The Virgin Society Collection

42. Good Taste

42

GOOD TASTE

Nick

I take the temperature quickly. His hair’s not a wild mess, like it is when he’s stressed. His eyes aren’t icy either.

I hold my breath as we head upstairs to my home, then go inside. He drops his messenger bag by the door, then says, “Sooooo.”

I tuck that sooooo in my pocket as I sweep out an arm toward the kitchen counter. “Want a drink? Water? LaCroix?” That seems as safe a conversation starter as any.

“I’m good,” he says, then beelines for a stool.

I join him. “Sooooo…”

He blows out a breath. “Sorry again about last night. What I said.”

Dismissing it, I shake my head. “It’s behind us.”

“Good,” he says, then drags a hand through his hair. “It just really sucks that you lied to me.”

Damn, he doesn’t hold back, and I admire the hell out of that. “I know it does,” I say, owning it.

“And I know she did too, but I’m pissed at you,” he says, pointing at me. Like I need the extra reminder.

“I get that,” I say as evenly as I can, though inside I’m freaking out over the ominous sound of the word pissed .

“I mean, we spent all this time together, Dad,” he says, full of intensity and hurt.

“We did.” I don’t try to argue with him. There is no argument.

“I was living here for a week. Were you?—”

“—No.”

That’s all I’m going to say on that. He must sense it, because he drops that topic with a heavy, “Anyway.” Then, he keeps going. “I just feel like, how could you encourage me with the fundraiser, and with work, and with Cynthia, and then you’re seeing my friend?”

He stares at me, clearly waiting for an answer.

“I messed up. I should have said something. I thought I wouldn’t see her again,” I say, then hold up my hands in surrender. “In retrospect, that was foolish of me to think and to do. But I did it. And now I’m with her. And I’m sorry I lied about it.”

Quizzically, David studies me, like he can find the answer to something in my expression. “You’re not going to say you didn’t think I could handle it? That’s not why you didn’t tell me?”

Seriously? “God, no. Well, I knew you had a lot on your plate with the fundraiser and the new job. But I didn’t think that . I think you’re pretty good at handling most things. This included. I didn’t tell you because I thought—wrongly—that I would stop seeing her.”

“That didn’t happen,” he says.

“No. It didn’t.”

He’s quiet again, eyes darting around the kitchen before he returns his gaze to me. “You really like her?”

That doesn’t even begin to cut it. But I don’t need or want to dive into the nuances of my emotions for Layla. That’s not a conversation we should have. “I do,” I say and leave it at that.

He leans his head back, like he’s absorbing this new detail. “This is weird. You know this is weird, right?”

There’s a hint of a laugh in his tone.

That gives me the okay to chuckle too. “I sure do.”

“So this is real? You and Layla are a thing now?”

I nod decisively. “We are.”

He goes quiet again, dipping his face, staring at the black marble as if he’s lost in thought. “Thanks again for hosting the fundraiser. That meant a lot to me,” he says to the counter, like he has to drag those words up from the depths of his soul. “And the flowers for Cynthia. And the breakfasts.”

“Anytime,” I say, grabbing onto some hope at last, clutching it in my hands.

When David raises his face, he no longer looks conflicted. He seems…resolved. “Cyn and I talked last night. She told me about your visit. That was super cool of you, to play cards with her.”

It sounds like it costs him something to say that, but it also sounds like it’s a cost he’s willing to pay.

“I was happy to do it.”

“It meant a lot to her…and it means a lot to me,” he says, the hurt vanishing from his tone.

I’m tense, but it’s a good tension, full of hope and possibility.

“It’s still weird though,” he says.

“I hear you.”

“I mean…we dated the same girl, Dad,” he says, then turns to me, his eyes saying can you believe that .

“Yeah,” I say, then I just shrug like what can you do ? “I guess good taste runs in the Adams men.”

He snort-laughs. “Oh, god. Please. No dad jokes about Layla.”

“That was not a dad joke.”

“That was a dad joke,” he insists.

I’ll let him have this victory since I’ve won something better. His respect. “Fine. It was,” I add, then I gesture to the kitchen. “Stay for dinner?”

He lifts one brow in the biggest question of all time. “She’s not coming over for dinner, is she? Because I’m not ready for a family meal to meet your… new girlfriend .”

I laugh. “No. She’s not.”

I picture Layla right now, maybe out with friends, or shooting a video, or practicing Krav Maga, but still concerned about David and his feelings. She’s let me take the lead, but she wants to make things right with him as well. I set a hand on his shoulder. “She cares deeply about you. She thinks of you as a good friend and doesn’t want to lose you.”

David nods thoughtfully. “I’ll see her soon. I promise. But it’s going to take a while for me to get the image out of my head of her telling me at the diner that she was going to have a date with some sexy, powerful man she met at a conference .” He mimes gagging.

I just laugh. What else can I do? Especially since that’s a hell of a compliment.

But as I’m about to head to the kitchen, he grabs my arm, his face deadly serious. “Don’t hurt her.”

It’s a cold, clear warning.

“I won’t,” I say, assuring him.

He squeezes harder. “I mean it. She’s been through a lot. She’s one of the strongest, toughest, brightest, most supportive people I know. And if you break her heart, I don’t know that I can forgive you for that.”

I fucking love him. I extend a hand. “That’s fair. And I promise you, I won’t break her heart.”

He shakes. “Don’t lie to me again either.”

Chastened, I agree. “I won’t.”

On that note, our roles return to the way they were. I wave him into the kitchen. “Get in here. You need to learn to cook.”

On a grumble, he follows me.