Well Matched (Well Met #3)(31)

It was nice.

Those warm feelings were still coursing through me when Mitch came up the steps from the backyard. He made a beeline for me, slipping an arm around my waist and pulling me close. Before I could even process it, his mouth brushed over mine as though this was something we did every day. As though this wasn’t the first time he’d kissed me.

Which it absolutely was.

As his lips left mine I froze, and so did he. We were both so caught up in this fantasy of being a couple in front of his family that it took our brains a few moments to catch up to what our bodies were instinctively doing. His eyes searched mine, knowing he’d overstepped. Certain I was going to push him away, bring this whole charade tumbling down around our ears.

But that was the last thing I wanted to do. Was it the heat of the day, the slight cider buzz, or the sense of belonging I’d felt around his family? One of those things had made his kiss feel like the most natural thing in the world. One of those things made me curl my hand around the back of his head, pulling him back down for a quick second kiss, punctuating the first one. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise?—but he grinned down at me and tugged me even closer. He was warm, a little sweaty from all the running around in the backyard. But I didn’t pull away. Because I was doing my job. Being his girlfriend. Making him look good in front of his family.

Yep. That’s all I was doing.



* * *



? ? ?

The picnic table on the deck had been filled with snacks, which we’d partaken of all afternoon—veggies and dip, chips, some leftover guacamole—so I had no idea how I was expected to eat dinner. But when the sun started waning in the sky, the main event began. The smoker had eventually yielded racks of ribs and a massive brisket, and the platter of barbecue that resulted made my stomach growl and my mouth water as though I hadn’t eaten for a week.

A buffet line had been set up in the kitchen—where had all this food come from?—and I loaded my plate with shredded beef, ribs, and greens before sitting down at the massive dining room table. I slid my water glass to the place next to me, saving it for Mitch, who was farther back in the line. Except for those brief kisses on the back deck we’d hardly spoken all day, which felt a little weird, but as long as he was happy I was doing my job, right?

Once we were all seated, Mitch looked at my plate with a frown. “Wait a sec. You didn’t get any of the mac and cheese?”

I shook my head as I forked up some greens. “I’ve been pigging out all day. I should probably show some restraint.”

He made a pfft sound of dismissal. “Restraint doesn’t apply when it comes to Grandma’s cooking. Here.” He tipped his plate, scraping off about half of his macaroni and cheese onto my plate. “You need to try this. Trust me.”

I trusted him and took a bite. “Holy shit.” I chewed slowly as cheesy goodness flooded my mouth. I’d found nirvana in Grandma Malone’s macaroni and cheese, and I wanted to live there for the rest of my life.

Mitch nodded in satisfaction. “Told ya.” He took a bite and passed me the squeeze bottle of barbecue sauce. “Here. You need this too. Grandpa is a master at barbecue sauce.”

I didn’t even question it this time, I just slathered sauce on the brisket before taking a bite. The moan that escaped me was indecent. I was a fan of Virginia barbecue—tomatoey, a little garlicky, a little vinegary. But Grandpa Malone knew his shit, and took it to a whole other level. “Do you cook like this?” I asked. “Because you’ve been holding out on me.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You know my specialty is ordering pizza.”

“Still can’t cook, huh, Mitch?” One of Mitch’s cousins laughed from across the table. I couldn’t remember his name, but he was one of the ones playing touch football in the backyard.

“Nope,” Mitch said cheerfully, his attention still on his plate. “But I still do okay.” He draped an arm around my shoulders. “You should try April’s shepherd’s pie sometime. It’s amazing.” His hand on my shoulder felt a little heavy, and his grip was tighter than it needed to be. I looked up at him, and when he met my eyes, his smile was tight before he let go. I didn’t like that.

“I have to say, April, I’m glad to see you here.” His cousin kept talking. “We were starting to worry that Mitch might not meet anyone worthwhile. It’s not like he’s that much of a catch, you know?”

“Bryce, stop.” The woman next to him—Cousin Douchebag’s wife maybe?—batted him on the arm, but her giggle was insipid, belying any kind of rebuke she was making.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

Cousin Douche looked abashed for a moment. “Oh, I’m not belittling your taste or anything. But you know . . .” He shrugged. “It’s not like he’s applied himself, ever. I told him he should go for an advanced degree, but . . .”

“But I didn’t want to,” Mitch said. He didn’t sound angry. His voice was almost aggressively cheerful. This was an old argument, and he didn’t want to be having it again, so he was going to grin his way out of it.

“So what do you do?” I put down my fork and leaned forward, elaborately interested in what Bryce was about to say. I wouldn’t normally be so bold in front of people I’d just met, but that sense of belonging had fooled me. That, and I was pretty pissed off.