31. Behavioral Exuberance
Chapter Thirty-One
Behavioral Exuberance
Neve
The cocktail bar that Fia has rented is all dark reds, velvet, and proper speakeasy styling.
My sister, of course, has nailed every detail, right down to the way the place smells: expensive citrus, spilled gin, something woodsy and sweet underneath.
There’s a bar cart beside the bar loaded with every liquor under the sun, and a menu of cocktails so specific to Cade’s taste it’s adorable.
It’s perfect. I feel like I should be wearing a mask and a sinful silk slip dress.
Instead, I’m dressed as ‘semi-casual Neve’—black tank with a velvet blazer, swishy A-line skirt, and some cute little pink cowboy boots, because why the hell not?
Grant hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we got here—separately.
There are few people here who are actually ‘in the dark’ about our relationship, but we’re still trying to be careful.
We’ve been talking about how we’re going to go about disclosing our relationship, specifically to the university.
Talan is pretty progressive, and relationships between professors and adult students are permitted as long as they’re disclosed via a written and dated letter—I know because I looked it up.
I’ve been waiting for him to be ready to send the letter, but I don’t want to push him.
Cade is thriving. His smile is extra toothy tonight, like he’s powered by pure serotonin. He’s holding court by the bar, glass in hand, talking with his hands the way he always does when he’s excited. Fia’s perched on a stool at his elbow, and every so often, he glances down and just beams at her.
Grant is beside me, and every time his hand finds the small of my back, I get a jolt that’s pure electricity.
We’re not making a spectacle of it, but we’re not hiding, either.
Not from this small group—mostly Cade’s family and a few friends.
It feels good, not having to play at being “colleagues” or whatever else.
The Aspen clan is here in full force. Ret and Tom are holding down one end of the bar, chatting with their youngest son, Seth, who is the human embodiment of a golden retriever.
Liv is chasing Ivy around as she runs circles around the table like a fairy princess who’s been mainlining sugar since sunrise.
Ellie is in her usual terrifying lawyer attire—black jumpsuit, perfect hair, resting murder face. She raises a glass to me as I slide into the booth next to Grant, but her mouth tips up at the edge, like she’s in on a secret—which I suppose she is.
I’m fidgety, I know I am. I keep glancing at the door, waiting for them to arrive. I know Fia invited our parents. I suppose it would have been rude not to let them know we’re celebrating her fiancé getting his PhD. But I hate seeing them. I’m dreading it.
“Neve!” Ret’s voice breaks into my consciousness, and then I’m being wrapped in a trademark-Mother-Aspen hug. I can’t help thinking it’s the kind of hug I wish I could get from my own mom. I huff a laugh against her shoulder. “How are you? How’s your new degree going?”
“It’s really great.” I glance at Grant. “I’m getting good grades, and I enjoy what I’m doing. That’s most important to me.”
“If you can find something you love and call it work, that’s rare,” Ret imparts. “Hold onto it.”
Fia glances over, her cheeks flushed, but her whole face is relaxed in a way that makes me want to wrap her in a hug and never let go—even though she hates hugs, so I would never unless she asked me to.
“She’s doing exceptionally well,” she says diplomatically. “Neve’s underselling it.”
“Is that… a compliment?” I ask, mock surprised.
Cade sweeps Fia into his side, his arm like a force field. “It’s the highest praise,” he says solemnly. “I think we all know Neve’s emotional first aid skills are second to none.”
I feel my face heat, and Grant squeezes my thigh. Everyone at the table laughs, and the conversation moves on. The air is warm and comfortable and syrupy—until I spot them by the door.
My stomach caves in.
There’s an invisible line in every room, and tonight it’s right there—the place where the party ends and my parents begin.
They’re standing at the threshold, impeccable as always, Mom in something that probably cost more than my car and Dad with his hand on her lower back, a united front of blazer, pearls, and pure nuclear-grade judgment.
My body shrinks on instinct, like if I huddle small enough, maybe I’ll be mistaken for a decorative pillow and not a human being with feelings (too many feelings that I feel too hard, as it happens).
Grant’s hand slips from my thigh as he stands. He moves to the bar, dropping into conversation with Seth, but I can’t take my eyes off them.
You are twenty-six years old, Neve. They shouldn’t still have this power over you.
It doesn’t matter how much I say it. They do. I can taste it on my tongue like acid.
My sister is radiant in candlelight as she stalks over, saying a brisk hello, then moving toward her fiancé.
She slips her arm around Cade, her face open and shining.
I want to be that version of myself. I want to be the one who isn’t afraid.
I steel myself, chug half my cocktail, and force my legs to carry me to the edge of the room.
If I greet them before they come to me, maybe I can interrupt the old patterns.
They’ve already zeroed in on Grant by the time I get there. When he breaks away to come back to me, they catch him. Of course. They must have seen him with me.
I catch a snippet as I approach. My mother’s voice, polished and precise, like a scalpel. “You seem to have caught Neve’s attention, Doctor King.”
Grant just inclines his head, polite. “She has. She’s remarkable.”
That word hangs in the air a little too long. My father steps in, voice soft but laced with acid. “She is… passionate, but impulsive. We’ve always worried she doesn’t have the temperament for lasting things.”
I lock up before I get all the way to them. Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
My mother sighs, the sound so practiced and familiar it lances through me like a hot wire. “We only hope you understand what you’re getting into. Neve is… easily distracted. Not given to finishing what she starts. She’s always been… emotionally volatile.”
There it is. My mouth fills with saliva like I might be sick.
I see Fia out of the corner of my eye, stalking up beside me, eyes blazing. I’m about to step in and open my mouth before Fia can, because I know she’s going to go nuclear if she gets the chance—especially tonight, of all nights—but Grant beats me to it.
“Wow,” he says flatly. “That’s genuinely disappointing.”
My parents both blink, like they’re not sure what language he’s speaking.
Grant studies them. “You’ve managed to raise two of the most extraordinary women I’ve ever met, and instead of celebrating them, you seem committed to misunderstanding them both.”
The air in the bar goes radioactive. You could sear the paint off the walls with it.
My parents are momentarily speechless. It’s like watching two luxury sedans simultaneously swerve off the road and detonate into a barrel of gasoline.
I know those expressions. They’re the ones they wore at every parent-teacher conference, every honors ceremony where Fia got top billing, and I got a “most improved” nod and a sticky note about “behavioral exuberance.” For a split second, I almost feel bad for them.
Grant leans in, slow, and doesn’t break eye contact. “I’m not sure how you did it, honestly. It’s like discovering two perfect diamonds at the center of a landfill. You did something right, even if you have no idea what it was.”
The silence is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.
God, he’s perfect. The only sound is the whispery zing of Fia’s breath as it soughs out of her, half shock, half delighted horror.
I jerk my head over, catch her eyes, and it’s like we’re both kids again, hiding under the dining table, eavesdropping on adult drama and praying not to sneeze.
I feel the laughter detonate in my chest, sharp helium, but I bite down hard enough to leave marks in my tongue.
Don’t blow your cover. Don’t laugh. Not yet.
Mom’s mouth opens, then shuts. Dad’s eyebrows shoot so high I’m worried they’ll lodge permanently in his receding hairline. There’s a full beat where I think they might actually faint.
And then Mom pivots on her heel with the kind of precision that would make the Navy Seals jealous.
Dad follows, spine ramrod straight, and they stalk back toward the door with such desperate dignity that I almost want to send the footage to some kind of etiquette committee for review—the fine art of being told off by Grant King and surviving to limp away.
My pulse is a meteor shower. This is not how I thought tonight would go. It’s better. It’s so much better than anything I could have planned.
Grant turns, and—the second he spots me and Fia—the mask just shatters.
His eyes go wide, and he starts to speak, apology written all over his features, but I cut him off with my mouth.
I get my hands in his hair, haul his head down, and kiss him.
Not polite. Not restrained. Just a full-on, soul-scorching, “I can’t believe you just did that for me” kind of kiss.
I taste gin and adrenaline and the oxygen rush of being seen.
When I pull back, my lips find his ear. “Thank you, baby.”
Fia sidles in, a silent shadow at my shoulder.
She’s so close I feel the heat of her, the wild snap of her gaze as it bounces between Grant and my parents’ retreating backs.
Her hand comes down on Grant’s forearm, gentle but deliberate.
“Thank you, Grant.” Her voice is low, but not weak. There’s steel in it.
He tilts his head, the smile he gives her slow and soft—a smile between friends, nothing like the one he uses on the rest of the world. “I didn’t say a single thing that wasn’t true.”
I didn’t think it was possible to fall harder for this man than I already was, but here we are.
I lean in, nudging his hip with mine. “Take me home?”
Grant’s eyes go dark and hungry. “Fuck yes, angel.”
Fia snorts, shaking her head, then flashes a rare smile before turning to return to Cade. I think she’s proud of us.