Rm w/a Vu

by A. D. Ryan

  Smiling sheepishly, he reaches out and returns the favor, slowly buttoning my flannel top. “While I would love to come up with some clever quip about why I kept these, anything I come up with only makes me sound completely head over heels for the girl that ruined them.”

  I inhale a shuddering breath; I want to kiss him again, but the hushed voices of my parents in the other room keeps me from doing so. “Juliette?” my mother’s voice calls out from the foyer. “Would Greyston like to join us for lunch?”

  I look up at him, and his eyes widen. “I’ll find out,” I tell her. “Well, would you?”

  He looks terribly uncertain. “You do realize that your father has guns, right?”

  I laugh and back toward the doorway. “I do. But there’s only a forty percent chance he’s carrying. Besides, it’s my mother you should be afraid of.” He still hasn’t given me an answer one way or the other. “You’re going to have to face them sooner or later, you know. You can either do it with me, or wait until my dad shows up here one day while I’m in class.”

  He tries to say something—probably that my dad would never do that—but then thinks better of it, and nods. “All right, I’ll tag along.”

  Smiling, I back out of the room. “Great. I’ll let them know on my way upstairs to change.”

  Chapter 16

  “So,” Mom says, turning around in the passenger seat of her SUV to look at Greyston and me. This conversation can go one of several ways, and I really hope it’s headed in the direction of food.

  “Where did you want to go for lunch?”

  I breathe a sigh of relief and smile. “Um, IHOP?” Mom gives me a very knowing smile; there’s no hiding a hangover from her. Not ever.

  We’ve just pulled off our street, and no one says a thing. Greyston is sitting behind my mom, and I’m behind my dad, both of us sitting as close to our doors as possible to avoid any accidental—or on purpose—touching that could get any one of Greyston’s appendages ripped off. I’ve only just begun to sample what he’s got to offer, so there’s no way I can risk anything bad happening now…or ever, really.

  I’m about ninety-eight percent sure Greyston is safe from bullets because there were no noticeable protuberances in Dad’s civilian clothes when we walked out to the car. I would have asked to frisk him, but, well that would have made an already awkward situation about five million times worse.

  Every once in a while, I’ll look toward the front of the vehicle and catch my dad’s reflection in the mirror. Sometimes he’s looking at me, other times he’s looking at Greyston. While he’s not angry, I can tell he’s not exactly pleased—which is ridiculous if you keep in mind just how many times I’ve walked in on them doing way more than Greyston and me.

  Okay, so not too much more, but it was still more. I begin to wonder if Greyston played the football ticket-card too soon.

  We arrive at the restaurant and exit the vehicle. My fingers twitch to reach out and take Greyston’s hand since we’re walking with less than a foot between us, but with Dad right behind us, it’s probably not wise. Or safe. So, to control the urge, I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets and carry on.

  I know Dad can’t be too angry with us, but I know he and Mom are going to start questioning us at some point. Things like the nature of our relationship are bound to come up, as well as how long we’ve been together. Mom’s always been pretty open-minded about a lot of things, but if Dad hears that Greyston and I hadn’t even discussed becoming a couple and yet were caught getting down and dirty in the kitchen…suffice it to say he probably won’t be too thrilled.

  Our hostess seats us in a booth, Mom and I slide in on opposite sides of each other, and I look up at Greyston, who I fully expect to join me. However, before he can, Dad slips in next to me, forcing Greyston next to my mother.

  So much for some stolen moments of hand-holding, finger-grazing, and maybe footsie under the table. Though, I suppose footsie isn’t entirely out of the question, but with Greyston sitting diagonally from me, I’d probably wind up touching my mom’s foot, who would think it was my dad. It would open up a whole new can of awkward that I’m not prepared to wrap my head around.

  As I pick up my menu to look it over—even though I’m pretty sure I already know what I’m getting—Dad nudges me with his elbow. “Looking a little green around the gills there, Jules.”

  “Am I?” I look across the table at Greyston, who shakes his head subtly and offers me a reassuring smile. While I’m sure he’s just placating me, it does make me feel better.

  My dad hums, his tone telling me he knows more than he’s letting on. “If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say you had one too many to drink last night.” His eyebrow arches, and he meets my apologetic stare. “IHOP, Jules? Come on, give your old man a little credit.”

  “Never could fool you,” I quip, picking my menu back up and shooting a quick smirk Greyston’s way.

  The table falls silent for a moment while we all decide what to eat before our server arrives. She’s a chipper little thing, but I guarantee she makes decent tips because of it.

  “Hi there,” she greets. “I’m Mel, and I’ll be your server today. Can I get you all something to drink?”

  We all order coffee, and my parents ask for a few more minutes with the menus. Since I know what I’m having already, I put my menu down and notice that Greyston has done the same.

  “You know what you’re having?” I ask him, drawing over-the-menu glances from my parents.

  “I do,” he replies with a smile and leans on the table. “And you?”

  I nod. “Same thing I always have when I feel like this.” He looks at me expectantly, so I continue, blushing because the sheer amount of food I’m about to consume rivals what I saw Toby put away last week. “The International Crepe Passport.” Greyston looks amused—and somewhat impressed—by my choice. Probably because it also comes with eggs, bacon, and sausage. “And you? What are you having?”

  “The Breakfast Sampler.”

  The server returns then with our coffee, and Mom and Dad are ready to order. Dad and Greyston let Mom and me go first. After Mom orders her spinach and mushroom omelet, I order my meal, having decided on a banana crepe option.

  “So the strawberry-banana crepe?” Mel asks, jotting our food down on her little pad of paper.

  “No,” Greyston and I say in unison, drawing the undivided attention of both of my parents.

  I’m fairly certain my heart skips a beat when our eyes connect and he corrects the order. “Just banana. No strawberries at all.”

  “Oh,” Mel says sweetly, looking at me. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

  Dad and Greyston order next, and I find it kind of cute that they order the same thing.

  The minute Mel leaves to put our orders in, I look across the table at my mom—who’s looking mighty smug and even a little thrilled. I know immediately that Greyston speaking up about my breakfast order has brought their curiosity back to what they walked in on.

  “So, things between the two of you seem to be going…well?” Mom inquires not-so-subtly.

  Dad’s posture noticeably shifts to Alpha-male mode, and I give him a light kick under the table. “Be nice,” I tell him quietly.

  “Always so quick to assume the worst, aren’t you, Jules?”

  I open my mouth to protest, but Greyston clears his throat, and when I glance across at him, he’s got an eyebrow arched. “You can’t refute that,” he challenges.

  “No,” I grumble, glaring at him playfully. “I suppose I can’t.” Turning back to address my mother’s original question, I smile. “Things are fine.”

  “Fine?” she asks, sounding almost incredulous that I haven’t opened up and told her that things were so much better than fine. That, had she and Dad given me five—maybe ten—more minutes, I was pretty sure I could have convinced Greyston that the kitchen counter could have been the perfect place to finish what we started. “Seems like things are a little better than fine.” />
  I pick up my coffee and take a sip. I know I can’t avoid having this conversation, but I need to find a way to have it in front of my father without wanting the floor to open up and swallow me whole. As it is, my cheeks are on fire, and my hands are trembling.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Foster?” Greyston interjects, surprising me a little because he didn’t use their first names like he did at dinner. I can only assume that’s because he’s still feeling a little weird about this morning—and rightfully so. “I know that what you walked in on today was probably the last thing you expected, but I want to assure you both that I care very deeply for your daughter.” His eyes find mine again, and I smile, wishing so badly that we weren’t diagonal from each other so I could reach out and take his hand. “These last couple weeks with her have been…incredible. I would never do anything to hurt or disrespect her…or either one of you, for that matter.”

  “While I want to believe you,” my father speaks up, “the simple fact remains that you’ve known each other all of two weeks. Things seem to have escalated rather quickly.”

  He’s right. He usually is.

  “I know, Dad.” My agreeing with him seems to shock both Greyston and my mother. “But can you tell me that you and Mom never gave into your urges? Because based on what I’ve seen—”

  Dad’s quick to clear his throat, but not before Greyston has fully started to understand where I was headed with that comment. “I guess it just all kind of took me by surprise, is all.”

  Mom reaches across and pats the back of my dad’s hand. “It took us both by surprise, dear. So, how long have the two of you been dating now? I mean it was just last week that you were telling me you didn’t think there was anything you could do to—”

  My eyebrows shoot up, and I give her a very pointed look. “Mom, please stop talking.”

  “That was me?” Greyston smirks cockily. I swear his ego’s growing by the second.

  “Maybe,” I tell him. “And this just sort of happened, Mom. Last night…this morning? I’m not entirely sure what day we’re counting here.”

  Dad turns his head toward me. “So, you’re not even technically dating?”

  “Well, we haven’t labeled it yet. We haven’t really gotten the chance to talk about it, you know?” I know the minute I’ve said it that I shouldn’t have. Dad’s face is turning red, and I can see that vein in the middle of his forehead beginning to pulse. “That’s not…that came out wrong. It’s not like we’ve been too busy, you know, doing that to talk.” I’m growing more and more flustered with every attempt to fix this, so I just give up.

  “Things have been pretty hectic for us,” Greyston jumps in, saving me from rambling further, should I decide to open my mouth again. “I just got back from Houston last night, Juliette had a—” He stops himself mid-sentence, probably gathering that my father will likely have a conniption if he heard I went on a date with somebody else last night. “Juliette had previous plans with a group of people. I had actually hoped to talk to her about all of this last night over dinner, but I didn’t want her to have to cancel.”

  While I’m more than thankful for his stepping in to rescue me, I shoot him a look that calls him a liar; he did want me to cancel on Erik. And, truthfully, I really should have listened to him. You know what they say about hindsight.

  Mel returns with our meals, and we stop talking while she places them in front of us. After thanking her, she turns and heads back toward the kitchen.

  Deciding that this is as good a time as any to save Greyston or me having to explain further before we actually get a chance to talk alone, I change the subject. “So, Dad, you excited about the game tomorrow?” It’s not a seamless segue, but I’m hoping it’ll do the trick.

  This seems to change his demeanor, and I feel like I can finally relax. “It should be fun…assuming my interrogating the two of you hasn’t gotten my invite revoked.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I say, poking at the bananas on my crepe before taking a bite.

  Everybody else follows my lead and digs into their brunch before Dad starts asking Greyston about what he was doing in Houston.

  “I was there signing a young baseball player who’s fresh out of college,” Greyston explains. “He was being scouted by a few teams but had no representation, and the Diamondbacks are very interested in him. We had him signed by Thursday, and have begun the process of getting him a contract for next season.”

  This then starts a debate of the Phillies versus the Diamondbacks between my Pennsylvania-born father and an Arizona-raised Greyston while Mom and I talk about school and her job.

  “I’ll be happy when winter break gets here,” I tell Mom. “I feel like I’m running on fumes.”

  “I tried to warn you, sweetheart,” Mom tells me, her tone indicating that she’s sympathetic to my plight, but not quite saying, I told you so.

  As brunch wears on, I begin feeling full a lot sooner than I was expecting. While I’m sure my hangover has something to do with my diminished appetite, I refuse to let more than half of my meal go to waste. After eating my entire crepe and about a third of everything else, I finally admit defeat and place my napkin on my plate. We don’t leave right after our meal, instead choosing to stay for a few more cups of coffee and catch up.

  “You know,” Greyston says when my mom starts talking about having us over for dinner in a week or two. “I was thinking of inviting my folks over for dinner next Sunday. Why don’t the two of you join us?”

  It’s ridiculous how happy something as small as Greyston inviting my parents to meet his parents makes me.

  Wait… His parents? I’m going to meet his parents? In a week?

  “That sounds lovely,” Mom says to Greyston. “Just let us know what time, and we’ll be there.”

  With our plans for next Sunday finalized, we decide it’s time to go. Dad and Greyston have a mild debate over who will pay the bill. Ultimately, Dad wins, saying it was him and Mom who invited us out.

  It must be hotter outside than I was anticipating when we left the house, because I begin to feel slightly uncomfortable as we walk through the parking lot—almost flushed—and there’s a faint prickle running along my arms and neck. Once I’m buckled in and Dad’s started the car, I roll my window down in hopes that the fresh air will help.

  It does a little, but my skin still feels like it’s crawling.

  “Juliette?” I turn to look at Greyston. “Are you okay? You’ve been scratching at your neck since the restaurant.”

  Mom turns around in her seat, and Dad looks back at us through the rear-view mirror. “Oh? I hadn’t realized. Yeah, I’m fine. I must still be a little hung over.” I move to scratch my neck again, but Greyston grabs my hand and stops me.

  He unbuckles his seatbelt with his other hand, scoots across the seat until he’s sitting right next to me, and uses the backs of his fingers to sweep my hair behind my shoulder so he can look. The tips of his fingers trail across my skin, and I smile, remembering how his fingers felt trailing down my neck in the kitchen earlier.

  “You look a little red,” he tells me softly. “Like you’re breaking out in a rash.”

  “It’s probably from the heat,” I assure him, bringing my hand up and laying it on his. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  He shakes his head and holds my gaze. “It’s not that hot outside, Juliette.”

  Curious to see if he’s right, I look at the digital temperature display mounted above the rear-view mirror and see that it’s actually a little on the cool side. Then I realize what probably happened. “My crepe.” Greyston looks at me curiously before he, too, draws the same conclusion as me. “I’ll bet they accidentally put strawberries on it and Mel corrected them. They probably didn’t even replace the crepe, just the bananas.”

  “Do we need to stop somewhere, kiddo?” Dad asks.

  I shake my head, pulling Greyston’s warm hand away from my neck and threading my fingers through his; it’s not that I don’t enjoy his touch, but th
e warmth of his hand only makes the itching worse. “No, I’ve got some antihistamines and some hydrocortisone cream in my washroom.” I look out the window, feeling the breeze on my face and neck. “God, this is so embarrassing,” I whisper to myself.

  Greyston pulls his hand free and places it on my thigh, giving me a gentle squeeze and redrawing my focus to him. “Hey, don’t worry about it.”

  “Oh, I’m worried,” I tell him softly, hoping my parents aren’t eavesdropping. “You think this is how I wanted the afternoon to go?”

  “We have all the time in the world,” he assures me, running his hand back and forth over my thigh.

  The gesture reawakens my desire for him, sending my pulse racing and my mind whirling. Before I let my growing craving for him take control, I lay my hand over his and stop it from moving before laying my head on his shoulder. “I’m going to need you to stop doing that,” I whisper, tilting my head up and meeting his gaze. “It’s making it hard to concentrate.”

  “My apologies.” He doesn’t really look apologetic, what with his sly smirk and mischievous eyes.

  I settle back against him and look toward the front of the vehicle. When I catch my dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror once more, he winks at me, and I give Greyston’s hand one more squeeze before turning back to look out the window.

  We arrive home a short time later and say goodbye to my parents before heading inside. I have to laugh when Greyston makes a point of locking the door before pulling me into his arms and kissing me softly.

  I want nothing more than to pick up where we left off this morning, but the irritating itch that’s covering my arms and neck is far too distracting. “Hey,” I whisper, leaning my head back and looking him in the eye. “I really need to hop in the shower and put my lotion on. I’m sorry.”

  His eyes roam down, and he gently pushes my hair away from my neck again. His fingertips tickle the skin below my ear, and I shiver slightly. I desperately want this to be one of those moments between us where I get all weak-kneed and light–headed…