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“A girl can dream.” I muttered before I climbed into the spacious interior and relaxed against the black leather seat. A minute later Bastian climbed into the car. As soon as he closed the door, his hand snaked around the back of my neck, pulling my mouth to his. He whispered against my lips, “Please don't let my parents intimidate you tonight. They're a lot to take—you are who I want, okay?”
“They aren't going to like me, are they?”
He turned more fully in his seat and his hand palmed my cheek. “My parents don't like anyone who doesn't come with her own portfolio. I don't give a shit about what they want, because I know what I want.”
“Okay.”
***
The club. What could I say about the club? I hated it. From the moment we pulled into the gated drive and saw the lush, rolling hills of golf-green; the perfectly tended garden beds planted with gold, rust and burgundy mums in precise symmetry, and the sprawling Greek revival clubhouse with its huge white columns and fancy pediments, I hated it. The parking attendants probably made more money than my uncle.
As we pulled around the circular drive for the valet, I wondered if Bastian's parents ever considered a quiet, family dinner in their own home as opposed to one in so stuffy and conceited a place. My attention shifted to him to see he was clenching his jaw and knew he felt the same way about the club as I did.
“Did they even ask you if you wanted to come here for your dinner or did they decree it?”
His eyes met mine and I saw the answer.
“How would you have liked to spend your birthday?”
“With you.”
“That's a given, but how?”
“I would have liked hanging out with pizza, soda and a cake: a big chocolate cake.”
“You won't even get cake tonight, will you?”
“Not real cake. Maybe some sponge thing drenched in liquor and topped with shit I can't even pronounce.”
I grew up invisible and Bastian grew up inconsequential. I hadn't even met his parents and already I didn't like them.
We parked before Bastian climbed from the car and came around to my side to help me out. He reached for my hand and held it tightly in his as we made our way inside.
His parents were already there and so was his brother. We made our way through the dining area and I took the opportunity to study the people who had given Bastian life.
His father had perfectly cut black hair, laced—almost highlighted, it was so perfect—with gray. His eyes were more gray than blue, but I could see Bastian in his features. From the way he eyed his fellow diners, he was more interested in everyone else in the room than his own family, specifically his son whose birthday he was here to celebrate.
His mother did look beautiful with sable brown hair and indigo blue eyes. Dressed in a sapphire-blue silk sheath that hugged her perfect figure, she didn't seem old enough to have two grown sons. Unlike her husband, her attention was fixed on her son, but I didn't see love in her expression, only censure as if she was checking him over for flaws.
His brother, Dominic, looked so much like Bastian it was a bit scary. He wasn't as tall or solidly built as Bastian, but love and humor shone from his greenish-blue eyes. At least Bastian had that.
We reached the table as Dominic and the father stood; Bastian made the introductions. “Mom, Dad, Dom, this is my girlfriend, Larkspur. Lark, my mom and dad, Jennifer and Sinclair Ross, and my brother, Dom.”
“Hello, Larkspur, we are so glad you could join us this evening. Please sit,” Jennifer said as she gestured to my chair.
Bastian helped me to my seat before taking the seat next to me.
“Thank you, I’m really happy to be here,” I said just as the waiter handed us our menus. The tension in the air was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. I had never felt so uncomfortable. The conversation remained forced and very impersonal and then quite suddenly the focus turned to me.
“Larkspur, tell us about your family,” his dad asked.
“My mom died when I was eight, so I live with my uncle and aunt. He's an attorney and my aunt stays home with the kids.” I saw the disgust in Sinclair's expression and assumed that was due to my aunt staying home with the kids instead of having a nanny doing so. I couldn't help but think that was strike one.
“Are they members here?” He asked.
“No.” Strike two.
“What about your dad?” He pressed.
