The Mistake (Off-Campus #2)(81)

I dry my hands with a dishrag and grasp her chin, drawing her gaze to mine. “I didn’t want her,” I murmur. I nudge Grace’s head in the direction of the table again. “I wanted that.”

Garrett has just tugged Hannah into his lap, one arm wrapping around her as he plants a kiss on the tip of her nose. The fingers of his free hand thread through her dark hair, and she leans closer to whisper something in his ear that makes him chuckle. The way they look at each other…the reverence with which he touches her…they’re disgustingly in love, and anyone can see it.

Including Grace, who turns back to me with a smile. “Yeah. Who wouldn’t want that?”

Once the kitchen is squeaky clean, we disappear upstairs again, but not to have sex. We’ve barely slept this weekend thanks to our f*ck-a-thon—not complaining, by the way—so we decide to take a nap. I set the alarm to make sure we don’t oversleep, because I’m supposed to drive Grace to her dad’s house at six.

We climb under the covers and I yank her warm body toward me, spooning her from behind. A contented sigh slips out, but right as I start to drift off, her voice teases me back to a state of alertness.

“John?” she murmurs.

My heart squeezes. I don’t know why it does that every time she uses my first name. She calls me Logan too, and Johnny when she’s making fun of me, but it’s only John that floods my chest with emotion like this.

“Mmmm?”

“Do you want to come for dinner?”

I stiffen, and she doesn’t miss the response. She releases a soft laugh and adds, “You’re allowed to say no. But…I mean, you’ve already kind of met my mother, and just so you know, my dad isn’t too scary. If anything, you might find him boring. He talks about science a lot.”

Right. She’d mentioned that he was a biology professor. That’s not what worries me, though. The last time I met a girl’s parents, I was in high school, and it wasn’t a big deal back then. If anything, it was unavoidable, considering my girlfriend and I lived with our parents.

And yeah, I’ve already Skyped with Grace’s mom, but that hadn’t felt like an official meeting or anything. It had been fun and casual, no big deal at all. But meeting Grace’s father—in person—feels like a big deal.

Says the guy who’s in love with her.

Good point. Hell, I ventured into BIG DEAL territory the moment I realized how I feel about her.

“Will he mind if I come?”

“Not at all. Mom already told him I had a boyfriend, so he’s actually been bugging me about meeting you,” she confesses.

“Okay, then sure.” My arm tightens around her. “I’d love to.”

*

Grace

It’s a pleasantly warm evening, so Dad decides we should eat on the patio. He grills up some steaks on the barbecue, while Logan and I take care of the rest of dinner. I’m in charge of the baked potatoes, Logan’s handling the salad. But watching the sheer concentration with which he slices those tomatoes, you’d think he was vying for a slot on Top Chef.

“Relax, Johnny,” I tease. “Your salad preparation expertise has no bearing on whether he’ll like you or not.”

Besides, I think my dad already likes him. He hasn’t cross-examined Logan like I expected him to, and I think he was secretly relieved when Logan cracked a joke during their introductions. My father always thought Brandon was completely lacking in personality—yep, Mr. I-teach-molecular-biology actually sat me down one day and informed me that my boyfriend was boring. Which was totally not the case. Brandon was shy, not boring. When we were alone, that boy had me doubled over in laughter.

But Dad never got to see that, and there’s no denying that Logan possesses far more confidence than Brandon ever had. Within five minutes of meeting him, Logan gave my dad a good-natured reprimand for raising me to “hate” hockey, and Dad brings that up again once we’re seated at the glass table on the deck.

“Here’s the thing, John,” he says as he cuts into his T-bone. “Gracie is smart enough to recognize the shockingly inferior level of skill that hockey demonstrates.” His eyes twinkle playfully.

Logan mock gasps. “How dare you, sir.”

“Face it, kid. Football requires a whole other level of athleticism.”

Looking pensive, my boyfriend chews a bite of his baked potato. “All right, little scenario for you. You take every guy on the Bruins roster, throw football gear on them, and stick them on the field. I guarantee you they play a solid four quarters of football and kick some serious ass.” He smirks. “Now take the Pats, slap on some skates and pads, and put them on the ice—can you honestly tell me they’d be able to play a full three periods, and do it well?”

Dad narrows his eyes. “Well, no. But that’s because a lot of them probably don’t know how to skate.”

Logan’s smile is triumphant. “But they’re operating on a superior level of athleticism,” he reminds my father. “Why can’t they skate?”

Dad sighs. “Touché, Mr. Logan. Touché.”

I snicker.

The remainder of the dinner goes the same way, animated discussions that end with one or both of them grinning. I can’t contain the burst of joy in my heart. Seeing them get along is such a relief. Now I’ve gotten the nod of approval from both my parents, whose opinions matter deeply to me.