America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(84)
We take our time getting to our seats, mostly because everyone in the room wants to talk to Sarah.
About Persephone. Or something on her blog. Or about how gorgeous she looks tonight, which is the only thing she wrinkles her nose at.
Like she doesn’t believe it.
I’m starting to get pissed.
Not because she doesn’t believe she’s pretty, but because nobody ever noticed before she slathered on the makeup and shimmied into Slimzies.
We finally make it to our table and I pull out her chair for her.
“No,” she says suddenly, turning to me with a spark of mischief in her eyes that once again robs me of the ability to breathe.
It takes me a minute to find my voice. “No, what?”
“No, I don’t care how tight this dress is, you may not have my single chocolate truffle for dessert.”
“Arm-wrestle you for it,” I reply instinctively.
“Beckett,” my mom hisses from across the table.
I snap straight and turn to her, because I could be seventy-eight and that tone would still scare the shit out of me. “Ma’am?”
“How many of these fancy dinners have you been to and you still put your elbows on the table and offer to arm-wrestle ladies for their desserts?”
“To be fair, Michelle, we raised him,” Dad says.
While leaning his elbows on the table.
And eyeing Mom’s—what the fuck?
He’s eyeing Mom’s dessert.
“Why’s there only a single truffle for dessert?” I ask.
“I’ll scalp your truffles if you don’t quit staring at my daughter’s chest,” Judson growls.
“Excuse you, he was looking at her eyes,” my mom snaps.
Judson blinks once, then twice, then slinks back in his chair. “Begging pardon, ma’am.”
“We should come to these things more often,” Ellie says to Wyatt, who chokes on his water and vehemently shakes his head no.
Sarah slides me a grin.
I grin back.
And slide my hand under the table to squeeze her thigh, which I can’t do very well, because holy shit that dress is really fucking tight.
“Hands to yourself, Beckett,” my mother says.
I point to Wyatt, who’s undoubtedly touching Ellie under the table.
“They’re engaged,” Mom replies primly.
“Don’t even think about proposing just to touch me,” Sarah says under her breath.
My mind instantly snaps to the reminder that I need to prove myself in the bedroom, and suddenly, I wish I’d planned this whole week better.
Sarah pats me on the thigh under the table. “But you can think about that,” she adds softly.
My mom beams at her.
Even though, yes, Sarah’s touching me under the table.
And I’m certain my mom knows it.
Actually, I’m certain that’s why my mom is beaming at her.
Gotta love moms and their double standards. Especially since it means I get to hold Sarah’s hand while she inches it up my thigh.
“Serendipity,” Sunny says sweetly to Sarah, “while he cleans up nicely, you don’t know where his leg has been.”
“The lady has a point,” my dad agrees.
“Christopher,” my mom hisses.
Ellie and Wyatt snicker some more, and as the servers roll into the room with domed dinner plates, I just grin.
Because this is as normal as normal gets. And when I need these people to have my back, they’re right there.
And Sarah’s drawing circles on my leg with her thumb, and yeah.
This moment?
With my family and the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with, no matter what I need to do to win her over?
This moment is fucking perfect.
Thirty-Three
Sarah
I am a two-faced asshole, but you can’t tell, because there’s so much makeup glooped on my face that I could actually be Cupcake’s twin and nobody would know there was a pig snout hiding under all these layers of construction-grade plaster.
Here I am, in a dress I kinda love more than I’m willing to confess to Beck, even if I can only use about forty percent of my lung capacity right now, and I’m torn between wanting to just stare at him in his tuxedo all night long and rip it off him with my teeth.
No amount of telling myself it’s because the man under the tux is a kind, sweet, sexy gentleman will convince me that I’m not two-faced for drooling over his utter physical perfection.
Nor will any amount of reminding myself that he’s just as attractive in jeans and a Fireballs jersey, or in a teddy bear robe, or while letting himself be chastised by his mother.
Although I’m definitely bothered that he’s not devouring every last bite of his steak.
“Are you sick?” I whisper.
“Hungry,” he whispers back, “but I’m officially on duty, which means I can’t make a pig of myself.”
“You really can have my truffle if you want it.”
“No way. If I eat your truffle in public, my reputation is officially shot and I’ll have to turn to modeling socks if I ever want to make enough to help my parents retire.”
I get a jolt of lusty need straight between my thighs when he says eat your truffle, but when I try to suck in a breath, my Slimzies and my dress squeeze me so tight that all the circulation is cut off to my nipples and I end up simultaneously trying to suck air back in and choking on my own lack of air.