Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
ZARA
“Why does your face look like that?” I ask as soon as the Uber drives off, leaving our bags on the curb of my childhood home.
I glance at the stucco exterior and slate roof.
Not much has changed since I left for college.
Mom has planted some new rose bushes, and the concrete driveway has been redone, but everything else looks the same.
The basketball hoop that my sister and dad used to shoot hoops before dinner is still hanging above the garage, collecting spiderwebs and rust. My dad’s old SUV remains on the curb, adorned with its goofy “Science is cool” bumper stickers.
“Like what?” He also glances up at the house, but I can’t gauge his opinion because of the weird look on his face.
“Like you’re…” I search for the right word to describe the deep crease between his brow and the look of panic in his eyes. “Ready to bolt? Or maybe a little constipated? Shit, you’re not sick, are you?”
He rolls his eyes and grabs the duffle we packed along with his guitar. “I’m not sick.”
“Then what—” Realization hits me. “Oh, you’re nervous!”
He stops and looks at me, his cheeks flaming red. Oh my god, that’s adorable. “I’ve never met anyone’s parents before. I don’t want to fuck it up.”
I take a step forward until my nipples brush his chest. He must remember from our earlier sexathon at his house that I am not wearing a bra today because his eyes are cast downward. He swallows hard. Probably not the best idea to get him all riled up before we head inside, is it?
I reluctantly step back, and I swear he exhales for the first time in sixty seconds. Poor man really is terrified. “You’ve already met my mom,” I remind him.
“It’s not your mom I’m worried about.”
“You’re worried about my dad?” I snort, waving a hand. “Come on. Let me go introduce you to my super scary dad.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to give me? No pointers? No tips? I tried to warn you about my family.”
I tilt my head, feeling amused. “Hen, your family is lovely, and the only negative part of meeting them was that I didn’t get to spend more time with them.”
“Really?”
“Really. Now, as for my dad.” I tap a finger to my lips, trying to decide how best to explain him. Finally, an idea strikes me. “Have you ever noticed how my mom and sister always FaceTime me, but my dad doesn’t?”
“Yeah, I always wondered about that.”
I smile. I shouldn’t be surprised. He notices everything.
I pull out my phone, open my text history with my dad, and hand it to him. He scrolls back a bit and then looks at me. “He texts you a lot. He’s really proud of you.”
“Yeah, he is,” I confirm with a warm smile. “Texting is easier for him. He’s pretty introverted, and always having to be ‘on’ as a teacher and a coach is quite draining for him, so he’s quiet outside of work. Texting is an easy way for us to communicate that doesn’t stress him out.”
“So don’t go in there with a megawatt smile, ready to charm the pants off him? Is that what you’re saying?”
I grimace. “Is that what you were planning on doing?”
“I don’t have a fucking clue, Zara. Just kind of hoping he doesn’t murder me if I’m being honest.”
I laugh. “Well, think of it this way. You’re following up after the worst son-in-law of the century. How hard could it be?”
“You couldn’t have started with that?”
I simply shake my head in amusement. “Okay. Just go in there and be yourself. But keep in mind that if he hangs back or acts standoffish, it’s not you. It’s just him being himself.”
He nods. “Right. Got it.”
“Now.” I glance at the front of the house, where I see a flutter of curtains, and I grin. “We should probably head inside before they start to worry something is wrong.”
I take his free hand in mine. It’s his right hand, and I briefly glance down at it, noticing his firm grip. I look up at him, and there’s not even a hint of pain on his face.
Not the time, Zara.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Not even a little bit.”
“Great.” I laugh. “Let’s go.”
I really have no idea what he was so worried about.
Like everyone else in the world—except for my ex-husband, that is—my parents love Hendrix Creed.
My mom has been halfway infatuated with him since she caught us together in my hotel suite back in Nashville. But now? Now that infatuation has escalated into a full-blown obsession.
Even my dad likes him. His quiet appreciation of the new man in my life means everything. The way Hendrix not only respects my dad’s aloof personality but also leans into it, allowing him to initiate conversation rather than bombard him in a vain attempt to seek his approval—it’s perfect.
He’s perfect.
We are halfway through dessert, crammed into the kitchen where the small, circular dining table sits. It’s the same one that’s been here since I was a kid, and I can see the nicks and scratches from years of homework and craft projects. The entire house is like this. Worn. Loved. Full of memories.
Sometimes I dream of giving them enough money to remodel or even start fresh, but I often wonder if they would want to.
This house is filled of memories—Christmas mornings, birthday parties and movie nights.
It’s a bit dingy around the edges, but it’s not the sparkle that makes a home. I should know that better than most.
It’s the memories.
I blink back into reality and smile at the man next to me.
Hendrix is on his second helping of my mom’s famous karydopita, a Greek walnut cake.
He looks absolutely gorgeous in a pair of fitted jeans and a gray Henley.
When he finishes his bite, he turns his attention to my mom and asks, “Are you two going to the concert tomorrow?”
He knows they aren’t. I told him when we secured tickets for his family. He knew how bummed I was that my mom—I’d never ask my dad to go to something so chaotic—wouldn’t be there to see me thriving. Still, I don’t say a word and wait to see where this goes.
“Oh no. I don’t think I can handle all that fuss at my age.” My mom shakes her head and takes a sip of her coffee.
“That’s too bad,” Hendrix says, setting his fork down on his empty plate. He glances up at the wall clock, and I feel it. Something is about to happen. “I know Asher will miss seeing you.”
My mom’s eyes nearly pop right out of her head. “You. He…What?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mom trip over her words before. Ramble? Sure. Give a heated lecture when we show up past curfew? Hell yes. But to be rendered almost speechless?
He’s going to have to teach me that trick.
Hendrix grins. “Well, he loves having Zara on tour. We all do. The whole crew adores her, and I was telling him how I was coming over for dinner today. I mentioned how big of a fan you were, and he said how much he was looking forward to meeting you.”
“He did?”
“Yeah, he—” The sound of a phone buzzing cuts him off, and he holds up a single finger, which in most cases would be a really douchey thing to do when you’re in the middle of dinner with your girlfriend’s parents.
But when he pulls out his phone, and I see that mischievous glint in his eye, I know it was planned.
“Oh, what a coincidence. Do you mind if I take this?”
My mom absently shakes her head back and forth.
I think this woman has finally met her match when it comes to meddling.
I glance over at my dad. His dark-brown hair has grayed over time, and his lanky frame has softened a bit, but he still has that all-American good looks that made my mom fall hard for him in college.
His eyes crinkle at the corners, and a tiny smile is painted across his lips as he watches the scene unfold before him.
Hendrix swipes his thumb across the screen, and the sound of a FaceTime call connecting fills the air. “Oh, hey man,” he says, all nonchalant, like he didn’t set this whole thing up.
I guess I know why he wasn’t worried about my mom.
Not when he had freaking Asher Knight in his back pocket.
“Hey,” Asher’s familiar voice replies. “How’s it going?”
“Good. Zara and I are enjoying an amazing meal with her folks. Her mom made stifado and this amazing walnut cake. I don’t think I’ve eaten this well in years.”
My mom beams with pride. She’s not very close with her parents, so cooking is her only real tangible link to her mother’s heritage that she still clings to, and I know it means a lot to her to hear his praise.
I lean over and wave into the camera. “Hey, Asher.”
“Hey, Doc.” Instead of the casual clothes I usually see him in around the hotel, he’s in his signature rocker look that he wears on stage, except for one slight change. He’s wearing a shirt tonight, which is probably for the best.
No need to give my mom a heart attack.
“Karydopita, huh? No baklava? That’s always a personal favorite of mine.”
My mom’s eyes go all big and round when he correctly pronounces the name of the traditional Greek walnut cake she loves to make. Damn, Asher is good, and she’s so smitten. “Next time, I’m sure,” I tell him, resting my head on Hen’s shoulder. He kisses the top of my head.
My mom shakes her head. “Too much work,” she admits with a nervous laugh and a wave of her hand. “I’m too old. If we want baklava, we get it from a nice restaurant in the city.”
I can tell we’re getting off topic, and he wants to get to the point of whatever this is when he suddenly says, “So…what’s up?”
“Right. Yeah.” Asher seems a bit caught off guard, and his next words come out stilted, almost as if he’s reading from a script or rehearsing something.
“I was reviewing the list of VIP tickets tonight with the staff…” I highly doubt this is something he actually does.
Although after the incident with Tanner, maybe it is.
“And it reminded me how disappointed I was when I discovered I wouldn’t get the privilege to meet Zara’s mother.
I wanted to see if I could persuade Mrs. Valentine to join us at the concert tomorrow. ”
Wow, he’s laying it on thick. I seriously want to know what Hendrix promised him to get him to do this. It has to be something equally embarrassing, right? Because Asher isn’t the type of guy who exactly needs anything.
If it is, I so want to be there when he comes to collect.
“Hmm, I don’t know,” Hendrix replies. “She was pretty adamant about not going. Maybe you could convince her?”
And then he hands her the phone, and my mom is staring wide-eyed at Asher Knight.
“Hello, Mrs. Valentine,” he says in that sexy Scottish accent of his.
She keeps staring. It’s like watching one of those dog videos on TikTok where the caption is “No thoughts, just vibes.” That is my mom right now.
Asher seems accustomed to this kind of reaction because he just rolls with it and keeps talking. “I was hoping I could convince you to come to the concert tomorrow night. I know you’ve already been offered VIP tickets, so I’m curious. What else can we do to sweeten the deal?”
“She’s worried it will be too loud,” I say, raising my voice so he can hear me.
“Right.” I hear him acknowledge. “Easy enough, that. We can give you headphones that will dampen the sound, like the crew uses. What else?”
“Ask for anything,” Hendrix whispers in my ear.
“Seriously. I know you said she has reservations about getting there and is self-conscious about her appearance. I want her to want to go, not just be talked into it. She deserves to feel spoiled for a night. Don’t worry about the cost. Just get her there. ”
My eyes sting with unshed tears, but I simply nod.
I open my mouth, but my dad, of all people, beats me to it. “She’ll need a way to get there. She doesn’t like driving at night.”
“Done,” Asher says. “How does a limo sound? Or perhaps something a little less flashy if that’s too—”
“Limo!” She perks up. “I want the limo.”
We all bark out a laugh, and suddenly, my mom has found her voice and her ability to advocate for herself. “I have nothing to wear and my hair is a mess, you see?” She runs a palm through her dyed brown hair.
“I think it’s beautiful, but there’s nothing wrong with a wee bit of pampering. How about a full day at the spa? And some shopping? Zara can join, yeah?”
Well, now the tears are leaking down my cheeks, and I’m nodding. My mom and I have spent plenty of quality time together over the years, but nothing so extravagant.
Not even when I was married to Tanner and had the means to.
I was always too afraid to spend his money—because it was his. And he always made sure I knew it.
“That would be great, Ash. Thanks.”
“No need to thank me—”
“I want a picture!” my mom interrupts. “With you. I will put it on the mantel by my harp.”
I nearly choke on my own saliva. Is this the same starstruck woman I saw just five minutes ago?
“Well, that’s a given, Mrs. Valentine.” I swear Asher’s brogue grows thicker with each syllable. God, he’s a charmer. “Can’t allow my number one fan to leave without grabbing a photo, now can we?”
When the call ends a few minutes later, a hush falls over the table, and then my mom lets out the girliest giggle I think I’ve ever heard. Her hand covers her mouth as her eyes turn into tiny slits. Soon, the entire table is laughing right along with her.
Even my stoic father.
“I’m gonna meet a rock star!” she squeals.
“Uh, hate to break it to you, Mom, but you already did.”
“Oh.” She waves a hand in Hendrix’s direction. “He doesn’t count. He’s family now.”
I feel Hendrix stiffen next to me, and for a moment, I wonder if my mom has overstepped. But when I sneak a glance in his direction, I see it—the deep swell of emotion swimming behind his eyes.
Yeah, Mom. He sure is.