Rogue (Real #4)(45)
Derek waves at me from the car and I flip him off, then call, “I’ll bring out a doggie bag for you.”
He flips me back. “I chomped on a burrito at the gas station but you sure are the epitome of kindness this morning, boss.”
Ignoring the jibe—because of course I wasn’t my sunniest on our drive here, hell, I never am—I knock on the door a third time.
I’m not really certain how Melanie will react to my being here but I’m going to give her a little help and act like I already know she’s going to be f*cking delighted to see me. Period.
A servant opens the door. “Yes?”
She runs her gaze over me as if she can’t help herself, then I hear a voice, similar to Melanie’s. “Who is it, Maria?”
“Thank you, I’ll find my way.” I ease into the house and head to the noise, bursting into the dining room with ease.
Melanie’s father pushes up from his chair, surprised, though not alarmed. Silver dusts a full head of hair, and he has the kind of face that perennially wears a smile. Melanie’s mother, on the other hand, remains seated and wide-eyed, a beautiful woman with a pale, sensitive expression and eyes almost the exact shade as Melanie’s.
“Melanie?” her father asks. I roam her body with my gaze, and when our eyes connect, I see her lightly tugging on a loose tendril of hair, nervously looking for an explanation. What? Now she’s leaving me here like an idiot? Currents of electricity crackle between us, and I feel my body respond.
“Mr. and Mrs. Meyers,” I say to the people seated at the dining table. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Mom and Dad, this is Greyson. He went with me to Brooke and Remy’s wedding. He’s . . .”
She raises her face to me for help. Her eyes wide and bright, and god, she screws my brain. My mind flashes with images of her—the playful woman, the siren in my bed, the nurse who wrapped me up and kissed me after, and I can feel the fire in my gut blend into my soul.
Quietly I say, “I’m her new boyfriend and it’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
I pump her father’s hand and hold his gaze. Her mother launches herself at me and almost disintegrates in my arms. “So nice to meet you!”
Uncomfortable as f*ck by the immediate warmth around me, I pry myself free and head over to Melanie. My body feels charged just being near hers. Now lust, I can understand.
“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s just a friend,” Melanie laughs, playing a role for them. With an amused smile, she looks at me, then quips, “Change of plans?”
I pull out the chair next to hers. “Looks like.”
Her mother claps delightedly. “Oh, we’ll have a new member to play charades with!”
Fuck. Me. Standing.
I haven’t had a family-style dinner in my entire life, not even when my mother was with me. Never with both my parents at the table. I don’t eat at tables. I don’t hang out with families. In their homes.
I don’t know why I followed her here.
Bullshit. I do know.
She’s my mark, but she’s marked me. Guilt, an emotion I’m not familiar with, niggles in the back of my mind when her parents instantly begin listing all of Melanie’s talents for me. I guess I look like a decent guy. I look more than decent. They think if she likes me, I deserve her. Fuck, it hurts.
“Greyson King, hmmm . . . I’m trying to think of any Kings I know?” Her father scrubs his chin. “We are in King County, after all. What about the KING-5 TV station . . . ?”
“No, I’m not from around here.”
“Greyson, can I just say our little grasshopper is not only an amazing decorator, she makes perfect homemade ice cream from the days when Lucas and I had a little gelato place. She can actually cook, this one can!”
“Only when forced to,” she says, grinning.
Fuck me again, but she looks adorable, somehow vulnerable and playful.
She makes me f*cking hot.
Hard.
Possessive.
Protective.
What the f*ck?
“So how did you two meet?” her mother wants to know.
Melanie sighs. “He saved my car from the rain one day.”
Her mother’s eyes turn huge. “When you found yourself standing in the rain?” she asks Melanie, as though they’ve discussed the night we met.
Melanie flushes—how can I miss the way her cheeks flare bright red? The fire in my gut grows even more when I realize she’d talked about me to her mother.
“Greyson, I hope you don’t think we’re being overly enthusiastic but Mel’s never brought a boy home in twenty-five years. Even a friend.”
“Twenty-four,” Princess corrects.
“In a little over a month it’ll be twenty-five,” her mother says, rolling her eyes and then peers through her lashes at me. “Our Mel always throws a celebration,” she tells me, her hands in prayer mode under her chin. “This year we can’t wait to see what she plans!”
For the first time I notice my party girl seems at a loss for words. “I might pass this year, everything’s so expensive.”
“Nonsense. It’s twenty-five big ones!” her father says.
Melanie’s silence is weighed down with a grief that’s palpable. Suddenly, I’m honed in on the fact that the three of us are watching her while she looks down at her plate, her lip caught under her teeth. My fingers twitch at my sides, and a flash of concern hits me as I realize she’s sad, the flash of pain followed by a flash of determination to make it better.