Who does he think he’s fooling with that innocent blink? “We’re in the middle of a grocery store.” There are two old ladies picking up frozen dinners right over there.
He arches an arrogant brow. “And? Too bad there aren’t any pockets in those yoga pants.”
I think I need to climb into one of those freezers because I am onfire.
Elliott takes my hand like he’s been doing it his whole life, and grins. “Good first date?”
Like I told him before: “The best first date I’ve ever been on.”
CHAPTER 45
ELLIOTT
Mom
Will you be at the reunion or not?
It’s been a month,and I can’t get enough of Loren. She is a whirlwind from the moment she steps through the door to the moment she falls asleep in my bed. We are in the thrall of the honeymoon stage of a relationship, and damn does it feel good to finally be here.
Well, nothere, here. Becausehereis in my parents’ living room, staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, my mother on the other end with her finger on the trigger.
Not a real gun, mind you, but from the way she wields her words, it might as well be. She’s already asked about work in her usual sneery way, but her opinion doesn’t sting as much as it used to.
I’m proud of what I do, and that’s become enough.
“You’re coming next weekend,” she drawls, making it clear that this isn’t a suggestion or question, but an edict. The pleats on her forest-green skirt are perfectly straight where they drapeacross her knees, and her ankles are crossed like she’s a queen on her floral throne.
It’s not that I’ve forgotten about the family reunion.
I’ve completely blocked it from my mind.
As far as I’m concerned, this year’s event has been canceled due to…bad weather?
That’s right. It’s been too sunny and warm lately. No one wants to be out in that.
Maybe I could lie and say I have plans.
Except I don’t have plans, and my mother has a built-in lie detector.
She knows something is up, has already pointed out how little I’ve been here over the last few weeks. How I never want to have dinner with them anymore.
I can’t come right out and tell her that Loren’s dinners are better. (And her desserts too, if you catch my drift.)
To be honest, I’ve been hesitant to tell her anything about Loren because we’re in this romantic little bubble and my mother is like a porcupine.
Maybe if she sees how happy we are together, she’ll find a way to be happy for me.
My mother smooths a nonexistent wrinkle from her white silk blouse. She looks like she’s about to head off to the church for a bazaar, not spend the next hour in the kitchen cooking for Dad.
“Nobody knows how long they have left with the ones they love,” she goes on. “For all we know, your grandmother could drop dead in the morning.”
My hand clenches around the glass of sweet tea she forced into it the moment I set foot inside. “Is grandma sick?” Hopefully, she didn’t catch something on that cruise she went on a few weeks ago. My grandmother travels more than anyone I’ve ever met.
Mom’s lips pinch. “No, but she couldgetsick.”
So could I but turning the argument back on my mother will only end in tears. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of her mascara getting smeared.
Like most of our conversations, we both know where this is headed. I don’t like disappointing her, but I also don’t like being told where to go, what time to be there, and what to wear.
