AllFreeNovel
Share Us
––––––––
A few evenings later, Phoebe parked her truck at the curb of an intimidatingly large house in Broken Arrow. The wide, three-car driveway was crammed with vehicles: two big SUVs, a crossover of some sort, a Jeep Wrangler, three Harleys, and one bright blue Ford pickup.
Duncan’s family had a lot of modes of transportation. And every one of those vehicles was much newer than her Sierra.
Still behind the wheel, she ducked a little and studied the house. A great big suburban spread—not quite a McMansion, but not all that far off it, in her estimation. There was an array of enormous, two story windows up front, showing a living room ablaze with light and motion. She didn’t see Duncan, but she saw two women and two men. One of those men—younger than the other—had a baby in his arms. The baby was probably Duncan’s nephew, whose name she couldn’t remember, which made the man holding him probably Duncan’s brother-in-law. The older of the men was probably Duncan’s father.
His dad is Maverick, she began to list in her head, making sure she remembered. Maverick is the vice president of the Bulls. His mom is Jenny. She owns a bar in Tulsa. His older sister is Kelsey. She’s a vet here in Broken Arrow, and she’s married to Dex, another Bull. He’s a club officer, too, I think—and he’s the one who was in Afghanistan, right? Little sister is ... Hannah.
Duncan wanted her to meet his family. When he’d asked if she’d come to a family dinner they’d had scheduled, she’d thought sure, why not. That was a thing one did when one started a relationship. Besides, it was only fair; he’d met all the important people in her life, and Margot had subjected him to a third-degree before they’d had each other’s full names committed to memory.
But now that she was here, seeing all those people in that huge house, she felt shy and reluctant. It didn’t make much sense; she knew how to talk to people she didn’t know, how to schmooze and mingle and all that, and she’d been to a few awards ceremonies and charity events where everybody was dressed up. It wasn’t like she walked around with mud on her face and grass in her hair. She knew how to be social. Didn’t like it, but knew how to do it.
This was weird, though, and she tried to figure out why. It was like it wasn’t fancy enough. Yes, she could pretend to be a Disney princess for a night to support the ranch, but that was work—and events like that were so far outside her actual life, her actual personality, they were like bonus Halloweens. She was pretending to be someone else.
Tonight, the whole point of her joining this dinner was so Duncan’s family could meet her. She couldn’t pretend to be someone else. Duncan wanted them to know her.
Actually, she was kind of pretending anyway. Her closet was full of jeans, flannels, hoodies, and t-shirts. She had two formal dresses—one an actual evening gown, which was her prom dress from high school reworked to be a bit less poufy and a lot more grown up, and the other a satin thing Margot called a ‘cocktail’ dress, which she’d found at a vintage thrift in Tulsa.
Neither of those was appropriate to this evening, and she didn’t think she should show up to meet his family in jeans and a flannel shirt, so every piece of her outfit tonight was out of Margot’s closet: a slate blue sweater dress, black tights, black knee-high boots, and a black wool winter coat. Margot had dressed her, forced a full face of makeup on her, and done her hair in a fishtail braid that Phoebe would never in a million years be able to do on her own. She was pretty good with regular braids—she’d had long hair in the Army, so a braided bun was her daily style, and she’d braided plenty of horse manes—but a fishtail? On her own head? That was some complicated nonsense. Horse hair was much easier to work.
None of it felt like her. She was cosplaying Margot tonight. Blonde edition.
Well, Margot was better at this shit anyway.
If she didn’t get moving, somebody was going to look out those huge windows and notice the ancient pickup parked outside, bringing down the property values. Phoebe grabbed the little black suede purse that matched the boots and held her phone, keys, ID, and debit card, and she carefully collected the plastic pie holder Vin had sent her away with. She got out of the truck and headed up the walk.
As she stepped onto the front porch, the door swung in, and Duncan was there, grinning broad and bright—then he got a look at her, and surprise reshaped his expression.
“Hey, baby,” he said and held out his hand. “You look amazing.”
He was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt. Though the shirt was cotton and not flannel, it was pretty much his usual look. So ... yeah.
“Thanks. It’s all Margot’s.” She took his hand and let him pull her close for a kiss. But those huge windows were right there, so she backed off before he could turn a hello kiss into something not G-rated.
“Nervous?” he asked with a smirk before letting her go.
“A little,” she answered, downplaying the truth.
He took the pie holder from her. “They don’t bite. Rowdy might jump on you, but I’ll try to get ahead of that.”
“Rowdy is a dog?” That was one of those names that worked as a human nickname, too, so she wanted to be sure.
He laughed. “Yes. A pit bull. But sweet and goofy, not scary.”
“I’ve never actually met a scary pit bull. They’re all sweet and goofy.”
“I’ve met a couple, but it wasn’t their fault. They had scary humans. C’mon in.”
He led her into his family home, so much different from her own.
That bank of two-story windows should have prepared her for a corresponding two-story room, but Phoebe nearly gasped aloud when she stepped into the house. They stood in an entryway that was pretty normal, but it led directly to a huge living room with a vaulted ceiling that was practically like a church. There was even a balcony where the second floor overlooked the room! The fireplace—complete with roaring fire and a massive, carved-wood mantelpiece—was framed with soaring stonework that went straight up to the ceiling.
Jeepers.
The room itself was full of comfortable-looking furniture that seemed simultaneously coordinated and tossed together. Matching leather sofas, the color of baseball gloves, faced each other before the fireplace. A thick-pile, busily patterned rug lay between them, with a wide coffee table on it. In one corner were two big armchairs, upholstered in a busy fabric, and a round table. By the window was a love seat. Lamps and tables were arranged with the seating, all of it looking like it was planned but also randomly collected. And scattered over it all, like a rainbow confetti bomb had gone off, were about a hundred toys. A little kid in jeans and a bright yellow sweatshirt sat on the floor pushing a yellow Tonka dump truck over the stone hearth and making weird sounds that were probably supposed to be dump-truck noises. That had to be Duncan’s niece, Tildy.
Nobody was dressed up at all for this meal. It was jeans and hoodies and casual tops all around. Sigh.
