CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MEET THE PARENTS
Elise
Jordie’s childhood home looks like it was ripped straight from a Hallmark movie—white columns, perfectly manicured lawn, and enough Christmas lights to be visible from space.
“Your house has columns,” I say from the passenger seat of Grant’s truck.
“Three generations of senators.” Jordie’s voice from the back seat is tight. “Columns are apparently mandatory.”
We’re all crammed into Grant’s truck because arriving in separate vehicles would’ve looked suspicious. As it is, we’re “teammates carpooling for the holidays” which is technically true if you ignore the part where I’ve had all three of them inside me.
“Remember the rules,” Jordie says for the tenth time. “We’re friends. Teammates. Elise is Grant’s friend from—”
“We know,” Wyatt cuts in. “You’ve briefed us like we’re going into combat.”
“My mother will grill you like you’re going into combat.”
Grant parks and we all pile out. I’m wearing the most conservative outfit I own—high-necked sweater, knee-length skirt, boots that are practical not sexy. The guys are in button-downs and nice jeans. We look like we’re attending a job interview, not Christmas break.
The front door opens before we reach it.
“Jordan!” A woman who’s clearly Jordie’s mom—same blue eyes, same bone structure—descends the steps. “You’re late.”
“Traffic, Mom.” He hugs her, and I watch him transform. The easy-going golden retriever energy gets dialed up to eleven. “This is Grant, Wyatt, and Elise. Teammates I told you about.”
Mrs. Dickson’s eyes land on me and I feel assessed in about three seconds. “Elise. How lovely. Jordan mentioned you’re pre-med?”
“Yes ma’am. Hoping for Johns Hopkins.”
“Impressive.” But her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Come in, all of you. Dinner’s almost ready.”
The house is exactly what I expected—expensive everything, family photos covering every surface, a massive Christmas tree filled with heirloom decorations. Senator Dickson is in the living room, drink in hand, watching a hockey game.
“Dad, the guys are here.” Jordie’s voice has this forced brightness that makes my chest hurt.
“Grant. Wyatt.” The senator shakes their hands with politician efficiency. Then his eyes land on me. “And you must be the girl.”
The girl. Like I’m a category, not a person.
“Elise Hart, sir.”
“Hart. Any relation to the Connecticut Harts?”
“No sir. New Jersey Harts. Very different tax bracket.”
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. “I like her. She’s got spine.”
Dinner is torture.
We’re seated at a table that could fit twelve, Senator Dickson at the head, Mrs. Dickson at the foot, Jordie’s two perfect sisters and their perfect husbands filling in the sides. I’m between Grant and Wyatt, with Jordie directly across from me.
Which means I can see every micro-expression on his face as his father holds court.
“Jordan’s stats are looking good this season,” the senator says, cutting into his steak. “Scouts have been calling.”
“Yeah it’s been a great season,” Jordie says, but his smile is strained.
“Of course, NHL careers are short. You’ll need a backup plan.” The senator looks at Grant. “You’re the captain, correct? What are your plans post-graduation?”
“NHL draft, sir. Got some interest from Boston and Toronto.”
“And if that doesn’t pan out?”
Grant’s jaw ticks. “It will.”
“Confidence. I like that.” The senator’s attention shifts to Wyatt. “You’re the scholarship kid. Carter, was it?”
I feel Wyatt tense beside me.
“Yes sir.”
“Impressive, pulling yourself up like that. What’s your family do?”
The silence is sharp enough to cut.
“They passed away when I was fourteen, sir.”
Mrs. Dickson makes a soft sound of sympathy, but the senator just nods. “Tough break. Built character, I’m sure.”
Under the table, I find Wyatt’s hand. Squeeze.
He doesn’t squeeze back, but his fingers curve around mine. Holding on.
“And Elise,” Mrs. Dickson jumps in, clearly trying to redirect. “Jordan says you’re top of your program?”
“I’m doing okay.”
“She’s being modest,” Jordie says. “She’s brilliant. Probably going to cure cancer or something.”
His sisters exchange a look I can’t quite read.
“How did you all meet?” The older sister—Catherine, I think—is watching me with sharp eyes.
“Housing assignment,” I say smoothly. “Four-bedroom townhouse. University housing is a nightmare.”
“You’re living with three men?” Mrs. Dickson’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth.
“It’s very platonic,” Grant says, his voice flat. “Separate rooms. Strict boundaries.”
Under the table, Jordie’s foot finds mine. Slides up my calf in a way that is definitely not platonic.
I kick him. Gently.
He grins at his plate.
The conversation moves to politics—the senator’s upcoming campaign, policy positions I should probably care about but can’t focus on because Wyatt’s thumb is tracing circles on my thigh and it’s distracting.
By the time dessert arrives, I’m wound tight enough to snap.
“Who wants to make gingerbread houses?” Mrs. Dickson announces with the kind of forced cheer that suggests this is a family tradition no one actually enjoys.
“I will,” I say, because sitting at this table for another hour sounds like actual hell.
We migrate to the kitchen where Mrs. Dickson has set up an elaborate gingerbread house station—pre-baked walls, royal icing in piping bags, enough candy to give a dentist nightmares.
“Teams of two,” she declares. “Jordan, you’re with your father. Catherine and Michael, Sarah and David, and—” She looks at me, Grant, and Wyatt.
“We’ll figure it out,” Grant says.
The senator and Jordie disappear into the study—”just need to discuss some campaign logistics”—which leaves the rest of us awkwardly assembling gingerbread structures.
I’m piping icing onto a roof with more aggression than necessary when Wyatt leans in close.
“You okay?”
“Peachy.”
“Liar.”
“I’m fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine.”
Grant’s building a structurally sound house with the kind of precision that suggests he’s done this before. Wyatt’s just eating the candy. The sisters and their husbands are having some kind of competition about whose house is better.
“This icing is terrible,” I mutter.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Grant says, reaching over to adjust my piping bag angle. His hand covers mine and even though we’re pretending to be just friends, the touch sends heat up my arm.
“Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Mrs. Dickson is watching us with an expression I can’t read.
Twenty minutes later, Jordie reappears looking tense. He catches my eye, jerks his head toward the kitchen.
I follow him to the sink where dirty dishes are stacked.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
“He wants me to announce I’m going to law school. At Christmas dinner tomorrow. In front of the whole extended family.” His voice is flat. “Like a fun little present.”
“What did you say?”
“That I’d think about it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m such a coward.”
“You’re not—”
“I am. I can’t even tell my own father no.”
I grab his hand, pull him around to face me. “You will. When you’re ready. On your terms.”
He looks at me with those blue eyes that are usually so full of light, now just tired. “How did I get so lucky?”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. You’re annoying and persistent.”
That gets a real smile out of him. “Annoying?”
“Deeply annoying.”
He leans down, kisses me soft and quick, and for a second I forget where we are.
Then I hear footsteps and shove him back.
Mrs. Dickson appears in the doorway, holding empty dessert plates.
“Oh. Sorry.” She’s looking between us with sharp awareness. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting,” I say quickly. “Just—talking. About school. Finals were rough.”
“Mm.” She sets the plates down. “Jordan, your father wants you for a photo.”
He leaves, shooting me an apologetic look, and I’m left alone with his mother and a sink full of dirty dishes.
“I’ll help,” I offer, because standing here in silence sounds worse.
We wash in quiet for a minute, her scrubbing, me drying.
Then she turns to me. “How long have you been sleeping with my son?”
I nearly drop the plate I’m holding.
“I—we’re not—”
“Please don’t insult my intelligence.” Her voice is calm, not angry. Just matter-of-fact. “I’ve been married thirty years. I know what two people in love look like.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“It’s complicated,” I finally manage.
“I’m sure it is.” She hands me another plate. “Does he make you happy?”
“Yes.”
“Does he treat you well?”
“Very well.”
She nods slowly. “Then I don’t need to know the details. Just—” She looks at me directly. “Don’t let him give up his dreams for us. For his father’s expectations. He needs someone in his corner who doesn’t have an agenda.”
“I am in his corner.”
“Good.” She dries her hands on a towel. “Now let’s get back out there before my husband starts interrogating your other—friends.”
The way she says friends makes it clear she knows exactly what they are.
We play board games after—Monopoly, because apparently the Dicksons enjoy family trauma. I’m the banker because I’m “good with numbers” according to Mrs. Dickson, which really means she trusts me not to cheat.
Jordie lands on Boardwalk and groans. “How does Grant own everything already?”
“Capitalism,” Grant says mildly, collecting rent.
“This game is terrible,” Wyatt mutters. He’s in jail for the second time.
“Skill issue,” I tell him.
He glares at me but there’s humor in it.
The senator is already out, bankrupt from bad investments. The sisters are ruthlessly competitive. And Jordie keeps trying to make ridiculous trades that benefit no one except me.
“I’ll give you Park Place for one dollar,” he offers.
“That’s a terrible deal.”
“I know. Take it anyway.”
“Why?”
He grins. “Because you’re pretty.”
Grant coughs. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
Two hours later I own half the board and everyone else is broke. Mrs. Dickson declares me the winner with a fondness that feels unearned, and we’re finally released to our rooms.
Except there’s a problem.
“Separate rooms,” Mrs. Dickson says firmly. “Elise, you’re in the guest room. Boys, you’re all in Jordan’s room. There are sleeping bags.”
Which means I’m sleeping alone for the first time in weeks.
Grant catches my eye and mouths “later.”
I nod.
An hour after the house goes quiet, my door opens.
Jordie slips in, carrying a plate of cookies.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Bringing you cookies. Obviously.” But he’s holding the plate at a weird angle. In front of his crotch.
“Why are you—” Then I notice. “Are you seriously—”
“I’ve been hard for three hours,” he hisses. “Do you know how difficult it is to play Monopoly with a raging—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
“I’m just saying. Watching you be all competent and smart and destroy everyone at board games was—” He shifts the plate. “Extremely hot.”
I’m trying not to laugh and failing.
“This is the most fun I’ve had dating in—ever, actually.” The words come out before I can stop them.
His expression softens. “Yeah?”
“You guys make everything better. School stress, family drama, all of it. You just—” I gesture vaguely. “Make life lighter.”
He sets the plate down—finally—and crosses the room. Pulls me into a hug that smells like sugar cookies and expensive cologne.
“You make my life better too,” he says against my hair. “All of ours.”
“Even when I’m bankrupting you at Monopoly?”
“Especially then.”
There’s a soft knock on the door. We both freeze.
“It’s me,” Mrs. Dickson’s voice. “I’m coming in.”
Jordie leaps back about three feet as she opens the door.
She takes in the scene—me in pajamas, Jordie fully clothed but clearly not supposed to be here, the plate of cookies on the nightstand.
“Jordan.” Her voice is measured. “What are you doing?”
“Bringing cookies. To Elise. Who was—hungry.”
“Mm-hm.” She looks at me. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” I confirm.
She shakes her head, but she’s almost smiling. “Back to your room, Jordan. Now.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He mouths “sorry” at me and escapes.
Mrs. Dickson lingers in the doorway.
“He’s in love with you. You know that, right?”
My heart does something complicated.
“I—”
“And those other two. They look at you the same way.” She pauses. “I don’t understand it. But I don’t need to. Just—be good to him. All of them. They’re good boys.”
“I will. I promise.”
She nods once, then closes the door.
I sink onto the bed, heart pounding, and realize that Jordie’s mom just gave us her blessing.
Sort of.
In the most indirect, uncomfortable way possible.
But still.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Jordie: sneak over here
Me: Your mom literally just caught you in my room
Jordie: exactly. she already knows. what’s the point of hiding now?
Grant: He has a point
Wyatt: Terrible logic but I agree with it
Me: You’re all insane
Jordie: insane for you
Jordie: sorry that was cheesy
Jordie: but also true
Grant: Just come over. We’ll be quiet.
Wyatt: We miss you
That last one does it. Wyatt doesn’t say things like that unless he means them.
Me: If we get caught I’m blaming all of you
Jordie: deal
I wait twenty minutes until I’m sure the house is completely quiet. Then I slip out of bed, grab my phone, and ease the door open.
The hallway is dark. Every floorboard sounds like it’s screaming under my feet.
Jordie’s room is at the end of the hall, past his parents’ room, which is possibly the worst layout in the history of architecture.
I make it three steps before a door opens behind me.
I freeze.
Mrs. Dickson is standing in her doorway in a bathrobe, arms crossed.
We stare at each other.
“I’m just—” I search for a lie. Any lie. “Getting water.”
“The kitchen is downstairs.”
“Right. I got turned around.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Then: “If you’re going to sneak around my house, at least be quiet about it. My husband is a light sleeper.”
She goes back in her room and closes the door.
I stand there for a full thirty seconds trying to process what just happened.
Did she just—give me permission?
I text the group chat: Your mom is terrifying
Then I tiptoe the rest of the way to Jordie’s room and slip inside.
All three of them are awake. Grant’s on the bed, Wyatt’s in a sleeping bag on the floor, and Jordie’s leaning against the headboard fully clothed.
“She caught me,” I whisper.
“And?” Jordie’s grinning.
“And she told me to be quiet so I don’t wake your dad.”
“See?” He pats the bed next to him. “Told you she’s cool.”
“That’s not what cool means.”
But I’m already crossing the room, already climbing onto the bed between Grant and Jordie.
Wyatt shifts his sleeping bag closer. “You good?”
“Better now.”
Grant’s arm comes around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. Jordie’s hand finds mine. Wyatt’s fingers trace patterns on my ankle where it’s hanging off the edge of the bed.
“This is a terrible idea,” I murmur.
“Best terrible idea we’ve ever had,” Jordie says.
Grant’s lips brush my shoulder. “You love it.”
I do. I really do.