Chapter 29
Oliver
Ihad triple-checked the oven timer, rotated the baking sheets mid-cycle, and calibrated the internal temperature of the cinnamon rolls with a scrutiny more reserved for nuclear reactors than household-baked pastries.
You’d think I’d entered a baking competition, not that I’d made breakfast pastries to take to my boyfriend’s parents’.
But Luke’s parents loved cinnamon rolls, and I loved Luke.
Therefore, the cinnamon rolls needed to be perfect.
Luke’s arms slipped around me from behind. He pressed a kiss to the side of my neck, his stubble brushing against my skin, then his chin came to rest on my shoulder. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’ve been inching toward a full-scale panic attack since the moment you scheduled this date a week ago.”
He chuckled, his arms tightening around me. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Easy for you to say. You aren’t meeting the parents of the guy you’re dating. What if they don’t like me? What if they think I’m not good enough for their son?”
He pressed another kiss below my ear. “Angel, you have to step off that crazy train. It’s barreling full speed toward nowhere useful, and all it’s gonna do is churn your nerves until they’re all tied up in knots. Trust me, they’re going to love you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I love you.”
My thoughts were annihilated by the wonder and meaning of that declaration. I turned, the movement abrupt, dislodging his chin from my shoulder. Our gazes met, the look in his eyes turning me to mush.
“Care to repeat that, so I can be sure I’m not having an auditory hallucination.”
“Do you want me to pinch you too, to check if you’re dreaming?” he asked, aiming his teasing, crooked smile at me.
“Why don’t we start with you repeating yourself and I’ll let you know if pinching is also in order.”
“I love you, Oliver. The mind-boggling, life-altering, ‘nothing else matters as long as I have this, never want to lose this’ kind of love.”
“And you bring this up now!?”
“I know, my timing is impeccable, isn’t it?”
“Only one of us thinks so.”
“Hey, it distracted you from your downward spiral, didn’t it?”
“Shut up and kiss me.” I yanked him toward me and slammed my lips to his.
Our mouths moved against each other with the ease of familiarity and the heat of something still crackling with newness.
Eventually, oxygen made its inevitable demands, and we broke apart, gasping in each other’s space.
“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time, a vow, not a revelation.
“I love you too. So fucking much.”
After an hour-long drive we pulled into the driveway of Luke’s childhood home. My nerves, which had simmered in the background during the ride, increased to a boil as we ascended the steps hand in hand.
But before Luke lifted his hand to knock, the front door swung open. His mom, silver-haired and beaming, threw her arms around him. “There’s my darling boy,” she sighed, like she hadn’t seen him in years.
Her eyes landed on me. “And you must be Oliver. We’re thrilled you could come. Do you do hugs? We’re big huggers in this family.”
“I . . . uh . . .”
“Tell you what, let’s save the hug for later after we’ve gotten to know each other. How about a handshake to start?”
Relieved, I nodded, extending my hand. “Yeah, um . . . that works. Thank you, Mrs. Walker.”
“Posh,” she said with a dismissive wave as she took my hand in both of hers and gave it a firm, affectionate squeeze. “It’s Susan. No formalities here. We’re not that kind of family. I must say, you are every bit the darling Luke described.”
“I . . . thank you.”
“Don’t be shy, sweetheart. I’ve got years of affection saved up for the poor soul brave enough to date this one.” She gestured toward Luke with mock exasperation. “I’m well aware of what you’ve had to put up with. We should’ve sent hazard pay in advance.”
“Well, I see where Luke gets his humor from.”
“Actually, he gets it from both of us,” came a deep voice from behind Susan.
A tall man stepped forward. He had a lumbering sort of presence, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and solid in the way of someone who could probably lift a car but would rather lift a casserole dish.
He wore a cable-knit sweater with a fraying cuff and a grin that spread across his face, deepening the smile lines at the corners of his eyes.
The familial resemblance was uncanny. Luke may have inherited both his parents’ humor, but his appearance he got from this man.
“John,” he said, as he extended a large hand that enveloped mine in a firm, reassuring grip. “Luke’s dad. And yes, unfortunately, the comedic gene runs double dominant in this household. Poor kid never stood a chance. We did try to raise him right, but in the end, the humor got the best of him.”
“It’s true,” Susan chimed in. “He was doomed from the start. Came out of the womb making bad jokes.”
From beside me, Luke groaned. “Sheesh, can’t you all wait until I get inside before you start the roast?”
“Sweetpea,” Susan said, ushering us through the doorway with a sweep of her arm. “The roast started the moment we heard your car on the pavement. You’re late to your own comedy special.”
We followed Susan and John into the living room where my eyes immediately drifted to a wood-burning fireplace.
While Vincent’s home had multiple fireplaces, they’d all been the electric kind.
But Luke’s parents had the real thing, made of brick, lined with a natural stone bench, its iron grate dusted with ash.
I had always cherished the idea of a real fireplace.
Something homey. A hearth where laughter echoed and memories were put on proud display on the mantle.
Their mantle looked exactly as I had always imagined one, lovingly assembled with small knickknacks and lined with framed photographs collected over the years in mismatched wood and brass.
One showed Luke as a toddler, clutching a stuffed T.
rex twice his size, grinning with unfiltered joy. It was adorable.
Above the fireplace hung a carved wooden sign with handmade lettering that said, Come as strangers, leave as family. In another house, the phrase might have felt trite, just another rustic gift-shop platitude. But here, after the warmth I had already been shown, it felt like a promise.
“Please sit, let me take that,” Susan said, gesturing to the larger couch while she reached for the carrier housing the cinnamon rolls.
“I’ll pop this into the kitchen to keep safe until after dinner.
Thank you for such a lovely contribution, Oliver.
Luke positively raves about your baking. We can’t wait to try these.”
I lowered myself onto the expansive couch, keeping a modest distance from Luke, unsure how much affection was appropriate.
I didn’t want to presume anything, especially not in front of his parents.
But as Luke settled beside me, he draped his arm along the back of the couch, encouraging me to lean in and kissing my temple when I did.
Hello pancake, I am syrup and melted butter.
“Can I get you kiddos anything to drink?” John asked. “Oliver, we’ve got tea—hot or iced—lemonade, soda, coffee, or if you’re inclined, a cold beer.”
“Would it be too much trouble to have an Arnold Palmer?”
“No trouble at all,” John replied with a grin. “That’s Susan’s favorite too. You’re clearly a man of refined inclinations.” Then he turned to Luke. “And for you, son? The usual?”
“Yeah, thanks, Dad.”
John vanished into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a tall glass of lemonade tea mixture for me in one hand, garnished with a thin lemon wheel on the rim, and a chilled glass bottle of Coke in the other.
The high-quality Mexican kind made with real cane sugar, not the high fructose crap.
Luke accepted it with an almost boyish smile. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Coke is your usual? Since when do you drink soda?” I’d never seen him drink anything but water, coffee, protein shakes, or herbal tea in all the months I’d known him.
Shrugging, he brought the bottle to his lips.
“It’s a nostalgic thing,” he said after a sip.
“I only ever drink them here. Something about being back at home and I want to crack open a bottle of Coke. Not even sure why, there isn’t a specific memory attached to it or anything. Just one of those things.”
Susan reentered the room and sat herself beside John. “Well!” she said, settling in. “Now that we’ve all got something delicious to sip on . . . Oliver, darling, tell us about yourself.”
“Mom,” Luke groaned. “I told you not to interrogate him.”
“This is hardly the Spanish Inquisition, dear,” Susan said, waving off the accusation. “It’s a thoughtful inquiry into the life of the young man my son is dating.”
“Yeah, well, after a childhood of being force-fed Monty Python, I’ve learned that nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Luke muttered.
“If the questions are charming, then so is the process. You brought someone special into this home, sweetheart, so naturally we’re going to get to know him. Isn’t that what this whole visit is for?”
John nodded. “It’s in the fine print of the Parental Visitation Agreement. Section Two, Sub-clause B. All persons dating our offspring are subject to light, good-natured prodding.”
Luke shot me a pained look. “I’m so sorry. I swear I tried to negotiate for skipping this part, but legal shut me down,” he said, pointing to his parents.
I snorted, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “If I survived the first getting to know me question you asked, I think I’m qualified to withstand parental prodding.”
“Let me guess, he hit you with the infamous ‘If your hand was a kitchen utensil, which would it be?’ question,” John said.
“Ding. Ding. Ding. And we have a winner,” I said.
“He’s been trotting that gem out since elementary school,” John said. “Teachers, classmates, his pediatrician . . .”