The Unexpected Everything(82)

“What’s that?”

“You know how you’re never supposed to feed stray cats, because then they’ll never leave?”

“Or put a salt lick out for deer,” he said, nodding.

“Right,” I said. Clark looked at me blankly, and I nodded out to the pool, where Palmer was now cannonballing into the water and it looked like Toby and Bri had teamed up to dunk Wyatt. “You’ve fed the kittens. You’ve salted the deer.”

“What?”

I pointed at the pool. “A parent-free house with a pool? They’re never leaving now.”

“Well,” he said after a moment, leaning toward me and closing the space between our lounge chairs. “Will you be here too?”

“I will. I’m not leaving you alone with these freeloaders.”

“So then maybe it’s not the worst thing,” he said.

“Well,” I said, like I was really thinking about this, “maybe not.”

Clark smiled at me and leaned in for a kiss, at just the right angle for Bertie to enthusiastically start licking his face.

? ? ?

“So does it come up in book two?” my dad asked as he rinsed off a plate and handed it to Clark, who carefully put it into the dishwasher. “You can’t just drop something in like that and not have it pay off, right?”

“Well,” Clark said, reaching for another plate, his voice coming out hesitant. “Do you really want me to tell you?”

My dad looked at him, and I could see the struggle plainly written on his face. “No,” he finally said. “I’ll just wait.”

“I think it’ll become clearer in the second book,” Clark said, transferring glasses to the top rack one by one. “It seems to, for most people.”

“Oh, good,” my dad said, brightening as he turned the water off.

I watched this from the opposite side of the kitchen island, still not quite believing what was in front of me—my dad and my boyfriend, getting along. My dad had grilled hamburgers, Clark had brought a cheesecake for dessert, and we’d eaten outside on the back porch. My dad had given Clark a hard time at first, which he had partially deserved, since he’d gone out of his way to memorize obscure policies my dad had put through and minor floor-debate victories, as though they were common knowledge. So of course my dad had pretended he wanted to talk in detail about these, asking Clark more and more questions, until I finally took pity on him and intervened.

But after my dad had finished torturing him, they actually seemed to get along well, which I had not been expecting—and it meant I could put aside the talking points I’d prepared in case of awkward silences or lulls in conversation. I’d learned my dad loved John Wayne movies, and apparently Clark’s grandfather had as well, so they had that in common. And unfortunately, my dad told Clark about the time I’d tried to run away from home when I was four and had walked all the way to the neighbors’ house, knocking on the door and asking if I could live with them instead, because my mother was refusing to let me have the cookies I wanted. I should have known I wasn’t going to get out of this dinner without an embarrassing story told about me, and I was secretly glad it wasn’t the one about the time my mom brought me to my dad’s first swearing-in and I had a full-on tantrum on the floor of his office.

And now, cleaning up from dinner, they were talking about Clark’s books, making me realize that I really needed to read them—if only so I wouldn’t be left out of any more conversations.

When all the dishes were cleared and the dishwasher was running, my dad gave me permission to “walk Clark to his car” but with a look that told me I wasn’t fooling anyone. “You know, it took you two hours to walk him to his car last time. So maybe you two need to increase your cardio or something?”

“Right,” I said quickly, grabbing Clark’s hand and pulling him toward the door, wanting very much to no longer be having this conversation.

We walked together in the moonlight, his arm slung around my shoulders and my fingers threaded through his, the pulse in his fingertips beating against mine. “I think that went well,” he said after we’d passed out of view of my house, like Clark didn’t want to talk about it until then, like my dad had supersonic hearing.

“I think it did,” I agreed, still a little shocked by this.

“Um, except for all that Secret Service stuff. Do you think he meant it?”

I bit back a laugh. My dad had started off the evening clearly trying to get in Clark’s head, happening to “casually” mention that he knew some of the VP’s Secret Service agents well, and did he know they were trained in all kinds of deadly force, not just firearms? “He was just messing with you,” I said, leaning my head on Clark’s shoulder. He kissed the top of my head, resting his chin there for a moment before we walked on. “So,” I said, turning my head and looking up at him. “Where were we?”

“Wasn’t there a tavern brawl?”

“Isn’t there always?” I replied, and he laughed.

I came back home a little over an hour later, Clark dropping me off in the turnaround, where we weren’t quite able to resist making out for another twenty minutes or so.

I let myself back in the house, half expecting that my dad would be in his office, watching the classic movie channel or reading a book. But he was sitting at the kitchen table, a half-eaten piece of cheesecake in front of him.