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He lifts his head and stares back at me. “Meeting the parents already? I know I was good last night, but not that good,” he teases.
I lift my arm to hook my hand around his neck, and then it hits me. What did I just do? I drop my arm and pull my bottom lip between my teeth. He’s right; the idea of introducing him to my mother is ridiculous. It’s too soon. No, not too soon. More like completely out of character for me. This isn’t what I do when I sleep with a guy. When I date someone, I’m the one who is accused of being too casual, not wanting a relationship or commitment. I certainly never ask them to meet my mother.
He spins me around to face him, then runs his thumb along my bottom lip, freeing it from its restraint. “I’d like to meet your mother. If you’re sure?”
I blink several times. I’m not sure. But the fact that he is willing to meet her leaves me without words. Really, I’ve got no idea what prompted me to invite him to meet her when I’d just been thinking I didn’t want her quizzing me about him. Oh boy, is she going to have some questions when we’re alone. A kernel of worry takes root in my head; maybe she won’t wait and will ask me about him right then and there. I’ve no way of knowing because the last guy I introduced her to was my date for a dance when I was in upper secondary.
I reach to pull Rory’s head down to mine so I can seal my mouth to his. And when all doubts have been kissed right out of me, we leave.
Chapter nine
Rory
Ican’t believe I’m on my way to meet Freya’s mother. I’m not entirely sure she can either, because she hasn’t said a word since we left her car in the parking garage. It’s the longest stretch of time that we’ve been together and not spoken. It’s making me nervous, and based on the way Freya can’t keep her hands still, clasping and unclasping them by her sides, I’m guessing she’s feeling the same.
She runs her hand through the full length of her hair while staring at the rising floor levels as the elevator ascends. Unable to hold back from touching her a moment longer, I reach my arm around her and pull her to my side. “I can wait outside in the hall if you’d prefer?”
“No, no. It’s fine, you can come in. My mother hates being stuck in the hospital and will enjoy meeting someone new.”
I’m not convinced, especially when her fuzzy reflection in the metal doors shows me she’s chewing on her bottom lip again. It shouldn’t be turning me on.
“How much longer?” I ask the half-formed question in a desperate attempt to keep her talking. She can’t bite on her lip in that sexy way if she’s answering questions.
She turns to look at me, her brow wrinkled. “Sorry?”
“How much longer is she expected to be in here?” I finally get the full question out.
“Oh. Only another two days, I think.” The elevator bounces to a stop, and we exit.
Side by side, we stroll along the long white hallway, the aroma of disinfectant so strong I can no longer smell Freya’s fresh, sweet perfume. I lean toward her and breathe in deeply, trying to capture a faint hint of her.
She tilts her head back. “Did you just sniff me?”
Maybe I wasn’t as subtle as I thought I was. I shrug. “Aye. I like the way you smell, and I don’t like disinfectant.”
She laughs, and it seems to have the power to suck the tension out of her. Suddenly, she’s back to carefree, happy Freya again, and I reach for her hand to give it a squeeze.
“Is that a bit creepy?” I ask.
“Not at all. It’s kind of nice.” Her grip tightens on mine when we reach the door of her mother’s room. “Ready?”
“Aye. And you?”
“Of course,” she says as she pushes through the door.
There is one bed in the center of the room, which is decorated more like I’d find in a four-star hotel rather than a hospital. Propped high in the bed on a stack of pillows is a woman who looks like an older version of Freya, and she’s smiling at a man who is sitting on the edge of the bed. He has his back to us and appears to be holding her hand. Freya didn’t mention her mother had a partner.
Beside me, Freya gasps, tugging me to a stop. “Pabbi?” she exclaims, her voice unnaturally high.
Over the last couple of days, I’ve heard Freya refer to her father using the Icelandic word, but given her expression, she wasn’t expecting to see him again today. I’m not sure about her family dynamic—she hasn’t shared the long story with me yet—but it’s clear there is a lot of affection between the three of them.
The man turns, grinning. And now it’s me doing a double take.
What the fuck is Jon, the lead guitarist of Midnight Sons, doing here? Or, more precisely, why did Freya just call Jon, the lead guitarist of Midnight Sons, Dad?
My mouth remains wide open as I look between Freya and her father. I can see it now. She has his eyes.
I wonder when the hell she was going to tell me that her father was a famous rock star. I know it doesn’t really matter, but I think somewhere in our conversations yesterday when she said she was meeting him for lunch that it would have been the time to mention who he was. At least then I wouldn’t be standing here gawping like a goldfish.
