“MY RELATIVES CAME OVER on the second voyage of the Mayflower,” Nancy said, smiling broadly. “The Hanover line.” It was Saturday night, and her mother was serving green beans at the formal dining room table, which was covered with the good white lace tablecloth. Ainsley really felt like her parents were taking this a little too seriously; it was so new. She’d expected pizza and beer, not a whole turkey, complete with oyster stuffing.
“That’s fascinating.” Kyle smiled, nodding, but Ainsley noticed his mouth twitching strangely. When the conversation shifted away from them, he pulled out his phone under the table. He typed something into it, smirked, and put the phone away.
“What’s so funny?”
His smile fell immediately. “Nothing.”
“No, really. What was it?”
“Nothing, Ains. Really.”
She scowled. “Kyle . . .”
“Mrs. Buchanan, this turkey is so good,” he said, pointedly ignoring her unhappiness. “I’d love to get the recipe.” Her mother beamed.
“I hear you’re quite the chef as well,” Nancy said, and Ainsley knew her chance to find out what he’d been doing had gone . . . but it still nagged at her throughout dinner.
Her father was strangely quiet, sitting back with his arms crossed, answering questions with grunts and shrugs. “Stop it,” she mouthed, and he smirked back at her. Dessert was appropriately disappointing: fruit salad. Ironically, her father didn’t even partake.
As soon as they’d said their good nights and the car doors slammed, she turned to him.
“Okay. Now tell me.”
Kyle looked confused as he started the car. “Your parents? They’re great. I still get the feeling your dad’s not my number-one fan, but really, anyone who’s touching his daughter wouldn’t be high on the list, right?”
Ainsley waved her hands spastically to stop his chatter; it was nice that he was being more open with his thoughts, but this was not what she wanted to talk about, and she only had a few minutes before he went to work. “Not my parents. What did you look up under the table?”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.”
He turned onto Fourth. “Like I said, it was nothing.”
“Kyle!”
He smirked, then sobered. “You told me to stop being such a know-it-all.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Kyle said nothing.
“Kyle Howard Durand!”
He shot her a confused look. “That’s not my middle name.”
“You’re right—because your middle name is IMPOSSIBLE.”
“Actually, it’s Edward. But I wish it was impossible. I’d like that. I’d intimidate people even more.”
Ainsley let her head fall forward, her chin resting on her chest, and sighed deeply. “Fine, don’t tell me.” They drove in silence until they reached her apartment. “Bye.” She started to get out when she felt his hand on her thigh.
“I don’t want you leaving mad at me. I’m not going to see you until Monday.”
“Then tell me what you were laughing about!” she said, flapping her hands frantically. “When I told you to stop being a know-it-all, I meant with everyone else, not with me! I’m . . . I’m used to it!”
His eyes dropped to the gear shift, and she could tell he was considering this. “There was no second voyage of the Mayflower.”
“What? Yes, there was. My relatives were on it.”
He shrugged. “The internet seemed pretty sure of itself,” he said, pulling out his phone. “I can send you a link . . .”
“Kyle, my grandmother has been telling that story for years.”
“Well, then it sounds like she’s been mistaken for years. I wonder how your relatives actually came to America?”
She stared at him for a moment, then opened the car door and got out.
“Ains, wait.” His quick footfalls on the stairs told her that he was trying to catch up; she didn’t slow down. She had the door open by the time he reached her. “Wait a minute,” he said, catching her around the waist. “Come on, all families have a mythology.”
“What does that mean, Kyle?” She turned to glare at him over her shoulder.
Jaw ticking, he nudged her into the apartment and shut the door behind them, pressing his palms to the door, caging her between his arms. “It means my uncle Buster tells everyone he’s a Mensa candidate. My dad claims our grandpa Tank once delivered a baby on a moving train. My mom thinks I loved sweet pickles as a kid, and I definitely did not, since they are disgusting. Stories change over time, whether fish are involved or not. History is as fluid as the future. It’s not a big deal.”
Ainsley pressed herself flat against the door, trying to avoid his steady gaze. “It’s embarrassing. Why would she say that if it wasn’t true?”
“Because that’s what her mother told her, and someone made it up at some point. The details got forgotten or conveniently ignored. I just thought her version was funny. I wasn’t laughing at them, really,” he said, snaking a hand into her hair, shuffling closer to her. “Not any more than I was laughing at human nature.”
She looked up at him; he seemed so earnest, and she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Being laughed at still stung after all these years . . . She pushed down memories of the Incident. High school was a long time ago. She should be over it by now . . . She wanted to focus on the present, on the hot guy in front of her, not the one who’d embarrassed her.
“Mythology?” she asked, bringing her hands to his belt loops to tug him closer, flush against her.
He nodded somberly. “Mythology. Your family mythology is adorable, just like you.”
“I am pretty adorable.”
“So adorable.” His move toward her lips was slow, an implicit ask.
She lifted her chin. “I thought you had to get home.”
Kyle’s face fell. “I should,” he said. “You’re right. I’ve got vacuuming to do and—”
Ainsley pressed a finger to his lips. “Hon, I was kidding. It was sexy banter. You know. I’m playing with you. Teasing you.”
“Sexy banter,” he repeated softly, removing her hand to kiss her lips. “I like sexy banter.”
“I know you do,” she whispered back, leading him over to the couch. “And now I’m going to show you what most people think of when they use the term parallel play . . .”
CHAPTER TWENTY
ENOUGH WAS ENOUGH, Ainsley thought as she licked her ice cream cone. He’d driven her all the way into town to 22 Below, one of those specialty ice cream places in Salem. It was a good sign . . . Maybe he thought he needed to butter her up. He didn’t. She’d have been fine with Dairy Queen; heck, she’d have been fine with skipping dessert and going straight back to her place. He’d taken her out three times: it was time. True, one of those dates was dinner at her parents’, and once was being locked in a tool trailer together . . . Did that count? Was that not three? She was so ready for this, she’d been distracted all day at work. Their hot make-out session on Saturday night had given her a taste of how good this was going to be . . . It had been a while. She may or may not have shaved, exfoliated, and moisturized to excess in anticipation of where the night would go.