Chapter 37
37
PORTIA
I wiped my hands on my apron for what felt like the hundredth time, surveying the spread in my kitchen with a critical eye. The steaks were marinated and ready for the grill, the potato salad was chilling perfectly in my grandmother’s ceramic bowl, and the corn was fresh from the farmer’s market. It was buttered and seasoned to perfection. Even the dessert, a rustic berry pie, had turned out better than I’d hoped, the golden crust glistening under the kitchen lights.
I was going all out, and I knew it. This was important. Yes, my parents knew him, and yes, we already had a meal together, but this was different. I wanted them to like him as my boyfriend. Not just the businessman that had a questionable reputation. This was the man I wanted to bring to Christmas dinner. And Thanksgiving.
I scooped the flour into a large mixing bowl, the fine powder puffing up in a faint cloud as I leveled it off with the back of a spoon. The recipe was my grandmother’s—something I’d memorized by heart after years of watching her make these biscuits every Sunday morning. Grandma made it look easy. Her hands just kneaded and folded like it was second nature. Mine, however, felt clumsy in comparison. I added a pinch of salt, a dash of sugar, and then reached for the cold butter, cutting it into cubes the way she’d taught me.
The key, she always said, was to keep everything cold. Cold butter, cold buttermilk, and even a chilled bowl if you could manage it. I dropped the cubes into the flour mixture and began working them in with my fingers, pressing and rubbing until the butter broke down into pea-sized crumbs. I smiled, remembering how she’d let me do this part when I was little—her hands guiding mine over the bowl until I got it just right.
I poured in the buttermilk next. The dough came together quickly, shaggy and sticky, just like it was supposed to be. I turned it out onto the floured countertop, my hands dusted white as I gently kneaded it into a soft ball.
Grandma always said the way to keep a man happy was with fresh buttermilk biscuits on the table every night. I wasn’t sure that was true, but she and my grandpa had been married for over fifty years. She had done something right.
And I wanted to show Dean I could cook. Yes, that was a little old-fashioned, but it didn’t hurt to impress him a little here and there. Dean was the kind of man that could have any woman he wanted. Money. Looks. Making the man good biscuits was going to earn me some points.
I put the biscuits on the oven. I wasn’t going to put them in until just before dinner was served. They had to be fresh and hot to get the full effect.
The doorbell rang. Oh shit. I had flour everywhere. My stomach did a little flip. I pulled off my apron and smoothed my sundress. When I opened the door, it was my parents. My mother held up a bottle of wine.
My dad looked at me and laughed before pointing to his nose and rubbing. “I’m guessing you were making biscuits.”
“Oh my gosh.” I laughed. “Busted.”
I led them inside. Dad handed me a six-pack of Dean’s favorite beer. “Thought your young man might appreciate these.”
My cheeks burned at the phrase. “Thank you, Dad. That was very thoughtful.”
“This is a cute place,” Mom said as she looked around. “And a beautiful view of the lake.”
I grabbed a couple of glasses from the cabinet and set them on the counter, then turned to the fridge for the pitcher of iced tea I’d made earlier.
“Here you go,” I said, handing my mom a glass.
“Thinking about staying in the house or are you going to try and find an apartment?” Dad asked.
I shrugged. “I haven’t really thought about it.”
“It might be awkward to have your boyfriend be your landlord,” Mom joked.
“Maybe,” I said. “We haven’t really talked about it.”
Mom walked over to the window, her gaze drifting out toward the lake. “It’s so peaceful here. I can see why you love it.”
I heard his motorcycle coming up the driveway. I wasn’t nervous. Not really. But I wanted this to be perfect. I walked to the door and watched through the screen door as he pulled off his helmet, running a hand through his tousled hair. He’d dressed up—well, for Dean—in dark jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. My mouth went dry.
How in the world did I get lucky enough to get to call him mine?
He grabbed a bouquet of flowers from his bike’s saddlebag and turned toward the house. When he saw me watching, he flashed that slow, devastating smile of his.
“Hey,” he said as he reached the porch, holding out the flowers. “These are for you.”
I took them and smelled the blooms. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to.” His voice was low, just for me.
“I appreciate it,” I said. “They’re beautiful.”
Dad cleared his throat loudly from the kitchen.
Dean chuckled, following me inside. “Mr. Watson,” he said and shook my father’s hand.
“Oh, we are beyond that.” Dad chuckled. “Please call me Wade.”
“And you have my permission to call me June,” Mom said.
“Dad brought a six-pack of Corona for you,” I said to Dean.
Dean grinned. “Thank you.”
I didn’t tell my dad I also had a twelve-pack in the fridge just in case everyone else wanted a beer with the meal. I grabbed a bottle opener from the drawer and handed it to Dean, watching as he popped the cap off a Corona with practiced ease. The hiss of the bottle opening filled the kitchen. He took a long swig, leaning casually against the counter.
“It’s been a warm one today,” Dad said. “Feels like summer is cooking this year.”
“It does,” I agreed. I held out my beer for Dean to open. He quickly did and handed it back. “I was out by the lake earlier, and it was already sweltering by noon.”
Mom sipped her tea, her eyes drifting back toward the window. “I can’t believe how blue the water is today. It’s like something out of a postcard.”
“You should see it at sunset,” I said. “The way the light hits the water—it’s breathtaking.”
Dean casually draped his arm around my shoulders. “It’s one of the reasons I bought the property.”
“Do you swim much?” Mom asked him.
“When I have time,” he said with a shrug. “Mostly just quick dips to cool off after working in the shop all day.”
To my relief, they hit it off immediately. Dean and my father fell into a discussion about boat engines while my mother quizzed him about his motorcycle projects. By the time we moved outside to the patio, the conversation flowed as smoothly as the drinks.
“Dean, would you mind?” I gestured to the grill.
“Mind? Woman, you’re about to witness art.” He took the tongs with an exaggerated flourish, making my mother laugh.
“I’ll get the steaks,” I said. “I’ve had them marinating.”
Dean walked over to the grill and fired it up. I watched Dean through the kitchen window as he stood at the grill, beer in one hand, tongs in the other. The sun cast a golden glow across his shoulders, highlighting the way his shirt stretched across his back when he leaned forward to check the steaks. He was laughing at something Dad said, his head thrown back, completely at ease. I’d never seen him this relaxed around other people before.
I slid the tray of biscuits into the oven, hoping they actually turned out.
Mom leaned against the counter, her eyes drifting toward the window where Dean and Dad were still chatting. “So,” she said, her voice casual in that way that meant she was about to say something decidedly not casual. “He’s quite the catch, isn’t he?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “Mom.”
“What?” She grinned. “I’m just saying, the man fills out a shirt nicely.”
“Mom!” I laughed, scandalized but also secretly pleased. “That’s my boyfriend you’re objectifying.”
“Oh please,” she said, waving a hand. “Let me have my fun.”
In the distance, I saw Dad holding up his hands in mock surrender. Dean was shaking a spatula at him, still laughing.
“Your father’s right,” Mom added. “This is a nice place you have here.” Her smile faded slightly. “Are you sure you’re happy back in Larkspur?”
“I am,” I said, surprised by how much I meant it. “The city was more than I could handle. I gave it a shot. I’m happy I did. I checked out the grass on the other side. It was green but I’m ready to just slow down a bit.”
“You were always too hard on yourself,” she said softly. “We were so glad you were going to give it a try, but I’m not going to lie, I missed you like crazy. I’m glad you’re back. I will work around the clock to help you with this new venture. And now that you have a very handsome man here, I hope that is going to persuade you to stay.”
A sudden wave of gratitude washed over me. For their support back home, for this day going so well, for Dean and the opportunities.
The oven timer started beeping. I pulled the biscuits out, inhaling a cloud of buttery bliss. “I think these will make a southern cook out of me yet.”
Mom took one from the tray and broke it open, steam billowing out. She popped a small piece into her mouth and nodded approvingly. “Flaky and light,” she declared after swallowing. “Perfect. If that doesn’t wow Dean, I don’t know what will.”
I laughed and shook my head.
“Do you have a bowl or a basket?” she asked. “We’ll get the table set.”
I grabbed a basket from the cabinet and tossed her a cheery red-checkered napkin for lining. Together, we arranged the biscuits, piling them high, and carried them along with the potato salad outside.
“Who wants a refill?” I asked, setting the basket down on the table.
“I’ll take one,” Dad said, handing me his bottle. “Not every day I get to sit back and let someone else man the grill.”
Dean smirked. “Some might say it’s my true calling.”
“I’d agree,” Dad said. “Those steaks smell fantastic.”
We quickly finished setting the table. Dean pulled the steaks off the grill. We sat down and I had to take a moment. Everything felt perfect.
“You weren’t kidding about this view,” Mom said as she buttered a biscuit.
“Worth driving out here just for dinner,” Dad agreed.
I took a bite of my steak and moaned. “Perfect,” I said. “Thank you, Dean.”
He wiped his mouth. “This is a really good marinade.”
“I’ll give you the recipe,” I said.
When he took a bite of a biscuit, I held my breath. I noticed my mom watching as well. Dean’s face transformed. He looked at me. “You made these?”
“Grandma’s recipe,” I said.
“Damn. These are good.”
I knew I was glowing. “Thank you.”
The conversation continued to flow effortlessly. Dean and Dad were instant friends.
“You know,” Dad said after finishing his second piece of pie. “I think this might be the best meal I’ve had in years.”
“Agreed,” Mom added, leaning back in her chair with a contented sigh. “Portia, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“It was a team effort,” I said, glancing at Dean.
When the plates were cleared, Dean disappeared inside, returning with a deck of cards and a wicked grin. “Who’s ready to weep?”
Mom’s eyes lit up with competitive fire. “Oh, you’re on, young man.”
What followed was the most cutthroat game of Hearts I’d ever witnessed. Dean and my mother were ruthless, trading playful barbs with each play.
“Really, Dean? Shooting the moon already?” Mom arched an eyebrow as he laid down a winning hand.
Dean just smirked. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Bullshit,” my father muttered, making us all burst into laughter.
At one point, I caught my father watching me with a soft smile. When our eyes met, he gave me a barely perceptible nod toward Dean—his silent approval. My chest tightened with emotion.
Later, after my parents had left with promises to do it again soon, Dean and I worked side by side in the kitchen, packing up leftovers.
Suddenly, Dean’s arms caged me against the counter, his body warm against my back. I turned in his embrace to face him, my hands coming to rest on his chest.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “For being so wonderful tonight.”
“I had fun.”
“Me too. My parents did too.” I bit my lip. “I’d like to do it again sometime, if you’re interested?”
Dean’s smile was tender as he kissed my forehead. “As many times as I can.”
I wrapped my arms around his waist, resting my cheek against his chest. The words bubbled up in my throat—three little words that felt too big and too soon and exactly right all at once.
But I swallowed them down, for now. Instead, I just held on tighter, breathing in the scent of him. I was happy. So happy. Happier than I thought was possible after the hell I’d been through the last couple of months.