Page 52 of Big Girl Panties

How Not to Impress Your Girlfriend's Dad…

Brooke leaned in close, her breath tickling my ear as she whispered conspiratorially, "It's not too late to fake a medical emergency. I've got WebMD bookmarked on my phone."

I nearly choked on my water, trying not to laugh. "Appendicitis to escape dinner?"

"Food poisoning is more believable," she whispered back, her smile so bright it could power a small city as her mother approached with what I was pretty sure was her fourth glass of wine. "There's a Denny's about ten minutes down the road."

My brows raised. "Are you suggesting we ditch your parents' dinner for Grand Slam pancakes?"

"I'm not not suggesting it.".

I stifled a laugh. We were already seated at her parents' formal dining table. Escaping now would involve Olympic-level hurdling over fine china and one very judgmental schnauzer. "It's definitely too late," I murmured through gritted teeth, giving Mrs. Wallace my most charming smile, the one that usually got me out of speeding tickets.

Mrs. Wallace reached for the wine bottle; her eyebrows raised. "How did you two meet?" The question came out slightly slurred, but her curiosity was genuine.

How did we meet?

That was a tricky question. Not necessarily the meeting part, but the how.

My gaze shifted to Brooke, a soft smile pulling at the corner of her lips when her eyes met mine, and I knew she was remembering that first night.

I had two options: Tell the whole embarrassing truth about losing a bet and having to ask out the most gorgeous woman at Murphy's Bar, or…

Before I could decide, Mr. Wallace leaned forward with a smirk that would make the Grinch proud. "What bet did you lose?"

Brooke's face went redder than her mother's wine. "DAD!"

"Actually," Brooke jumped in, shooting her father a look that could have melted his mustache, "we met at Murphy's Bar. Matt was bartending."

Mrs. Wallace's eyes lit up like she'd just discovered they were serving chocolate cake for dessert. She'd clearly had one too many glasses of wine. "Oh, you're a bartender too? How wonderful!"

I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling like I was about to confess to a crime I didn't commit. "Uh, well... not exactly. I may have pretended to be the bartender to work up the courage to talk to Brooke."

The silence that followed was so thick you could have cut it with Mrs. Wallace's good china.

Mr. Wallace looked like he was trying to solve a math problem that didn't add up. "You…" He gestured at me like I was a particularly confusing piece of furniture. "A guy who is always photographed with a different model, needed courage to talk to…"

"The most beautiful woman in the room," I cut him off smoothly, turning to Brooke with what I hoped was my most charming smile.

"So you have a thing for bigger girls," Mr. Wallace said, and the temperature in the room dropped about forty degrees.

I felt my jaw clench so hard I was pretty sure I heard something crack. "I have a thing for incredible women. The fact that Brooke happens to be gorgeous is just a bonus."

"How progressive of you," he said in a tone that suggested it was anything but a compliment.

Mrs. Wallace's knuckles whitened around her fork. She exhaled slowly, visibly composing herself. "That's enough." Her voice was steady, betraying none of the tension coursing through my own body. "Why don't we change the subject?"

I was in Brooke's family home with her mother and father. I could not body slam her father into the table even if I wanted to, and fuck did I want to right now.

The dining room air grew thick with unspoken words and simmering resentment. Each clink of silverware against China plates echoed unnaturally loud in the strained atmosphere.

Brooke sat rigidly in her chair, her shoulders hunched as if trying to make herself smaller. Mrs. Wallace's eyes darted nervously between her husband, Brooke, and me, her hands fidgeting with her cream-colored napkin on the table next to her plate.

Mr. Wallace, apparently immune to his wife's warning signals, pressed on. "So you're a wrestler? That's not exactly what I'd call a stable career."

"Well," I forced a smile, "it's more stable than my brief career as a fake bartender."

Brooke snorted, then tried to cover it with a cough.