We pulled up to my parents’ house, and he turned off the car. Neither of us moved. I looked up at my old bedroom window, still decorated with the frilly white curtains I had chosen when I was ten years old.Shit. The two parts of my life were about to collide. I had avoided imagining how my parents would react to Niklas, which suddenly seemed like the worst possible approach, so I raced to cobble together some semblance of a plan.
Niklas continued stroking my thigh. “Are you okay?”
I swallowed hard. “I want this to go well, but I didn’t tell you anything about my parents, what to ask about…”
His other hand caressed my cheek, and he leaned over and kissed me.
“I can handle this,” he said, kissing me again. “Believe it or not, I have some social skills.”
I smiled. This was true. Over the past months, I had watched him handle ticket mix-ups, hotel double-bookings and a press conference back in Stockholm, all without outward signs of discomfort. He wore the same easy smile for me now, as if to tell me,Relax. I’ll take care of this.Which is exactly the position I didn’t want to be in—having someone else handling things for me. But at this point, it was too late to care.Just get through this dinner.
“Aren’t you nervous?” I whispered.
He laughed and stroked my hair. “I’m nervous as hell. But I work well under pressure.” He waggled his eyebrows a couple times, coaxing a smile from me.
“Okay, champ,” I said, opening the car door. “Let’s do this.”
“You’re not going to let me open the door for you?”
I shook my head. “You’ll have to give me more warning before you start with the gentlemanly gestures.”
“You’re saying I’m not gentlemanly?”
I snorted. “Don’t worry. You have other appealing attributes.”
He got out of the car in time to close my door and take my hand, and we walked together across the lawn. I reached for the front door handle and took a deep breath. Niklas squeezed my hand, and I turned the knob.
“Mama? Papa?” I called as we stepped in.
My mother came from the kitchen, dressed in an embroidered blouse, with her long hair pinned up into a loose bun.
“Caroline, I—” She stopped, mid-step, at the sight of Niklas. Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell open a little.
“Sorry,” my mother said with a forced smile. She reached out her hand to Niklas. “I’m Julianna, Caroline’s mother.”
“Niklas,” he said, shaking her hand. “I hope this isn’t too much of a surprise.”
My mother hesitated slightly, then shook her head. “It’s nice to meet you, Niklas.
My mother’s eyes stayed on Niklas for another beat. Then she turned to me and squeezed me tightly.
“What’s going on, honey?” my mother whispered in my ear.
While I tried to form an answer, I heard more footsteps.
“Mi amor…” came my father’s voice from down the hall.
But the sight of Niklas stopped him, too. I frowned. I was almost certain they didn’t recognize him. American sports, especially those that required cold weather, weren’t even on my parents’ radar. I glanced over at Niklas, but if he noticed my father’s reaction, he didn’t show it.
Instead, he took a step forward and offered his hand to my father. My father recovered more quickly than my mother had.
“Miguel Mendoza,” my father said, shaking Niklas’s hand. “Welcome.”
“Nice to meet you, sir. Niklas Almquist.”
My father smiled. “Just Miguel.”
Niklas played that one right. Maybe he could handle this. He was a big man, and he had probably learned from a young age how and when to show deference. I let out a little sigh. Maybe, just maybe, this might work.
