America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(63)
As if she has a choice in it.
I’m still grinning at my phone, debating what to reply, and I decide to send her a quick video of my view from the backyard instead.
“Hey, dinglehoppers, say hi to Sarah,” I call.
“You can do better than this guy,” Hank says.
“He makes terrible jokes,” Waylon agrees.
“Awful poker player,” Wyatt says.
“I’ll serve his eyeballs on a platter for breakfast next to his spleen if he hurts you,” her dad growls.
“Beck is a wonderful young man, and we’re so glad you tolerate him,” Ms. Rivers says.
“Mom, that wasn’t nice,” June hisses.
“But, honey, it’s accurate.”
“Love you, Beck.” Ellie blows me a kiss. “Sarah, if you taser him again, I want it on video.”
“Snickerdoodle vagina!” James yells.
“I want to see the tasering,” Tripp agrees.
“Be nice,” his mom chides.
Emma farts. Loudly. Cupcake pretends to fall over dead. And I kill the video and send it to Sarah.
“Aw, honey, you know we love you, right?” Mom says.
“Almost as much as we love Ellie,” Dad agrees with a twinkle in his eye.
Judson’s studying me through slit eyes. “You might be okay with this crew to keep you humble,” he growls. “But I still don’t trust you around the Euranians.”
“Rightfully so, sir,” I agree.
My phone buzzes again with another text from Sarah.
I see where you get your sense of humor. Definitely from the pig.
She has her own sense of humor. And it’s fun to see it coming out. Because the woman I met Saturday morning who freaked out and tasered me isn’t the same woman who’s charming the world on a video we posted from my social media accounts this morning.
Mom used to talk about the year Ellie bloomed.
I didn’t get it.
But I feel like I’m watching Sarah bloom.
And it’s the greatest fucking thing ever.
Twenty-Seven
Sarah
No matter how many times I try to tell myself this isn’t a real date, I can’t stop my heart from pounding and my knees from knocking and basically everything from going into panic mode while I wait for Beck to arrive Thursday night.
After Trent last year, I realized I’d never be relationship material. That I hold too much of myself back, and I was okay with that, because—well, probably because I was being really stupid. And afraid that no one could ever love me for all of me despite the complications of my life.
And now, here I am, about to go on a fake-real date with the guy who pulled me back into the limelight, who I’m getting more and more attached to by the day, who has a lot on the line if the media decides he’s actually the asshole his tweet made him out to be, and who I still trust anyway.
Despite my very nervous heart’s warnings that we take it slow.
Physical relationships never used to make me squirrely. Not until Trent asked if he could meet my parents. But getting attached to Beck and his goofball personality and that irresistible smile and his easy acceptance of who I am makes me quake, because I don’t have an easy out if I let myself fall all the way over the cliff and he really is just that good at acting.
This isn’t all physical.
Not even close.
I’m in a Mom-approved T-shirt—classic Rolling Stones gets her every time—and hip-hugging jeans that loudly proclaim to the world that I love dessert more than I love to exercise, but I’m not muffin-topping, so Mom doesn’t object to them either. I let her French braid my hair and agree to some Burt’s Bees lip gloss, but otherwise, I’m all me.
Right down to the plain cotton bra and RYDE underwear.
He’s right on time, and when he knocks, my dad doesn’t growl or threaten to feed his testicles to the pig.
I think they bonded over a one-armed push-up contest that my dad won yesterday. And the world will never know if Beck let him or if my dad is that much of a badass, because I’ll never get a straight answer out of Beck.
Who’s now smiling at me from my front porch like I’m the person who set the sun and moon and stars into their dynamic, beautiful dance through space. “Hey,” he says.
I smile back, and it’s not because I know there are photographers capturing my every move, but because it’s impossible not to smile back at him. He’s this unexpected combination of complete goofball and absolutely zero self-doubt, and he’s rubbing off on me.
“Have her home by ten,” Dad says in a less growly voice. “And call before you walk in so I can turn off the alarm.”
“Judson, honey, Serendipity knows the code now. And she’s an adult. Almost thirty even. She can stay out all night with a man if she wants to.”
“He’s not a man. He’s a beast hell-bent on taking my daughter’s innocence and flushing it down a sewage-filled vat of toxic sludge.”
“I hope your genitals are insured,” I murmur to Beck, because clearly that’s what Dad’s going to threaten next. Again.
Beck coughs, his eyes dancing. Mom grips Dad by the arm and tugs hard enough to uproot him and make him trip over Cupcake, who’s looking for Meda, who’s hiding from Cupcake.