“I . . . thank you.”
“Don’t be shy, sweetheart. I’ve got years of affection saved up for the poor soul brave enough to date this one.” She gestured toward Luke with mock exasperation. “I’m well aware of what you’ve had to put up with. We should’ve sent hazard pay in advance.”
“Well, I see where Luke gets his humor from.”
“Actually, he gets it from both of us,” came a deep voice from behind Susan.
A tall man stepped forward. He had a lumbering sort of presence, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and solid in the way of someone who could probably lift a car but would rather lift a casserole dish. He wore a cable-knit sweater with a frayingcuff and a grin that spread across his face, deepening the smile lines at the corners of his eyes. The familial resemblance was uncanny. Luke may have inherited both his parents’ humor, but his appearance he got from this man.
“John,” he said, as he extended a large hand that enveloped mine in a firm, reassuring grip. “Luke’s dad. And yes, unfortunately, the comedic gene runs double dominant in this household. Poor kid never stood a chance. We did try to raise him right, but in the end, the humor got the best of him.”
“It’s true,” Susan chimed in. “He was doomed from the start. Came out of the womb making bad jokes.”
From beside me, Luke groaned. “Sheesh, can’t you all wait until I get inside before you start the roast?”
“Sweetpea,” Susan said, ushering us through the doorway with a sweep of her arm. “The roast started the moment we heard your car on the pavement. You’re late to your own comedy special.”
We followed Susan and John into the living room where my eyes immediately drifted to a wood-burning fireplace. While Vincent’s home had multiple fireplaces, they’d all been the electric kind. But Luke’s parents had the real thing, made of brick, lined with a natural stone bench, its iron grate dusted with ash. I had always cherished the idea of a real fireplace. Something homey. A hearth where laughter echoed and memories were put on proud display on the mantle.
Their mantle looked exactly as I had always imagined one, lovingly assembled with small knickknacks and lined with framed photographs collected over the years in mismatched wood and brass. One showed Luke as a toddler, clutching a stuffed T. rex twice his size, grinning with unfiltered joy. It was adorable.
Above the fireplace hung a carved wooden sign with handmade lettering that said,Come as strangers, leave asfamily. In another house, the phrase might have felt trite, just another rustic gift-shop platitude. But here, after the warmth I had already been shown, it felt like a promise.
“Please sit, let me take that,” Susan said, gesturing to the larger couch while she reached for the carrier housing the cinnamon rolls. “I’ll pop this into the kitchen to keep safe until after dinner. Thank you for such a lovely contribution, Oliver. Luke positively raves about your baking. We can’t wait to try these.”
I lowered myself onto the expansive couch, keeping a modest distance from Luke, unsure how much affection was appropriate. I didn’t want to presume anything, especially not in front of his parents. But as Luke settled beside me, he draped his arm along the back of the couch, encouraging me to lean in and kissing my temple when I did. Hello pancake, I am syrup and melted butter.
“Can I get you kiddos anything to drink?” John asked. “Oliver, we’ve got tea—hot or iced—lemonade, soda, coffee, or if you’re inclined, a cold beer.”
“Would it be too much trouble to have an Arnold Palmer?”
“No trouble at all,” John replied with a grin. “That’s Susan’s favorite too. You’re clearly a man of refined inclinations.” Then he turned to Luke. “And for you, son? The usual?”
“Yeah, thanks, Dad.”
John vanished into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a tall glass of lemonade tea mixture for me in one hand, garnished with a thin lemon wheel on the rim, and a chilled glass bottle of Coke in the other. The high-quality Mexican kind made with real cane sugar, not the high fructose crap.
Luke accepted it with an almost boyish smile. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Coke is your usual? Since when do you drink soda?” I’d never seen him drink anything but water, coffee, protein shakes, or herbal tea in all the months I’d known him.
Shrugging, he brought the bottle to his lips. “It’s a nostalgic thing,” he said after a sip. “I only ever drink them here. Something about being back at home and I want to crack open a bottle of Coke. Not even sure why, there isn’t a specific memory attached to it or anything. Just one of those things.”
Susan reentered the room and sat herself beside John. “Well!” she said, settling in. “Now that we’ve all got something delicious to sip on ... Oliver, darling, tell us about yourself.”
“Mom,” Luke groaned. “I told you not to interrogate him.”
“This is hardly the Spanish Inquisition, dear,” Susan said, waving off the accusation. “It’s a thoughtful inquiry into the life of the young man my son is dating.”
“Yeah, well, after a childhood of being force-fed Monty Python, I’ve learned that nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Luke muttered.
“If the questions are charming, then so is the process. You brought someone special into this home, sweetheart, so naturally we’re going to get to know him. Isn’t that what this whole visit is for?”
John nodded. “It’s in the fine print of the Parental Visitation Agreement. Section Two, Sub-clause B. All persons dating our offspring are subject to light, good-natured prodding.”
Luke shot me a pained look. “I’m so sorry. I swear I tried to negotiate for skipping this part, but legal shut me down,” he said, pointing to his parents.
I snorted, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “If I survived the first getting to know me question you asked, I think I’m qualified to withstand parental prodding.”
