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“You should have brought a bigger bottle,” Sinclair muttered under her breath then fixed a smile on her face and stepped back. “Sorry, Mother. I didn’t realize you’d invited guests.”
“Just Shane. It was all very spur-of-the-moment. I happened to be at city hall on Friday afternoon, and—”
“You happened to be at city hall?” Sinclair’s eyes narrowed on her mother this time. “Since when do you frequent city hall?”
“It’s a lovely building. I had an urge to stop in and appreciate the architecture.”
Yeah, she’d been lying in wait. He’d recognized as much the moment he’d stepped out of his office to find her at his door, proclaiming, ‘Why Shane Maguire, what a surprise to find you here,’ while wearing an expression conveying absolutely no surprise. Meanwhile, he’d been disconcerted to realize she’d sought him out, and within seconds, she’d very tidily hemmed him into the dinner commitment. He also recognized a command performance when he received one. The invitation was Mrs. Smith’s way of saying, You’ve been running around town with my daughter. Her father and I want a look at you.
Fine by him. They weren’t in high school anymore, and he was too old to be sneaking around behind anyone’s back. And, ultimately, he didn’t want to. He’d kept their relationship secret to be with the girl, because otherwise, it wouldn’t have happened, but now he wanted to get to know the woman, and he didn’t intend to slink around in shadows to do it.
That said, he wasn’t sure exactly what to expect from tonight. He was a little thin on dinner-with-the-parents experience. Deliver aid packages to refugees while under fire from insurgents? No problem. Set up operations on the unstable rubble of earthquake-ravaged settlements to spearhead rescue efforts? Piece of cake. Spend the evening under a parental inquisition? The idea made him sweat.
Back in the day, he never would have been allowed to mow their lawn, much less walk right through the door and sit down to dinner. In his mind, the Smiths represented a “real” family. They lived in an honest-to-God house, ate meals together around an actual table, and her parents stayed reasonably plugged in to what their daughters were up to—and gave a crap for reasons other than how big of a headache the activities might cause them. Given all that, he had to anticipate a grilling this evening, but he figured the flowers might sway things his way. Show Mrs. Smith he’d learned some manners over the last ten years. He held them out.
“These are for you. Rumor has it you’re partial to them.”
She leaned in to take the flowers. “I am. Thank you, Shane. They’re beautiful—”
“Here,” Sinclair reached for the bouquet. “I’ll put them in water.”
“Nonsense.” Cheryl intercepted, and he transferred the sunflowers to her. “I’ll take care of it.” She took the wine as well. “I need to check on dinner, anyway. Please show Shane into the living room and get your father to pour him a drink.”
For a moment, Sinclair looked like she wanted to argue, but apparently, she weighed the option of leaving him alone with her father against chaperoning him to the living room and came out on the side of playing chaperone. “This way,” she said and walked across the entryway. He followed, appreciating the sway of her hips beneath the clingy gray knit. She led him into a formal living room decorated in shades of blue and white. The sheer abundance of fabric—curtains, sofa, loveseat, wing chairs, and coordinated pillows gracing every cushion—announced a woman had dominated the decorating decisions in the room, but it fit the traditional style of the house.
A tall, dark-haired man unfolded himself from one of the wing chairs when they entered. Bill Smith. Shane wagered Sinclair got her tendency to speak her mind, and her stubborn streak, from her mother, but in terms of coloring and build, she was her father’s daughter. Same long, lean frame. Same jet-black hair and dark-blue eyes. Those eyes were calmly sizing him up, which he took as a good sign. The man had reserved his opinion until he could judge for himself.
“Dad, this is—”
“Shane Maguire,” her father finished for her, and extended his hand. “Cheryl mentioned something about a guest,” he said vaguely at Sinclair’s what-the-hell look.
“Yes, sir,” Shane confirmed and shook his hand.
“Call me Bill, please.” He gestured at the lowball glass in his other hand. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Whatever you’re having…”
“Bourbon?”
Shane inclined his head. “That works.”
“I’ll have th
e same,” Sinclair added. “Straight up.”
“Two bourbons,” Bill repeated and moved to a cabinet containing the bar.
A wall covered in framed photographs caught Shane’s eye. He wandered closer. The montage included some family shots, but mostly pictures of Sinclair and Savannah in various stages of growing up. His attention homed in on one featuring a chubby toddler—maybe two years old—wearing a diaper, and an assload of jewelry. Strings of pearls draped her neck. Bracelets of all sizes and styles stacked their way up her little arms. Multiple rings graced every finger. A tiara of necklaces crowned soft, dark curls. The oversize smile on her face pulled a laugh out of him. “I like this outfit.”
Sinclair groaned. “Dad, make mine a double.”
Her father strolled over, chuckling, and handed Shane a drink. “Pace yourself, kiddo,” he said as he handed Sinclair hers. “Your mom’s got memory boxes, and she’s not afraid to haul them out.”
“Jesus, save me.” Sinclair took a gulp of the bourbon.
“Dinner’s ready,” Cheryl called from the archway.
He stepped aside and let her lead them into the dining room. It looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. A crystal chandelier cast a gleam on an oval dining table adorned with matching china, real cloth napkins, and something even rarer in his experience—a home-cooked meal.
