Maverick snorts. “Nope. We’re together.”
“Annabelle,” his mom says. “Tell us more about yourself—where are you from?”
This is an easy one, and I relax into the couch cushions. “Washington. That’s where we met.” I pause. “It’s a funny story how we met, actually. Mav ... I mean, Callum and I were both booked in the same cabin. He found me sleeping in a hammock in his front yard—but I thought it wasmyfront yard. The whole thing was ...”
“Fate,” he says, smiling, leaning in to kiss my temple.
His mother’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile, but I can also tell she’s trying hard not to roll her eyes. “Sounds like something out of a Hallmark movie.”
“Oh, it was,” I say brightly. “Except with way more cursing.”
His dad chuckles at that, shoulders relaxing slightly. “So you were strangers. Total strangers?”
“Yup.” I nod. “It was supposed to be a solo rest and relaxation trip for me—veryEat Pray Love—and he was there to rehab. But we’d booked the same weekend, same house, same poor communication from the owner.”
“Who still hasn’t emailed us back, by the way.”
“Speaking of your knee.” His mom changes the subject. “Is it healing all right?”
“Yup. It’s fine, Mum,” he says with a smile that somehow manages to be both charming and exasperated. “Better than fine, actually. No pain.”
His dad leans in. “You keeping up with rehab exercises? Doing the stretches?”
Maverick gives him a look. “Yes, Dad. I’m not ten years old.”
“Ten-year-old you refused to ice anything and once played an entire season with a broken toe,” he replies without missing a beat. “Forgive me if I check in.”
“I’m icing regularly,” he says, then winks. “Annabelle makes sure of it.”
His parents gaze on with approval.
I smile, feeling a little less like I’m about to burst into nervous tears. “He’s a terrible patient, but I do my best.”
His mom clasps her hands under her chin. “Oh, you remind me of Victoria. That’s Callum’s brother Ronan’s wife.”
“Vic has the patience of a saint,” his dad mutters fondly.
“She has to,” his mom replies. “Married to Ronan and raising two boys under the age of six. It’s like running a zoo.”
“More like surviving one,” his dad chimes in.
Maverick chuckles. “How are the little shitheads?”
“Rowdy as ever,” his mom says. “Adorable. We’re thinking of visiting them next month,” she continues, directing the comment to both of us now. “You’re more than welcome to come along. The boys would love to meet their uncle’s ...girlfriend?”
She says it delicately, giving me an out.
I glance at him. He smirks into the computer’s camera.
Here we go.
I sit perfectly still on the edge of Maverick’s couch cushion like it might eject me if I make one wrong move. I am literally on the edge of my seat, palms pressed against my thighs, rubbing them up and down. Legs crossed.
I’m smiling way too brightly—my face is starting to cramp—and all I can think about is how there is absolutely no protocol for moments like this.
Like, what’s the proper order when you’re about to casually inform someone’s parents that their son (a) got married by strangers, (b) to a woman they’ve never met, and (c) also a baby is on its way?
Do you lead with the marriage part to soften the blow? Or do you start with the pregnancy and let them begratefulwe’re married?
