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He's right. I need to stop worrying about everyone else and their lives. I have more than enough on my plate, anyway.
* * *
“Everything is perfect.”Callum shakes his head and whistles in appreciation once he pulls the lasagna from the oven. “It's nice that you made this, but what did you make for you and your father?”
“Stop flattering me.” I give him a look, placing my hand on my hip.
“That is not true. This is the most gorgeous lasagna I've ever seen.” I have to admit he's right, it's perfect, and the aroma of garlic hangs in the air once the garlic bread starts baking in the oven. Just a few minutes ago, I was too nervous to even consider eating, but now my stomach is growling.
I run both hands over the front of my polka-dotted dress. It's cute, simple enough for a family dinner. “Do you think I should have set the dining room table? Is eating in the kitchen too casual?”
“Relax, or I'll make you relax, and you know how that works.” He cups my shoulders and gently kisses my forehead. For his part, he looks gorgeous in a white polo shirt that sets off his tan skin and dark hair. “We could always eat in the dining room if you want, but if we're trying to convince Charlie of how normal things are around here, the three of us sitting at a table built for eighteen might seem a little much.”
“That's true. Good thinking.” He's right. I just need to take a breath. It would probably be easier to do that if I were sure of the kind of attitude Dad would have when he gets here. He seemed pleasantly surprised at the invitation and asked if he could bring anything. I told him to bring an open mind. He didn't seem to think that was funny.
“I think we make a pretty good team,” Callum announces, setting the salad on the table along with a small plate of cured meat, cheese, and olives. “I should give Sheryl the night off a few times a month. It'll give us the chance to cook together.”
“Nothing would make me happier.” And I mean that with all my heart. I could never have guessed we would come this far, happily fixing a meal together while music plays and we plan for the future. It almost feels too good to be true, and it's easy to imagine a time when our children will run around underfoot.
Please, Dad, don't ruin this.
Henry already knows to expect him, so there's no call announcing his arrival. There's only the ringing of the doorbell at ten minutes to seven. “He loves to be early,” I explain, untying my apron and heading for the front door. My heart's pounding, and my palms are slick with nervous sweat, but I somehow manage to plaster on a smile when I open the door.
He looks good, like he wants to come off as presentable tonight. His blue polo matches his eyes and looks brand-new. So do the gray slacks he's wearing. Actually, he looks like he got a haircut too.
“I hope you're hungry,” I tell him after kissing his smooth-shaven cheek. “I made enough lasagna to feed an army.”
His lips stir in a faint, almost disbelieving smile. “Lasagna. Your mom's favorite.”
“Charlie. Thanks for joining us tonight.” Callum plays the part of the charming, gracious host, extending a hand to shake. Here we go. My heart's in my throat, and I'm afraid I might throw up as I wait to see what Dad's reaction will be.
He hesitates for a split second, then extends his own hand for a firm shake. “Thank you for having me. I appreciate it.”
“After all, we have someone in common, don't we?” He raises an eyebrow. “Would you like a tour of the house?”
“No, thank you. That's not necessary.” The way Dad makes it sound, Callum just invited him to have a root canal.
That's my cue. “Dinner's ready. The lasagna is cooling slightly, but we have salad and antipasto.”
“That sounds terrific.” Callum leads the way to the kitchen while I sneak one look after another toward Dad. He doesn't have to say a word—I can read how his eyes move and his jaw twitches. He's looking around at all this luxury and thinking about how the money was made. When he catches me looking at him, I grimace and fold my hands like I'm begging him.
Please, don't mess this up for me.
“What can I get you to drink, Charlie?”
“I think I'll have water with dinner or iced tea if you have any.”
“I made sure there was some in the fridge.” Callum pours the drinks while I sit down with Dad, who's still peering around, taking everything in.
“This is a beautiful home,” he observes in what, for him, is a neutral tone of voice. “Very nice.”
“Your daughter is comfortable here,” Callum says, placing a glass of iced tea on the table. “And safe.”
“I sure hope so.” Their eyes meet, and I hold my breath. Dad only takes a sip of his tea and keeps his thoughts to himself.
By the time we settle in with our salads, some of the tension has dissolved. I guess when you're eating, there's less time to be angry or resentful. “Did Bianca ever tell you about the first time she tried to make dinner?” Dad asks out of nowhere, looking my way with a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, my God, can we not tell that story, please?” I groan while glaring at him.
