“What? Oh, no, you don’t have to chauffeur me. Just take me back to the cabin and—”
“Took us thirty minutes to get here. I drive you home, you’ll have to drive back down the mountain, pick up a cake, and then drive to your mom’s. Where’s she live?”
“Spring Falls. About twenty-five minutes from here,” I add, since he doesn’t know the area.
He lifts his eyebrows like I’m proving his point, then gestures to the road in front of us. “Where to?”
“I can’t ask you to come to my dad’s impromptu birthday shindig.”
“Why not?”
So many reasons.
Every one of them flies out of my head the moment he grabs my hand, curls his fingers around mine, and kisses my knuckles.
“They’re the worst,” I manage. Lamely. This brings forth a low chuckle. It’s impossible to be stressed around him. The man exudes “chill.” When I was screaming down the mountain attached to a zip line, Dax’s brief yawp was both manly and calm.
He returns both hands to the wheel. “Left or right?”
With another sigh, I give in. “Tracee Bakes is to the left.”
He turns left, and we’re off.
Off to my dad’s impromptu birthday shindig, which I’ll be attending with a plus-one.
Dax
“Sweetheart!” A tall blond woman, her smile broad, her eyelids coated in a ton of eye makeup, throws open the screen door the moment Becca sets foot on the porch. She takes the cake, studying it through the plastic cellophane on the box top. “This looks delicious.”
I’m a few steps behind, so when I put a boot on the top step, her mom looks up from the cake and inspects me with interest. Gaze locked on me, she addresses her daughter. “Who’s this?”
“This is Dax Vaughn. He drove me here,” Becca replies stiffly. “Dax, this is my mom, Carol. Stone. Obviously.”
She’s not comfortable introducing me to her family, that much is clear. I keep my observation to myself and extend a hand. “Mrs. Stone.”
Carol shakes my hand and surveys me up and down. Becca worries her lip in that way she has, looking like she might throw up any second. I’m guessing she’s not used to bringing men home to her parents.
“I didn’t realize you were bringing someone, dear,” Carol says as she lets go of my hand and assesses me once more.
“I don’t eat much,” I lie with a smile. “We were going to the movies before you called, so if you happen to have a tiny bag of gummy bears I can pay you five dollars for, that should suffice.”
Carol Stone’s face breaks into a smile. No laugh yet, but I’ll get one out of her.
“You were on a date.” She elbows Becca. “And I interrupted your movie.”
“The movie’s my fault,” I explain. “The rain came with me.”
“Anyway!” Becca loops her arm through one of mine and walks me toward the house. “We’d better say hi to Dad. Is he in the basement?”
“Where else?” Carol asks rhetorically before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen. Inside, Tad is holding a toddler-aged little girl I assume is one of Becca’s nieces.
By the look of startled fury on his face, I believe he’s more surprised than her mom was to see me. His eyes cut to Becca.
“Tad, you remember Dax,” she says.
“You brought him to Dad’s birthday dinner?”
What the fuck is wrong with everyone? Does “Dad’s birthday” involve a satanic ritual with live chickens or something?
“I brought her,” I correct. “We were on a date.”
He nods, but his frown is more indecisive than angry. Kind of reminds me of...me. Wonder what Becca would’ve thought of me if she could’ve seen me back home, glowering at the world.
Took me getting the hell out of Ohio to crack through the misery. I don’t know what Tad’s excuse is, but it better be a good one. For his wife’s sake, I hope he’s not a miserable bastard all the time.
Speaking of, a woman, trailed by another little girl, exits the kitchen. “Hey, Bec—oh, hi.”
Tad puts the toddler on the ground and finds his manners. “This is my wife, Lara. Lara, this is Dax. He came with Becca.”
“I’ve heard about you. Hi. So good to see you.” She drags the “so” out an extra syllable or two.
Her smile is cautious, her grip firm as she shakes my hand. She flits a pointed look at Becca.
“You been talking about me, Princess?” It’s fun to watch Becca squirm. How is she brazen enough to perform on the sidewalk in front of random strangers and this backward about introducing me to her family?
She presents her nieces next. The little one is Tasha, the older one, Kiera. I earn a high five from Tasha, but Kiera isn’t sure about me yet. She gives me a shy wave instead, which I return with a wave of my own.
“Has Len met him yet?” Lara asks, jerking her chin toward the basement stairs.
“Not yet.”
“Send him down alone. See what happens.” Lara is grinning at me as if that might be like throwing a mouse into a hungry snake’s terrarium.
“I think we’ll tackle this one together,” Becca says with a laugh.
I follow her to the stairs. “Your mom likes me, your brother doesn’t, and I can’t get a read on Lara.”
“She’s on the fence. Like Kiera,” she adds as we descend the basement stairs. It’s a finished basement. I grip the white handrail attached to a painted beige wall.
“So that’s a ‘no’ from Tad, a ‘yes’ from Mom, a ‘yes’ from Tasha, and two ‘maybes.’ ” I do a quick count. “Sounds like Dad’s the tiebreaker.”
“Well, I like you.” She stops at the second-to-last step. “So you have that going for you.”
I descend to the wood floor so that we’re standing eye to eye. After placing a kiss on the center of her lips, I say, “Thanks, Princess. I like you too.”
“Down here!” comes a shout.
“Come on. Let’s meet Len.” We pass a darkened home office and a family room with a TV, then round a corner to a room filled to the brim with clocks.
I’m not shitting you. There have to be fifty of them in the massive room, including the grandfather clock laid on a long bench, open, its parts lying everywhere. The man standing over the clock’s innards, like a surgeon performing an operation, does a double take when he sees me. He pulls his glasses off his nose and smiles.
“Hey, there. Lenny Stone.” He rounds the bench, extending a hand. He’s shorter than I am, stouter than I expected—Becca must’ve inherited her height from her mom—and ten times friendlier than Lara alluded. I barely suppress a chuckle of appreciation. It’s good that Becca has people looking out for her.
“Dax Vaughn. I’m crashing your birthday dinner, if that’s all right.”
“Sure, sure! Carol always makes enough for an army. You look like you can handle a few servings of lasagna.”
“It’s a favorite,” I say honestly.
“Happy birthday, Dad.” Becca loops her arms around his neck, and he gives her a hearty hug.