Page 97 of Elevator Pitch

“Verona.” He eyes the girls. “And her sisters.”

I blush but the girls stare at him. Hannah’s forehead furrows, concentrating, like she recognizes the nineteen-year-old in front of us but can’t place him.

“Ladies, this is Harley. Harley, my daughters, Laurel and Hannah.”

“Physical therapy.” He points at Hannah. “Teacher.” He looks at Laurel.

Laurel’s head swivels. “He knows about us.”

“You’re being weird,” I whisper. She’s acting like Harley is some kind of teenage rock star heart throb, instead of an average college kid.

Harley steps back, allowing us to enter the house. “Dad’s in the kitchen. I’ve never seen him so nervous. Then again, we should be nervous. He never cooks.”

The three of us follow Harley into the large kitchen where Ross is rushing between a pan on the stove and items on the countertop.

“Can I help?”

Ross spins at my voice. His hands are cupped, chopped mushrooms spilling over the edge of them. “Hey.” His smile is filled with both relief and concern.

“What’s wrong?” I rush to his side.

The flame beneath a second pan sparks bright orange. Something sizzles. Ross turns toward it. “Shit.”

He dumps the mushrooms into the first pan and reaches for a wooden spoon, stirring the mixture.

“Like I said, we might be in trouble,” Harley mumbles somewhere behind us.

Placing my hand on Ross’s back, I peer into the first pan. Whatever is inside is boiling at a high heat and giving off a slightly noxious fume.

“Whatcha making?” I don’t want to be anxious, or critical, but it doesn’t look . . . appetizing.

“It’s supposed to be mushroom risotto.”

I glance from the pan to Ross. “Do you know how to make mushroom risotto?” Because I’m pretty certain it’s not by boiling mushrooms, or with the goopy mess of rice inside the second pan.

“Not really.” Ross lowers his eyes and rolls his lips. His broad shoulders fall. He’s so disappointed in himself, it is endearing. He wanted to make us dinner. Me and my girls.

I reach for the stove and turn off the flames. “Maybe we should just order pizza.” With my hand still stroking up his back, I try to sooth the blow to his ego while reassuring him pizza is a good idea.

“Are you . . . Ross Davis?” Hannah asks, echoing her sister’s tone from yesterday morning, and reminding us of our audience.

I drop my hand, and Ross and I turn as one, watching Hannah’s eyes widen. “You are Ross Davis.”

“Brilliant. My family has strongly confirmed who you are,” I mutter to him.

“And your mom is V. C. Hux,” Harley states, sounding equally impressed by me when I haven’t been the one to explain to him who I am.

I turn toward Ross. “You told him?”

“He asked questions.”

“Kids have a nasty habit of doing that.” I laugh.

Ross and I smile at one another until Hannah interjects again. “Are you two dating?” Her question is stated as if she can’t believe it. Her mom. A famous baseball coach. Like how incredulous would that be?

“Who’s dating?” The strong masculine voice comes from a dark-haired kid who is the image of his father in body stature. Height. Width. His face is round, but his eyes are molten chocolate.

“I think your dad is dating our mom,” Laurel clarifies for the young man I assume is Landon.