makes a beeline for his favorite spot against the wall before answering.
“Let’s not overthink it. We should be comfortable with casual touches, but full-on making out in the public areas of the house probably won’t be necessary.”
“Probably?”
That wolfish grin again. “Probably. We’ll play it by ear.”
I’m suddenly having trouble drawing air into my lungs, so I squeak my agreement and dart out of the room. After a few seconds to get my breathing under control, I head downstairs for an evening of waiting on my boyfriend hand and foot while my parents wonder if I’ve lost my mind.
Gotta love it when a plan comes together.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Gabe
We stay in Darby’s room as late as possible the next morning, sending our favorite TikToks back and forth and hoping her parents will make all kinds of wrong assumptions about what we’re really getting up to behind her closed door. It’s hunger that finally sends us downstairs.
In the kitchen, I get my first glimpse of Darby’s father. He and Margaret are a perfect pair, both comfortably plump and full of smiles and Midwestern Christmas cheer. Since I grew up in a rigid military household, I don’t really know what to expect at the St. Claires’. What I find is a spacious kitchen that’s full of sunlight and cozily cluttered with mail, cookbooks, potted plants, and take-out fliers. Darby’s mom is wearing a plain red apron as she pulls a tray of cookies out of the oven, and her dad’s sitting on a stool at the marble island, sipping from a mug with a madly grinning gingerbread man printed on the side.
“Sugar plum!” he calls when we walk into the room, standing up and folding Darby into a hug. The St. Claires are huggers.
“Hi, Daddy.” She rests her cheek on his chest. “Does your Christmas vacation start now?”
“You’ve got me twenty-four seven for the duration.” Then he turns to me, his expression hardening. “You must be Darby’s friend. I’m Clint.”
He reaches out to shake my hand, and the squeeze is a bit harder than I’m expecting. His wife must’ve given him an earful about me already.
“I’m herboyfriend. Gabe.” I hit theboypart hard, knowing that the ownership thing matters to some men and might creep out her father.
“Sorry I wasn’t home when you kids got in. I stayed late finishing end-of-year paperwork at the office.” He folds his arms over his chest and glares icicles at me. “Sounds like you kept Darby on her toes though.”
Margaret’s laugh is forced as she diverts the conversation. “What can I get you kids for breakfast? Or early lunch, I should say.”
Before Darby can answer, I jump in with, “Got any beer?”
Clint pointedly looks at the clock on the oven, which reads 10:18 a.m., but he crosses to the fridge and pulls out an IPA with a label I don’t recognize. After a moment, he sets his coffee down and pulls out a second one for himself. “It’s a holiday, after all.” He hands me a bottle and clinks the necks together before taking a long pull of his.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip. I didn’t really want one, and now I’m stuck nursing it.
Darby rubs my back. “What sounds good? Mom does a mean grilled cheese.”
I forget about Bad Gabe for a second. “Yeah? I love a grilled cheese.” I grin at Margaret, who smiles back. Shit. Bad boyfriend. Be bad. “But no crusts.”
