Reluctantly in Love (25 page)

Gasping, I smacked him in the chest. He made an
oomph
and his stomach muscles contracted under my hand. It was nice, so I left my palm right where it was. I glared. “Very funny.”

“Settle down, Bruiser. I was just kidding.” He laughed and rolled to his back. He rubbed his stomach with an exaggerated pout. “Now you have to kiss it.”

Like I needed to be told twice. Lifting his shirt up, I asked, “So what is your favorite color, really.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it.” His eyes followed me like a hot caress as I pressed a kiss just above his belly button. “But I’m thinking my newest favorite color is black . . .” He reached up and twined his fingers to a thick lock of my hair. “Or brown? I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s black but it’s not. And then sometimes in the sun it looks like there’s a reddish-brown in it.”

“Yes, well, it’s a pain in the ass. It’s too dark to make coloring it easy, and it’s too light to be jet black. But thank you for making it your favorite color.” I kissed just below his navel and his stomach tightened. “What’s your favorite childhood memory?”

“Just one?” he asked. I glanced up at him and nodded. “I don’t know, I guess most of my favorite childhood memories are with my dad, fishing. What about you?”

“Meeting Gen and Lexie,” I said without thought.

“Really? No camping memories with your parents or—”

I laughed. “You remember, me and the outdoors don’t do so well.”

“Right. You’re more dangerous than a bobcat.” He chuckled, his fingers still playing with my hair. “Did you do much with your parents? Trips, things like that?

We’d never talked about my parents before. I curled up next to him, resting my head in the crook of his arm. His hand still rested behind his head. Pulling my leg up over his hip, I said, “Yeah, we did. Both my parents like to travel. They took me everywhere—Paris, the Caribbean, Hawaii, Venice. For a kid, I got to see a lot of places.”

“And none of those were your favorite memories?” He placed a kiss to the top of my head, his fingers smoothing my hair behind my ear, running through the locks from scalp to end. I loved when he played with my hair. It soothed me, and I closed my eyes.

“Yeah, I guess. They were good memories.”
When they weren’t fighting
. I kept that to myself. “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like we were a family very long. My dad left when I was thirteen.”

“I’m sorry. I knew they were divorced. It must have been hard.”

I lifted my shoulders in a small shrug. “It’s not a big deal. It was ten years ago. And, they fought so much it really was a good thing they split.”

“You still worried about their visit?”

I nodded in answer.

My parents were set to arrive in a week. They were both insisting they’d be here, rain or shine. For a family like Chase’s, parents visiting for their child’s birthday was normal. My family wasn’t like his, and never would be. Chase would never understand my relationship with my parents. It was pointless to even try to explain.

This visit wasn’t out of love—it was career ambush, plain and simple.

“Hey Chase?”

“Yeah?” His voice sounded groggy—playing with my hair made him as sleepy as it made me.

“I was thinking. On my birthday, if you wanted, you could come over to my place for dinner. With my parents.”

His finger stroke paused behind my ear for a second. “I’d love to.”

I exhaled a breath of relief. “Thanks. My mother’s coming a couple of days beforehand so I probably won’t see you. She wants to go shopping.”

He chuckled. “Let me guess, shoes?”

In the weeks after Pretzels’ return, I was obsessed with proving Matthew Garrett’s guilt. With nothing to go on but my gut, I followed him around town, staked out Beverly’s house on my own clock and without pay. When that didn’t work out, I finally gave up and went on a shopping spree for shoes.

“No. Her addiction is purses. She owns more handbags than anyone I know.”

“Does she own more purses than you do shoes?”

I poked him in the side. “Hey, now. No judgment from the guy with a closet full of hats.”

Chase rolled to his side and leaned over me. His kiss was soft and slow. The tip of his tongue brushed against my lower lip and warmth pooled in my belly. When he finished, I was left breathless and limp beneath him.

“All this kissing makes it hard for me to write,” I lied.

He fell back into the pillows and tucked me against his side. I laid my head against his chest and his warmth.

Chase’s heartbeat thumped against my ear, and contentment buzzed through me. Why him? What was it about Chase that made spending every day with him okay? I was breaking my own rules with him, and I didn’t care.

“Huh, that’s interesting,” I whispered against his shirt. It smelled of fabric softener and spring.

“What’s interesting?” Chase ran his fingers through my hair again. My eyes drifted shut.

“Nothing . . .”

“Nothing is interesting?” he mused.

“The ceiling is interesting.”

“The ceiling.”

“Yes.” Smiling against his chest, I said, “The ceiling pattern is interesting.”

“Oh yeah, it is.” He patted the seat of my shorts then pinched my ass through the cotton. “I especially like looking at the ceiling when I’m on my back and you’re riding—

Laughing, I reached up and flicked him in the forehead. “
Hhhhaaa
. . . you’re hysterical.”

“I’ll tell you what.” His fingers lifted the hem of my sweater to expose my belly. “I’ll let you lay on your back and we can compare ceiling stories later.”

His eyes had turned to liquid cobalt.

“
Mm,
sounds fun,” I said, and his hand slid under the waistband of my shorts.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I hadn’t seen my dad since last Christmas, and we’d been playing phone tag for months. Finding him on my porch with my mother, three days before my birthday was a shock, even though they promised they’d be here. My dad was a busy man; running a culinary empire was a full-time-plus job. Now, here he was, taking vacation for my birthday. For the last ten years I’d been lucky to get a phone call, but I always received a check in the mail to make up for his absence. This visit was out of the blue, and out of character. My paranoia was heightened to a whole new level.

Tonight, I sat at the formal dining table with my parents. They’d picked this table out together after the house was built. While they reminisced about my first steps, about the first time I took off on my bicycle and fell into a bush, I drank wine.

Why am I the only one who thinks this is weird?

“Wasn’t that funny,
anak
?”

“Huh?” Both of my parents stared back at me. I nodded. “Oh, yeah. Definitely funny.”

I had no idea what they were talking about.

“We need more wine.” I stood and left the room.

It was a good thing Chase wasn’t here tonight. Hopefully by my birthday the tension at the dinner table wouldn’t be so thick. I opened the wine bottle at the counter and thought about hanging out in the kitchen for the rest of the night.

“
Anak,
what are you doing?”

I turned.

My mother stood in the doorway. She was so pretty; I was sure that’s what my dad noticed first about her. She was a tiny thing, not more than five-foot-one. She didn’t wear her ink black hair long anymore. It was cut just below her chin. Her almond shaped brown eyes stared back at me, full of concern.

I loved my mother, but we’d never see things the same way. I would never understand how she’d spent the last ten years pining for a man who’d walked away from her, and she would never understand why it still bothered me. I loved my dad, but I would never understand why he left, and he would never understand why it still hurt. I pressed my fingertips to my brows. Now here they were, acting like a family. Laughing and sharing stories. As if the last time we had all sat at this same dinner table they hadn’t been screaming at each other.

This day had already dragged on too long. Neither of them had yet to broach the subject they’d really come for. The wait was excruciating, but I wouldn’t be the one to initiate this lecture. A tiny little sliver inside of me still held out hope that they’d come to celebrate my birthday and nothing else.

“I’ve had a rough week.” I lifted the bottle of wine, but didn’t tell her my rough week had been due to nerves in anticipation of their visit.

“You shouldn’t drink like that. It’s too much.”

“Yeah, well, you know me—excessive.”

Her brows knit together. “Do you want dessert? Your dad is cutting the cheesecake.”

“Yeah, sure. Be right there.”

She turned and walked out of the room, and I followed her.

“How big a slice do you want, Pumpkin.” My dad glanced up from the cheesecake. He’d sliced it in half and had the knife poised to make another cut.

“Just a small piece. I’m not that hungry.” I sat down with the wine. “Would you like another glass?”

My mother held out her glass. I took it from her to fill.

“So, how are . . . things?” she asked when I handed her back the glass.

“Things are good.”

“How is the writing?” my dad asked.

Here we go.

“Great. I’m on book three now.” I stuffed cheesecake into my mouth and made a show of chewing it.

“Any word from that agent woman about your book getting published?” she asked.

“She’s submitted the second book to the publisher. I’ll find out if they’re offering me the contract soon.”

“But when will they be published?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” I set my fork down. “It’s not an overnight process.”

“How long does it take?” She tilted her head and studied my face for answers.

“I
knew
you were going to bring this up. You two didn’t come because of my birthday; admit it.”

“
What?
” She gasped and drew her shoulders back. “I am your
mother.
I can’t ask you questions?”

I sighed. “Of course you can. It’s just not nice to ambush me.”

“Ambush,” she tossed out in indignation. “I don’t think so.”

“I think this is a good time to discuss your future, Pumpkin.” My dad laid the knife on the cheesecake platter. He gave me a stern expression, the one that told me I was about to get a lecture.

I set my fork down. “All right. Let’s hear it.”

“I think it’s time you join the company. I don’t see this writing business working out for you. Everyone’s writing a book these days. There’s just no money in it.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’m not doing it for the money.” Even though it was true, the comment only crossed my lips because I knew it would get both of their backs up.

“What do you mean, you’re not doing it for the money?” my mom gasped in exasperation.

“I’m doing it because it makes me happy.”

“You still have to make a living on it or there’s no point.” My dad wiped his mouth with a napkin, then scrunched it up in his palm. “It’s time to get serious about your life.”

“I’m following a dream, Daddy. Like you did.”

Another jab.

His eyes hardened. “A dream is fine to have, but if it doesn’t pay the bills it’s time to reassess.”

I was tired. Really, really tired. I sighed and dropped my head into my hand, rubbing my temples with my thumb and ring finger. “I have a day job, remember?”

“It’s too dangerous,” my mother said.

“I mostly take pictures, Mother.” Now I had a migraine.

“It’s not the right career for a woman, Pumpkin.”

I snapped my gaze up. “
Jeez,
Dad, that’s pretty sexist.”

“It’s not safe for you to be running around chasing bad guys,” he insisted.

“I mostly chase cheating husbands.”

“Exactly. It’s not a good career choice for you.” He shook his head. “I don’t like you seeing that kind of garbage.”

“Uncle Leone doesn’t object.”

“Leone is not your father,” he said.

I shoved my chair back. “Leone practically raised me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find some aspirin.”

I didn’t expect an argument or a demand for me to sit back down. It was clear where the conversation was headed, and none of us handled that kind of family meeting well—which was why we never had them.

I took the rest of the wine and headed to my room where I could get drunk in peace.

A glass of wine later and I felt like crap.

Not physically, but emotionally. I hadn’t seen either of my parents in so long, and I hated fighting with them. Regardless of the fact they’d come to convince me my career choice was shit, they were still here. My dad had actually followed through after he penciled it on the calendar. That had to count for something.

Fighting with my parents put a deadweight right on the center of my chest. My mom was so sensitive; she would stress about my storming off all night. It wasn’t hard to imagine her worrying, rotating the rings on her fingers the way she did when something bothered her. I toed on my slippers at the side of my bed and padded out of the room. The house was quiet.