Chapter 25
So now all I had to do was… tell my dad that former superstar and actor in one of his favorite movies — he saw the original movies in theaters, I was just a precursor kid — was going to be at our doorstep in less than an hour.
Cool. Fine. Totally normal Friday.
I stared at the message until the words blurred, then shoved my phone deep into my pocket like I could bury the whole situation with it.
Dad was in the kitchen when I padded in. He had his readers pushed up on his head like sunglasses and was using a steak knife to open a package instead of scissors.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey, bug.” He didn’t look up. “How was work?”
“I have a date tonight.” I blurted out before I could lose my nerve.
He paused. Blinked. Lowered the knife. “What?”
“It’s casual. Or — it’s not. I don’t know. It’s new.”
He turned to face me, not saying anything. An eyebrow quirked upwards, along with the corner of his mouth. “Is he — she? — coming here?”
“Yeah,” I was blushing. I could feel the heat in my cheeks. “He should be here soon.”
“Who is he?” He lowered his readers, knife still in his hand.
“Just some guy.” I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “You don’t have to wait up.”
The doorbell rang, and I about jumped out of my skin. “Is that some guy?” My dad asked with a huge grin, pushing past me.
“Maybe put the steak knife down?” I shouted after him, burying my head in my hands.
“Absolutely not.” I heard his voice in the hallway. “I did a piss-poor job of protecting you from the last jackass. I’ll be damned if I let you get hurt again.”
Tears pricked my eyes. He was a man of few words, but God was I lucky to have him.
“Good evening.” He swung the door open. “Welc—”
Silence.
Awkward, stilted silence.
I knew I should save him — both of them — but I would let them stew, just for a minute.
“Holy fuck. You’re Eryk Moonstrider.”
“I go by Ansel these days, sir.” I peeked around the kitchen door, and there they were — Ansel Barlowe and my father, shaking hands like some deeply cursed crossover episode.
“Junie,” my dad’s voice rang out. “Your caller is here.”
And in Ansel’s other hand?
A bouquet of sunflowers.
Bright, golden, hopeful.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” he said, catching my eye. “But I looked up what flowers weren’t toxic to cats, and apparently sunflowers are safe for Lance.”
My heart didn’t stand a chance.
Dad let out a low whistle under his breath. “I like this guy,” he muttered, stepping aside to let Ansel in.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he was already heading toward the kitchen, knife still in one hand, patting Ansel on the shoulder like he’d invited him.
And then Ansel turned to me with that crooked little smile, holding out the flowers like they were a peace offering and he was still hoping I might forgive him for being exactly what I wanted.
“Hi,” he said, quiet.
I reached out and took the bouquet, fingers brushing his.
“Hi.”
I waved goodbye to my dad, reminded him not to wait up, and ducked out.
He opened the car door for me.
Because of course he did. Like we were on the Bachelor and he’d been trained in old-school chivalry instead of grown in a petri dish by Hollywood stylists and PR handlers. He even reached over to fasten my seatbelt, like he hadn't absolutely already gotten to second base in a pool at a cast party.
The car was quiet, except for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional flick of the turn signal. I watched the lights pass overhead, casting stripes of gold and shadow across Ansel’s face.
He hadn’t said much since I got in.
He hadn’t touched me either.
Not even a hand on the small of my back, like he’d done before. No teasing smirk, no heat. Just this quiet, brittle sort of patience. Like he was afraid I’d shatter if he pushed too hard.
I hated how much I wanted him to push.
“How was set?” I asked mostly just to fill the silence.
He glanced over, mouth tugging into something half a smile. “Long. Boring. Hot.”
“Oh,” I said. “I guess that’s—”
“I kept thinking about you,” he cut in, quiet. “All day.”
I swallowed. Hard.
“That’s not fair,” I whispered, turning my face back toward the window.
“I know,” he said. He didn’t push it. Just let it sit there between us, like a lit match on the seat.
We pulled up in front of the rental house a few minutes later. He parked, but neither of us moved. “I can drive you home later,” he said. “If you want to just talk.”
I turned to look at him.
His eyes were steady. Open. A little wrecked around the edges.
“I just want to talk.”
He cut the car off with a nod, quickly coming around to my side of the door. He offered a hand and a smile. “Okay, let’s talk.”