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Mom’s smile thinned.

“I’m so sorry,” Rory said. “I’ll clean it up.”

“Nonsense.” Mom waved her away, trying to sound brave while staring at the melting snow on her pristine floor. “We need to get you warmed up and into a hot bath.”

I was going to volunteer as tribute to run that hot bath for Rory, but Mom was already beside her, threading an arm through hers before Rory could even remove her coat and mittens. She gave my dad a meaningful look before ushering Rory away.

This storm had done me zero favors.

I wanted to celebrate our semi-engagement privately with Rory.

Rory looked back at me as my mom hauled her up the stairs as if to say, Sorry, and I love you, but, buddy, the hot water comes first right now.

As if trying to console me, George sidled up and rubbed his wet body against my leg, the smell of wet dog overpowering the cinnamon-scented candles Mom had burning.

Dad stood there, pensive, giving me an uneasy stare.

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “You don’t need to run me a bath.”

His normal stoic expression broke, and he cracked a smile.

He cleared his throat before saying, “I would like to talk to you.”

“Do you mean Mom wants you to talk to me?” I couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of my voice.

Dad’s shoulders lifted and fell beneath his parka. “Son,” he said with more tenderness than I knew he was capable of, “can we please talk?”

I knew we would probably have to sooner or later.

“Sure. Just let me clean up George’s mess.”

Before Dad could respond, a loud squeal from upstairs rang through the large house.

“Look at that gorgeous ring! Are you engaged?” Mom shouted.

Dad’s eyes widened. “Are you engaged?”

“That’s a good question.” I glanced toward the stairs. “Possibly. I don’t really know for sure.”

Dad’s brows knit together.

“It’s complicated,” I said, answering the question he wasn’t asking out loud.

“All right,” Dad said. “I’ll grab some towels to soak up George’s mess, and then we can talk in the den.”

I nodded, resigned to the father-son chat awaiting me.

I sat on the entryway bench and shed my coat and boots while trying to keep George close. The last thing I needed was him tearing through my parents’ house like a wet mop with legs.

I wanted him dried off before I let him loose in a place where it looked like even the throw pillows had rules. Honestly, the throw pillows probably did have rules. Mom was very particular about how they were arranged.

While holding his leash, I kept glancing up the stairs, wondering what Rory was telling my mom. I hoped they were already planning our wedding.

Dad returned with a stack of towels. He cleaned the floor while I dried George off, rubbing a towel over his thick fur while he leaned into me, enjoying himself. I was glad someone was.

Neither Dad nor I said a word, but the tension was palpable. Even the low hum of Christmas carols playing through the surround-sound speakers didn’t add any levity to the situation.

We both took our time and avoided eye contact, neither of us looking forward to this meeting of the minds.