A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(54)

Every quiet, serious, brooding inch of him.

We stroll on without talking, our gait slow and leisurely. Caleb doesn’t say anything, doesn’t prep me or give me a pep talk. He just propels us forward to the Omega house, which sits stately in the center of the block down the street, its white trim and wraparound porch once belonging to a pillar of the Madison community.

Decades old, yet just as impressive.

Obviously, I’m assailed with anxiety as we walk toward this uncharted territory. I’ve never met a boy’s parents, let alone the parents of a boy I’ve only technically been on one date with. A date that we weren’t even on alone.

He squeezes my hand when we get to the edge of the yard, and when we do, a figure in the front window catches my eye. The curtains hastily slide back into place, and beside me, Caleb gives his head a little shake and swallows a curse.

“Please just ignore whatever they tell you. And sorry in advance if they act weird.”

A giggle escapes my lips as we ascend the front steps and cross the covered porch, and Caleb is pulling me by the hand through the front foyer. We’re not five feet in the door when Caleb’s parents walk out of the dining room, a huge, ear-to-ear grin spread across his mom’s face.

Caleb drops my hand and stuffs his inside the pockets of his jeans.

I could have picked his mother out of a line-up: tall with shoulder-length black hair neatly cascading over an aqua-blue running shirt. Mrs. Lockhart has the darkest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen, surrounded by lots of laugh lines.

With an expressive smile resting on her mouth, she is the spitting image of her son. Or he’s the spitting image of her.

Whatever, you know what I mean.

She’s coming toward me, eyes darting down to where our hands had been joined on the way through the door, and, as if it were possible, her beaming smile widens. Then, as she’s biting her lower lip, her cheeks dimple. “You must be Abby!” She enthusiastically embraces me in a hug.

Her cheeks will certainly be sore tonight from all the smiling.

Caleb groans.

“Hello, yes, I’m Abby.” I laugh anxiously. “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Lockhart. Ma’am.”

Ma’am? Ugh—what am I, from the South?

“Oh goodness, call me Wendy. This is my husband, Rob.”

Okay. I thought Caleb looked like his mom, but I was wrong; he is the spitting image of his dad. Rob Lockhart walks toward me. His presence in the room has my eyes widening into saucers. Just a hair taller than his son, he has shaggy black hair, dark brown eyes, and his mouth is set into a serious line.

Nervously, I extend my hand and he takes it. “Sir, it’s good to meet you.”

Mrs. Lockhart—Wendy—preens at Caleb. “Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?”

“Mom,” Caleb warns with a grimace.

“Sorry, sweetie.” She’s not sorry at all, because she looks at us both and sighs contently. “I’ll grab my coat and we can go.”

Caleb’s dad walks to the bottom of the stairwell, grabs the newel post, and shouts upstairs, “Guys! We’re leaving!”

Caleb groans again, and I look up at him. “What?”

“They invited everyone.”

I gulp. “Everyone?”

He nods. “Affirmative. Everyone.”

Oh boy.





Caleb

One by one, our friends and teammates walk through the heavy wooden doors of The Brewery, a local microbrewery and restaurant on the river, gathering in the hostess area. Collectively, there only ends up being eleven of us total, but given the size of half the people present, it might as well have been thirty.

Abby excuses herself to use the bathroom when we walk into the coat check area, and my parents use the opportunity to discreetly grill me as Blaze and Stephan excuse themselves to secure us a table. I shudder at the thought of having anyone else present when Mom pounces on me.

She is delirious with enthusiasm. “Caleb, she seems so sweet.”

Has it escaped anyone else’s notice that Mom has used the word ‘sweet’ at least three times in the last half hour? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Annoyed, I roll my eyes. “That’s because she is.”

“It didn’t take her long to get ready from the time you texted her to the time you picked her up. Punctual. I like that,” my dad says, taking a toothpick from the container on the hostess stand, unwrapping it, and sticking it between his bottom teeth.

He wiggles it around with his tongue, and it flops up and down as he watches me.

“That’s because she was at church and her hair was already done,” I point out.

My mom covers her heart with her right hand and whispers, “She goes to church?”

I cross my arms, and even though it’s disrespectful, I glare at my mother. “I swear to God, Mom, if you start tearing up, we’re leaving.”

My dad clamps a hand on my shoulder and leans in close. “Give your mom a break, bud.” He’s called me bud since I was little-ish. “We’ve never seen you with anyone. We know you’re not gay, but quite personally, I was really beginning to wonder. Not that it would matter.”

“I want grandbabies,” my mom announces.

Oh yeah.

Every college guy’s worst nightmare, and she went there.