He’s waiting outside with an amused quirk to his lips, one hand in his pocket, effortlessly suave and casual as I limp forward.
“Well, don’t you look nice.”
“I hate you,” I mutter as I reach him. He looks down, frowning as I limp toward the steps.
“What’s wrong?”
“These fucking shoes are torture devices, that’s what’s wrong.”
“Did youwalkhere?” he asks, stepping forward to open the gate for me.
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I have a car, Mr. Bigshot.”
“Want me to carry you over the threshold?” he asks from behind me.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Oh, I should mention, my mother doesn’t appreciate bad language in the house.”
“Yet another reason I should just fucking go home.”
His fingers circle my wrist as he gently pulls me to a stop. “We should go in together, or it looks like I’ve brought you here against your will, Jacqueline,” he says gently.
I sigh irritably, looking him over. He’s in dark jeans and a soft jacket, with a white sweater beneath. He looks amazing, and I stare for a little too long.
“What?” he asks. “Do I have food on me or something?”
“No,” I say begrudgingly. “You just look good.”
“Likewise.”
I’m annoyed to find myself preening a little as we ascend the steps. I don’t look good, I look ridiculous, but this is clearly more along the lines of the women Gray usually hangs out with.
“Any advice for meeting your sisters?” I ask.
“Carrie’s the only normal one,” he murmurs under his breath. “And just… Well, you’ll understand the vibe when you meet my mother.”
That doesn’t fill me with confidence. The door opens before we ring the bell, which is also a red flag. It’s as if she’s been watching us from the window.
Donna Jones is small, with gray hair and very bright blue eyes similar to her son’s. She doesn’t smile when she sees me, but shedoessmile at Gray.
I step inside after him, shocked to see four other women behind his mother staring at me in a group as if I’m a prize pig at a fair.
“So you’re Jacqueline?” Donna says, stepping back and putting her hands on her hips. “Are all of those clothes brand new? You look like you stepped out of a catalog.”
Wow. Nice.
“Mother,” Gray mutters, and I glance at him.
Unfortunately for Donna Jones, I’ve had people look down on me all my life, and I’m used to standing up for myself. Nobody makes me feel inferior for who I am.
“Yes, actually,” I reply simply. “Gray wanted to impress you. But I’m figuring that’s hard to do.”
Everyone goes still. I make sure to inject a note of humor into my voice, but I also won’t let this woman intimidate me.
I can tell her type a mile away—overbearing, judgmental, making sure I’m ‘good enough’ for her little boy.
Why does no one ever question whetherheis good enough forme?
