The Reunion(82)

I brace myself.

Disappointment, coming my parents’ way.

“Mr. and Mrs. Chance,” Larkin says, “I’m so sorry about all of this.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” I say to her. “What happened last night was totally on me.”

“And what precisely happened last night?” Dad asks, hands on his hips, his gaze boring into me. “Blink twice if he’s holding you against your will.”

“Dad, it’s not like that. It’s . . .” I look over at Larkin, at her terrified face, and then back at my parents. Jesus Christ, I can’t find my words. How do I explain this? How do I— Out of the blue, Mom throws her head back and lets out a roar of a laugh while she clutches onto Dad. “Oh, Martin, I can’t hold it in any longer.”

Dad cracks a grin and then expels a nose-shaking snort that frankly is terrifying.

“What’s happening?” I ask, feeling like my balls have shriveled up into nothing from the pure terror pulsing through me.

Mom wipes her eyes. “Here we thought you were playing around with your . . . ding-a-ling while Larkin was upstairs, but in fact, she was the one playing with it.”

“Mom!” I say with a stern voice.

Ignoring me, Mom turns to Dad. “What a relief.”

He nods his head and wipes under his nose. “Really thought we raised a pervert for a second.”

“But it’s only just him and Larkin.”

“Only?” I ask. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dad chuckles some more. “Surprised it took this long.”

“I know. The sexual tension has been eating me alive.” Mom clutches her heart.

Excuse me?

Dad grips Mom’s shoulder and rubs it. “We can all let out a collective breath now.”

Mom motions to my lower half and says, “Finish putting your pants on. We shall discuss this new development while enjoying some quality breakfast.”

“I’ll get started on the bacon,” Dad says, a pep in his step.

Once they disappear, I let out a long breath as Larkin lies back on her pillow. “Oh my God, Ford. I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? I’m the one who fucked up.”

She sits up again, hugging the sleeping bag to her chest. “You think you fucked up? Like, that this was a mistake?” Her worried gaze meets mine, and I see what she’s asking.

“No,” I say, quickly, reaching out and cupping her cheek. “No, that’s not what I meant. This was not a mistake. Maybe it was a mistake doing it in my parents’ living room, where they could walk in at any point, but kissing you, pushing past that fine line, that’s not a mistake.” She nods. “I promise, Larkin,” I continue, “I’m happy last night happened.”

She smiles softly. “Me too. Really happy.”

“Good.” We stare at each other, and then together we let out a quiet laugh. “Fuck, I’m sorry about my parents.”

She pinches my side, with humor. “Why? They’re precious, utterly concerned with their son being a pervert. I find it charming.”

“You find that charming?” I ask. “I think you need to get your priorities checked.”

“Possibly.” Her grin does all kinds of fluttery things to me.

“So, should we get dressed and go discuss with my parents?”

“Or”—she cringes—“I can go take a shower and you can do all the dirty work.”

I laugh. “No fucking way am I going in there by myself. You made the first move, so you have to go in there with me.”

“What? I did not make the first move.”

“Uh, you kissed me first.”

“Because you said I made you smile,” she counters.

“That’s just a compliment.”

She shakes her head. “No way. Now get me my clothes so I can ask your parents who made the first move.”

“You are not asking them that.”

I finish putting on my pants and then snag her clothes. I watch as she drops the sleeping bag, revealing her perfect breasts before putting on my borrowed sweatshirt. She glances up at me with a sly smile. “None of that gawking.”

I press my hand to my lower back. “Can’t help it, barely got my fill last night.”

She rolls her eyes, puts her pants on, and then climbs out of the tent. I take her hand and kiss her knuckles. “There’s still a scenario where you can avoid this—pretend it never happened, and I’ll convince my parents they’re going senile and that they came up with the entire thing.”

She chuckles. “But that would mean giving you up, right?”

“Unfortunately, that would be the trade-in.”

She stands on her toes and presses a soft kiss to my jaw. “Then if that’s the case, let’s get this over with.”



My parents are sitting at the dining room table, two glasses of champagne and a cheese danish resting between them. Mom is in a jovial mood, Dad is happily coloring in his coloring book, and, to my surprise, there is something already baking in the oven. That was fast.

“We popped a quiche in; should be ready in about twenty minutes. Until then, have a danish,” Mom says, gesturing toward the counter.