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Our arrival to the “caddy ride” immediately has me covering my mouth to stop the laughter from escaping. The tractor driver dressed up as Elvis is expected; however, the back portion where people sit, being spray painted a white gold with pretend doors and headlight attachments isn’t.
“Come on, now,” says the employee dressed as Priscilla, monitoring the ride. “Last chance to join his tour!”
Tate joyfully tugs me along, and the nerves regarding meeting his parents kick into high gear once again.
What if they don’t like me?
What if they don’t like their precious baby boy dating a “cradle chaser”, a term I can’t believe Nat says people – not her – actually use.
What if I slip up and say something wrong or accidentally insult them or their upbringings?
Is it too late to back out?
Should I have done that before I teased my hair to the high heavens while my boyfriend kept helping himself to handfuls of my thong sporting ass?
Before I realize it, we’re next to the vehicle, and he’s chuckling, “Elvis.”
An older, slightly huskier gentleman sitting near the back of the vehicle turns his direction, instantly beaming at the sight of what has to be his son. “Elvis!”
Wow.
It’s like looking at the ghost of Christmas future dressed like a rock-n-roll superstar.
They’ve got the same green eyes.
Same sharp features.
Even the way they wear their facial scruff matches.
The only major difference would be the shades of their skin and even that isn’t the hugest contrast.
Tate’s father extends an open palm to help me climb up onto the hayride. “Priscilla.”
During my ascending, I greet back, “Elvis.”
He grins wider, reminding me so much of his son who hops on after me that it’s almost alarming. Tate settles on the hay seat next to me and ushers a hand to the man wearing a navy-blue suit, “Elvis aka Dad meet Priscilla aka Harper. Priscilla,” he gestures a hand my direction, “meet Elvis aka Ronan, my dad.”
“Such a pleasure to meet you,” I politely exclaim while over enthusiastically waving.
Why am I waving?
Is my arm broken?
Am I shooing away horseflies?!
“And such a pleasure to finally meet you,” he warmly replies, Irish accent thick. “My son has gone on and on for ages about how phenomenal you are. It’ll be nice to experience it for ourselves.”
I cut him a quick curious glance to which he shrugs off. “You shouldn’t be so bloody amazing.”
Blushing doesn’t hesitate to begin and deepens when his father adds, “You definitely look amazing in character.” The second my stare is back his direction, he compliments further, “I’ve seen firsthand how hard that puff is to perfect. Rosa does it every year, and every year I swear the shite looks harder than it did the last.”
“That’s just because I’m trying to cover up the gray,” the breathtakingly beautiful woman dressed in a white dress with a huge brown bow in the front beside him argues. “Me muero con estas malditas canas.”
Laughter comes from both men who seem to understand whatever it is she said in Spanish.
Huh.
Am I gonna have to learn two languages to fit in around here?
