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“That would be great.” I bite my bottom lip.
“We should probably leave your room before I try to get you out of your clothes and ruin your mother’s good impression of me.”
“That’s probably a smart idea. She really seems to like you.”
“And we definitely want to keep it that way.” He dips down to kiss me one last time, then rearranges himself in his pants before he unlocks the door. He stops abruptly, which means I bump into his back, and he has to grip the doorjamb so he doesn’t stumble forward.
“Oh hi, Hattie.” Miles’s voice is slightly pitchy as he lifts his hand in a wave, then turns sideways and motions for me to go ahead of him. “Ladies first.”
Hattie grins widely and I silently plead with my eyes for her not to mortify me more than my own mouth and Mom already have. “Miles. It’s nice to see you again.”
“I’m just giving him a tour of the house.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mom’s making scrambled eggs.”
Hattie’s eyes widen and dart between me and Miles. “You should leave now unless you want to get sucked into staying for breakfast.”
“We already agreed to the eggs,” Miles says from behind me.
Hattie’s expression says more than I want it to. “Do you want to fake a cat emergency?”
Miles’s fingers rest on my hip. “We don’t need to do that. Do we?”
I glance over my shoulder. He looks like he’s trying to figure out whether Hattie is being dramatic or not.
I shrug. “I can make something up if the awkward level gets too high.”
“I’ll jump in if I need to,” Hattie offers.
Miles looks like he has a lot of questions. He and I follow Hattie downstairs, and my palms start to sweat as we approach the kitchen. I can’t remember the last time we had someone over for a meal. And now I’m worried about the empty spot where my dad used to sit being set.
When we reach the kitchen, I’m relieved to see four places set. Not five. The toaster pops, and Hattie steps in to butter the toast. I grab the orange juice, and Miles takes it from me, giving it a shake before he pours it into glasses. I add salt and pepper and ketchup to the table. My mom asks me to slice tomatoes, and again, Miles steps in to help.
I expect breakfast to be awkward. But when the food is ready, we all sit down, Miles taking the seat that’s usually empty.
My mom smiles and shakes her napkin open. “It’s lovely to have a full table.”
And of course, because Prince Francis doesn’t like to be left out of anything, he tries to jump up and join us. My mom’s arm shoots out to thwart his landing. His legs splay and his mouth opens wide when he realizes there’s a barricade. He does a flip midair and lands on his feet with a quiet thud. “No cats on the table, Prince Francis.”
“That was impressive.” Miles claps in appreciation.
“Our old cat Smokey used to try that move all the time. Usually, we’d keep a spray bottle nearby, and that would be enough to keep him on the floor, but it’s been a while since we’ve had a four-legged friend around.” My mom pushes away from the table and grabs a fluted dessert dish, the kind we usually use during holiday dinners for ice cream. She spoons a small portion of scrambled egg into the dish and sets it on the floor next to her seat, then takes her place at the table again.
Breakfast is . . . normal. Miles is adorably charming, and it’s clear that my mom is a fan. She must tell him half a dozen times how nice it is to meet him. And that she hopes he’ll come for dinner sometime soon.
My phone pings with a message, and I use it as an excuse for us to get going.
Once we’re in his car I apologize again.
“When I picked you up, I knew I was going to meet your mother. I didn’t expect it to be a one-minute introduction,” he assures me.
“She really likes you.”
“Good, because I really like you, and having your mom’s seal of approval seems like it could be beneficial. Plus she makes great scrambled eggs.”
“I really need to think about moving out soon. My sister and I talked about it yesterday. When Hattie finishes school, she’ll probably move to the city, though, and then my mom will be alone in that house. It’s a lot for one person to take care of.” I voice some of the concerns I’ve been mulling over recently. Ironically, they coincide with meeting Miles.
“I’m sure she must realize you’re going to want to move out, too, at some point,” Miles says.
“Yeah. Probably. We’ve never talked about it.” I fiddle with the whiskers on the front of my purse. “I think . . . I feel like I owe it to her to stay.”
