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CAMERON

The drive to Fairfield takes three hours from Hayworth, and I spend most of it obsessing over the reality that Lucien is sitting in the passenger seat of my Jeep. I rest my hand on his thigh when I can, a touch that feels monumental because I know what’s underneath it: my mark on his skin. I glance over at him, watching the way the winter light catches his profile.

“Nervous?” he asks without looking at me.

“No,” I lie.

His big hand rests on my leg. “Liar.”

Fine, I’m nervous. My parents have a grand total of zero experience with me bringing someone home because there’s never been anyone to bring. Now, I’m introducing them to Lucien. I told my mother Lucien couldn’t be with his family for Christmas, and so being a decent human being, I invited him to come to Connecticut. She knows about the river incident, but other than that, I’ve given her no indication that Lucien is anything other than a friend. Bringing him home is a major risk though. The thought of them looking too closely, of decoding the way we look at each other, drives a cold shiver of panic down my spine.

I clear my throat. “What should I tell them about you?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll win them over,” Lucien says with certainty. “I’m very charming. They’re going to love me, Cam. Because you love me. And anyone who loves you will see why I’m worth keeping around.”

He’s doing that thing where he ups his confidence to help settle me. It’s working.

When we reach the gates of my family’s property, I punch in the code, and the gate swings open slowly. The driveway curves through bare winter trees, and then the house comes into view.

The house is massive, three stories of weathered wood shingles, with more dormer windows than I can count and mansard-style roofs that give it an almost castle-like quality. I watch Lucien’s reaction as we drive up.

“Nice,” Lucien breathes.

“It’s ridiculous, I know,” I say, pulling into the circular drive.

“It’s great,” he corrects, and he sounds genuine.

“There’s a path with stairs that goes down to the beach,” I tell him. “If you want to see it later.”

“Is the house on the water?”

“Yeah. Above it. The path’s at the edge of the back lawn.”

Before I can say anything else, the front door opens, and my mother appears.

My mom, Whitney Rhodes, is petite, barely five-foot-three, with blonde hair that’s always perfectly styled and a smile that people say lights up a room. It’s true. The moment she sees my Jeep, she practically bounces on her toes.

She’s at my door before I’ve even unbuckled my seatbelt, pulling it open and wrapping her arms around my neck. She kisses my cheek multiple times, like she did when I was a kid.

“Oh my God, you’re home!” she squeals. “I’ve missed you so much!”

I can feel Lucien watching us, and I catch the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a laugh. Our hug lasts forever, and when my mother finally releases me, she’s already moving toward the passenger side.

“And you must be Lucien!” she says, opening his door. “I’m Whitney, please call me Whit, none of that ‘Mrs. Rhodes’ nonsense.”

Lucien steps out with an elegant confidence that makes me want to kiss him. He extends his hand for a shake, and my mom takes it, but then she pulls him into a hug anyway. I watch as he gives her a polite pat on the back, clearly uncertain how to handle her exuberance, and she’s beaming the whole time.

“Come inside, come inside,” she says, linking her arm through his. “I’ve prepared some food. You boys must be starving. Dad will get your stuff from the car.”

“Dad?” I ask, surprised. My father is usually out of town or at the office, especially this close to the holidays.

“Yes, honey. When he heard you were coming home, he took some days off.”

I can’t hide my shock. My father doesn’t take days off. Ever. He’s the kind of man who measures his worth in billable hours and closed deals. The fact that he rearranged his schedule for me is…unexpected.

My mother gives me a look that says don’t make it look like your father doesn’t care in front of company and guides us inside.

The house smells like pine and cinnamon, and the Christmas tree is fully decorated in the living room, positioned against the big bay window. There’s Christmas music playing somewhere in the house, but it’s so faint that I can’t make out the tune. Mom takes us through to the kitchen, which is enormous, with an island that could seat eight people. And on that island is the most elaborate charcuterie board I’ve ever seen. Everything is arranged perfectly, meats swirled and tucked, cheeses positioned at precise angles, fruits and nuts and crackers all organized in a way that suggests my mother spent hours on this.