Chapter Six Milo #2
“Tom,” he replies, typing in the price of a can of tuna. “And, while I’ll proudly answer to it, I’m not a Welch. That’s my wife’s family name. I’m a Novikov.”
Oh fuck yeah, I’m in.
One thing I can always count on? Parents, with the exception of my own, will love me.
I’ve rarely, and never purposefully, gotten to the meet-the-parents stage of dating—but whenever it’s accidentally occurred, I cannot help but lay on the charm.
Just as I want my past lovers to be in bed wondering Whatever happened to Milo in ten years’ time, I want their parents to be meeting their new in-law someday, weighing them against their first impression of me.
“Да ладно! Вы говорите по-русски?” Seriously? Do you speak Russian?
“Ну конечно!” Well, of course! He returns, smiling brightly as a laugh escapes him. “Are your parents from around here? What’s your last name, son?”
I sure as hell hope not. “Kablukov, sir.” I cannot help but wonder, letting my eyes skirt toward his daughter, if she speaks Russian too. Fuck, that would be fun.
“Well, that’s not ringing any bells, but you’ve just made my day in about ten different ways this morning.
” He finishes checking Clyde out, who pays, then exits with a pep in his step.
Prudence’s eyes leave him once he reaches the door, and lowering her hand from a wave, her not-so-friendly gaze finds me once again. I don’t cower this time, though.
“So…Can we call yesterday forgiven?” I ask, not breaking eye contact with Tom’s daughter as I speak.
“Of course,” Tom answers. “No harm done.” But it’s not his answer I’m waiting for.
Prudence sighs, moving her head to the side as she does so. A beat passes as her neck tilts back and forth, as if a scale in her mind is weighing the pros and cons. Eventually, she nods—my fate decided—and I thank her with a smile.
“Great, thank you,” I say.
“Dad?” Prudence says, clearing her throat as she looks at the mop in her grip. “The bucket?”
“Ah, yes.” He looks at me with an apologetic, playful wince. “One moment.”
“Take your time,” I tell them both as he disappears around the corner. “I’m in no hurry,” I say slowly, smirking as Prudence looks back over at me. A blush creeps up her neck, headed steadily toward the apples of her cheeks.
I open my mouth to tease her but hesitate when I realize that my face feels a bit warm too. I check in the shining metal backing of the till on the counter and, sure enough, the faintest hint of red has found its way onto my cheeks too. Now how the fuck did that get there?
“Here ya go, kid.” Tom comes back, bucket in hand. “How’s Mom doing today?”
“Good. Tired. She’s resting,” she says, gesturing to the old-school baby monitor secured to her belt loop. “I’m hoping this bad boy will get a signal from out back.”
“Out back?” The two curious words slip out without much thought.
“We’re trying to fix up my wife’s studio, it’s in the A-frame at the back of the property,” Tom answers.
“All right, well—” Prue moves to exit, but I interrupt.
“Mrs. Welch’s studio?” I let out a long, exaggerated breath. “I bet that’s a sight to see.”
“Oh, is it ever,” Tom says. “Though it’s not exactly what it once was. Prue’s trying to clear it out so Julia can use it to paint again. But making sense of what’s good to keep or has to go is proving difficult. We’re—”
“I can help,” I interrupt again, without meaning to. “I can help with that.”
“No,” Prue says sternly at the same time Tom’s eyes light up at the offer.
“I know art.” I speak to her directly. “I especially know how to stretch out supplies when you’re balling on a budget.” I want to see Mrs. Welch’s studio almost as much as I want to win an argument with her daughter. “You’ll waste a whole lot more without my help.”
“Prue, darling, ” Tom says softly before clearing his throat, “some help may be good, right?” He overly enunciates the word help, as if to jog her memory. “And Milo here was special to Mom. She’d invite him back there if…well; if she could.”
I smile proudly, standing straighter. Special. I raise a brow at her in challenge, cocky and unafraid to gloat. Argue with that reasoning, darling.
Prue dead-eyes me before lifting her face up to the exposed, whitewashed wood-beamed ceiling. “Fine.”
“I can give you an hour or two.” I check my watch before dropping my hand onto the counter. “My brother’s expecting me next door at some point.” He’s expecting me now. But, hey, he was the one who said to come over here and apologize. That can take time.
Prue’s expression of stubborn pride falls away entirely when her dad says, “Brilliant. I’ll put these aside for you, then,” and moves my basket of groceries to the shelf under the counter.
Prue practically stomps toward the front of the store, and stops abruptly before reaching the shop’s entrance. She fires another withering glance my way, but softens when she sees her dad watching intently from my side. “This way… please. ” She mumbles the please as if she’s being held at gunpoint.
I jog around the counter, grab the bucket she’d already managed to forget, and move to fall into step behind her, saluting as I do. “Lead the way, Killer.”