Six #2
The ivy climbs up the brickwork like it’s auditioning for a Jane Austen adaptation.
The hedges are shaped into what can only be described as a zoo of leafy animals, and smack dab in the middle of the circular driveway is the pièce de résistance: a fountain featuring two marble cherubs spitting water.
Austin slows the car to a crawl as his eyes narrow on the fountain. “Are those naked babies spitting water? Why? What does that even mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s decorative,” I say, grabbing my bag from the floor. “My dad picked it up at an auction. He thinks it adds charm.”
“Charm?” Austin deadpans, pulling the car to a stop in front of the house. “Fuck me, thats more than just ‘charm’.”
I snort, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Just wait until you see the inside. Mum’s taste makes the fountain look minimalist.”
Austin climbs out of the car, stretching as his gaze roams over the perfectly manicured lawn. “I feel underdressed. Should I have worn a tuxedo?”
“You’re fine,” I assure him, walking around to his side. “Just don’t mention the hedges.”
“Why not?” he asks, eyeing a particularly lopsided topiary that’s either a peacock or a dinosaur mid-sneeze.
“Because Mum is very proud of her ‘botanical artistry.’ Compliment them, or you’ll be hearing about the pruning schedule for the next hour.”
He smirks, grabbing the dessert box he insisted on bringing. “Noted. Compliment the foliage, avoid the fountain, survive the interrogation. Got it.”
The double front doors swing open just as we reach the top step, and there she is, my mum, in all her glory. Dressed head-to-toe in pastel and looking like she’s about to host a garden party for the entire cast of Downton Abbey. She beams at us like we’ve just handed her a winning lottery ticket.
“Mia! Austin!” she exclaims, clasping her hands together. “Oh, you’ve finally arrived! I was worried you might have gotten lost.”
Austin flashes one of his killer smiles, the kind that could melt glaciers and be the sole cause of global warming. “Mrs. Jameson, it’s so lovely to meet you. And please, call me Austin.”
Mum practically swoons on the spot. “Oh, such manners! And so handsome, too.” She eyes the dessert box in his hand. “Is that for us? How thoughtful! You’re already making a wonderful impression.”
“Thank you,” Austin says smoothly, handing it over. “I hope you like lemon drizzle. It’s a personal favourite.”
Mum gasps, clutching the box like it’s made of gold. “Lemon drizzle? My favourite! Oh, Mia, he’s a keeper, but you know that already.”
I groan internally. One charming sentence, and he’s already got her eating out of the palm of his hand. Meanwhile, I’m just standing here like a spare part.
As Mum ushers us inside, Austin leans down to whisper, “See? Told you I was good with parents.”
I shoot him a warning glare, but deep down, I’m already regretting how much my mum is going to love him. I can only pray she doesn’t invite him to join her garden club by the end of lunch.
As we step into the grand foyer, Austin glances around, his eyebrows lifting as he takes in the sweeping staircase, the chandelier that looks like it could double as a small planet, and the walls lined with portraits of very stern-looking people.
“Wow,” he says under his breath, leaning closer to me. “What do your parents do exactly? Are they secretly running a country?”
I stifle a laugh. “Dad’s in property development. Mum used to be a lawyer, but now she spends most of her time ‘curating the home.’” I throw in air quotes because that’s her phrasing, not mine.
“Curating the home?” Austin repeats, a grin tugging at his lips. “That explains the cherub fountain.”
“And the topiary zoo,” I add dryly. “Oh, and the chandelier. She says it’s Venetian, but I’m pretty sure it’s from a warehouse off the M25.”
Austin chuckles, his hand brushing mine as we walk further in. “So, property development. That explains the ‘postcode.’”
“Exactly,” I say, glancing at him. “And now you know why I never bring guys to meet the parents. The house kind of . . . raises expectations.”
He gives me a sidelong look, his grin widening. “You mean not every guy you’ve dated can offer your mum a cherub fountain of her own?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Hardly. My ex thought a trip to IKEA counted as ‘interior design.’”
Before Austin can reply, my dad’s booming voice cuts through the air. “Ah, you must be Austin!”
We both turn to find my dad striding toward us, his shoes gleaming like they’ve been polished that morning—because they probably have. He’s tall, broad, and wearing a tweed jacket that screams “country gentleman,” complete with elbow patches.
“And this must be the famous Mr. Jameson,” Austin says smoothly, extending a hand.
Dad grips it firmly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “The one and only. Welcome to our home, Austin. I hope Mia hasn’t scared you off with her horror stories about us.”
“Not at all,” Austin replies, his tone easy and confident. “She did mention something about a quiz, though, so I’ve been brushing up on my roast preferences.”
Dad throws his head back and laughs, clapping Austin on the shoulder. “Good man! A sense of humour. You’ll need it with this one.”
“Dad,” I mutter, shooting him a warning look.
But Austin just laughs, falling effortlessly into the banter. “I’ll take that as a compliment. And I have to say, Mr. Jameson, your home is incredible. The craftsmanship is impeccable.”
Dad puffs up like a peacock, clearly pleased. “Well, we’ve put a lot of work into it over the years. Property development is my bread and butter, after all.”
Austin nods as they launch into a conversation about structural integrity and period renovations, leaving me to trail behind like a forgotten handbag.
Mum appears at my side, clutching the lemon drizzle box. “Oh, darling, he’s wonderful. Polite, handsome, and he appreciates a good chandelier. You’ve done well.”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
I groan internally. “Mum, he’s not a show pony.”
She waves me off, her eyes gleaming. “Nonsense. If he keeps charming your father like this, I might just offer him my prized biscuit recipe.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the tiny smile that creeps onto my face as I watch Austin handle my dad like a pro. God help me, he’s actually enjoying this.
The dining room is exactly as I’d expected it to be. A perfectly set table that looks like it belongs in Ideal Home magazine, with matching silverware, crystal glasses, and a centerpiece of freshly cut flowers.
Austin sits to my right, looking far too comfortable for someone in the lion’s den. He leans back in his chair, his jacket slung neatly over the back, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He looks every bit like he belongs here, which only makes me feel more like a fraud.
Dad carves the roast beef with surgical precision, each slice thin and even. He places the meat on a platter like it’s a sacred offering, and Mum immediately swoops in to add the Yorkshire puddings, crispy and golden.
“So, Austin,” Dad starts, sliding the platter across the table, “Mia tells us you’re an architect.”
Austin nods, his tone warm but professional. “That’s right. Mostly residential projects these days, though I do love the occasional commercial job. Keeps things interesting.”
Dad hums in approval. “Do you ever work with listed buildings? We’ve got a few properties in Bath that need attention.”
Austin grins, spearing a piece of roast beef with his fork. “I have, actually. Nothing like navigating historic regulations to keep you humble.”
They dive into a discussion about planning permissions and conservation officers, leaving Mum and me to exchange a glance. She raises an approving eyebrow, and I glare back, silently pleading with her to stop.
Mum clears her throat, clearly deciding it’s her turn to interrogate. “Austin, do you have family nearby?”
“Not really,” he replies easily, spooning some peas onto his plate. “My parents retired to Devon a few years back. It’s just me in the city.”
“Oh, how lovely!” Mum says, her tone dripping with approval. “Devon’s beautiful. Do you visit often?”
Austin smiles. “Not as much as I’d like. Work keeps me pretty busy.”
Mum nods like she’s filing that away for later, probably to plan a Devon road trip under the guise of “bonding.” I shove a forkful of roast potatoes into my mouth to stop myself from groaning out loud, burning the roof of my mouth in the process.
Dad passes the gravy to Austin. “What do you think of the place, then? Mia grew up here, you know. Took her first steps in this very room.”
“Dad,” I mutter, mortified. “Please don’t.”
But Austin just laughs, taking the gravy boat. “It’s a beautiful home. You’ve done an incredible job with it. And this roast—it’s perfect. I might have to steal some tips.”
Mum beams like he’s just proposed to her instead of me. “Oh, it’s nothing special. Just a simple recipe. But if you want the secret to Yorkshire puddings, I’m your woman.”
“They’re incredible,” Austin says, popping a piece into his mouth. “Fluffy on the inside, crispy on the outside. Exactly how they should be.”
I watch in disbelief as my mum practically preens under his praise. She’s smitten. I don’t think she even likes me this much.