Chapter 25 #2
"Oh, it's lovely to meet you too. Um…" He hesitates, shaking Grayson's hand. "Are you a friend of our Jen-Jen?"
"A little more than that, actually. I'm her fiancé."
My father freezes mid-handshake. Mom stops hugging me, her smile vanishing as the color drains from her face.
You could hear a pin drop.
"I'm sorry," my mother says carefully. "Did you just say fiancé?"
"Yeah." I pull back and give her a tentative smile. "Surprise."
They gape—first at me, then at each other, then back again.
And then they both start talking at once.
"Jenna, what on earth—"
"Fiancé? What do you mean?"
A pause. Then they both start again, overlapping.
"This is not how you announce you're getting married! We've never even—"
"Are you kidding, Jenna? Is this real? Are you trying to—"
Another pause, and Mom grabs Dad's arm, squeezing it before asking in a deliberate tone, "How did you even meet this fiancé of yours?"
"Work," Grayson says—at the exact same moment I blurt, "In a bar."
We share a look. We really need to get our story straight.
"It's kind of both," I admit quickly. "Are you going to invite us in?"
"Of course, of course." Dad recovers first, ushering us inside while Mom still looks stunned. "We'd, uh… love to hear all about it," he says. "Please, come in. Grayson, can I get you a beer?"
They clear the doorway, and Grayson steps inside, quietly taking in the house.
"You have a beautiful home," he says—and it actually sounds genuine. Does he really see the effort they've poured into restoring the place over the years? The careful Victorian details they brought back after decades of trendy TV-inspired renovations? Or is he just being polite?
I know this home, bought cheap at auction and lovingly restored bit by bit, is nothing compared to his properties—not in size or elegance—but I've always loved it.
It's warm, comfortable, and has a kind of peace you can't bottle or buy.
It proclaims that the people who live here are happy and content, as clearly as if there were a banner over the door saying so.
It's my comfort zone whenever the city gets too much.
"Thank you," my mother says, still eyeing him as she leads us toward the living room. "Well, at least he's taller than the last one. Better-looking, too."
"Mother!"
"Yes, very tall," my father adds. "Maybe we'll get basketball players for grandkids."
"Father!"
"Budweiser okay for you, Grayson, or would you prefer one of those newfangled microbrewery concoctions—India Pale Ale, is it?—I think we have some left from when your cousin Josh visited last fall."
"I'll have whatever you're having, thank you, Mr. Marlowe."
"Budweiser it is, then. Now, what about food? It's almost lunchtime. Are you two hungry?"
"Don't put yourself out," Grayson says. "I'm not hungry."
"Nonsense," Mom says. "If you're not hungry now, you will be by the time he's done talking your ear off." She gestures toward my father, who gives her a wink and heads to the kitchen to fetch the beers and put the kettle on for coffee—for the ladies, of course.
Surprisingly, the visit goes pretty well after that.
Dad starts interrogating Grayson, and the questions get pretty personal, but Grayson handles it smoothly—answering honestly enough, leaving out only what he must. Once Dad's satisfied, the two of them dive into sports talk.
Though I've never once seen Grayson watch a game, he somehow manages to sound knowledgeable. Then they move on to cars—his real wheelhouse—and that's when the two of them start getting along like old pals.
Meanwhile, Mom bustles in the kitchen, emerging a few minutes later with a tray piled high with sandwiches on freshly baked French baguettes—turkey and egg salad, neatly arranged—and a big bowl of Lay's potato chips with a tub of Heluva Good French onion dip.
She's also brought two bottles of Lipton iced tea—for her and me—and two more Buds "for the boys. "
She hands out plates, then hovers over Grayson until he takes a couple of sandwiches and a handful of chips.
"Oh wow," he says, biting into one of the turkey sandwiches. "This bread… It's fantastic, Mrs. Marlowe."
"Thank you, dear." Mom beams. "I learned to make it back during Jenna's Paris phase."
"Paris phase?" he asks.
"Yes. She used to be obsessed with the place when she was a teenager—read everything about the French Revolution, Marie Antoinette, all that.
Then one year, her school organized an exchange trip near Paris, and she saved every penny for it.
We pitched in too. Then suddenly, it was like she did a complete one-eighty.
Wouldn't stop trash-talking the place because a friend of hers went and had a terrible experience.
You know how kids are." Mom sighs. "Oh well.
At least I learned how to make French bread.
We have it all the time now, don't we, dear? It's become quite the tradition here."
Dad nods solemnly in agreement, still munching on his baguette.
"Is that so?" Grayson glances at me, curiosity flickering in his eyes, clearly not buying the story entirely. I avoid his gaze. Sometimes he's just too perceptive for his own good.
"Glad you like it. Eat up now." Mom smiles, pleased, and offers him the plate again.
We end up staying for hours—much longer than I'd planned. I'm honestly shocked by how well Grayson gets along with both of them. He seems to know exactly how to charm them, without ever sounding fake. It's as if he genuinely wants to be here.
We even stay for dinner—baked pasta with garlic bread from the local 7-Eleven that Mom sends Dad out to buy, along with a few more six-packs of Budweiser since he's running low.
I'm even more surprised when Grayson offers to go with him, and they head off together like old buddies.
That leaves me alone to fend off Mom's barrage of "Now that it's just the two of us, dear, you have to tell me… " questions.
After dinner, Dad puts on a game while he and Grayson drink more beers. Looks like I'll be the one driving us home.
All the while, Grayson is completely at ease—smiling, laughing, talking sports with my father as if they've been watching games together for years.
I keep sneaking glances at him, waiting for that flicker of discomfort or boredom, but it never comes.
He's relaxed, arm draped casually around my shoulders, tucking me close.
He looks perfectly at home.
Almost too at home.
It's strange. I didn't expect this from him.
When he looks down at me, I don't even know what I'm feeling. My heart clenches, skips a beat. I can't stop staring at him—his tan skin, square jaw, broad shoulders. Watching. Wanting.
For what, I have no idea. But here we are.
After stuffing us like Thanksgiving turkeys and extracting promises to visit again soon, my parents finally send us on our way.
"You think they bought it?" Grayson asks once we're driving off, waving at my parents as they stand on the porch. He insisted he was fine to drive.
"I think so," I say. "I kind of sprung my last boyfriend on them as a surprise too, so they might be used to it by now. Though I've never done it with a fiancé before."
He chuckles. "I like them. Your parents."
"You do?"
"Yeah. They seem like genuinely good people—which is rare in this world, you know?"
I nod. "Yeah. I know."
"I can't believe you thought I'd be rude to them."
"Well, have you met yourself?"
"I'm only rude to you because it's fun. Anyway, you like me being rude." He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I roll my eyes, pretending his comment doesn't send a pulse of heat through me.
He's right, though. I do like him rude.
"In other news," he continues, "what's this about you hating Paris? Given how much you love fashion, I figured it'd be the opposite."
I sigh. "You really are too perceptive for your own good."
I don't want to talk about it, but I know he'll keep pushing until I do.
I shrug, trying to sound casual. "The truth is, I wanted to go to Paris really badly.
But around that time, my dad's hip problem got worse.
Insurance didn't cover enough for the surgery, and he kept putting it off because they were helping me save for the trip.
I started to wonder if Paris was worth his pain. "
"So you lied," Grayson says quietly. "Told them you didn't want to go so they'd use the money for him instead?"
"Yup. It was the only way to make them spend the money on him instead of me. I figured I could always go another time."
He's silent for several beats.
"What?" I ask.
He doesn't answer—just lets the silence hang.
Then, out of nowhere, he says softly, "Jenna."
"Yeah?"
Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror, his gaze intense, almost shimmering.
"Just what am I going to do with you?"
My heart catches in my throat.
I have no idea how to answer. I don't even know what he means by it.
All I know is that something's happening between us—something neither of us planned, something we can't seem to stop.
And we're starting to like each other far more than we should.