Hate the Game - Winter Renshaw Page 0,43

or fourteen feet in height. A woman in a gray uniform-style dress greets us, letting us know everyone’s outside in the rose garden.

“You grew up here?” I ask, making sure I whisper so my voice doesn’t echo and bounce off the golf-leafed walls.

He slips his hand in mine. “Technically I grew up in Maritime Valley, but we moved here when I was in junior high … after Mark had his record nine-figure year.”

I pick up on a hint of contempt in his voice, but I don’t pry. Not here. Not when we’re five steps from a wall of sliding glass doors and a small gathering of Talon’s family members on the other side of it.

“Look who’s here!” A lithe woman with coffee-brown hair and a colorful Pucci dress rises from an iron patio chair and ambles toward us, arms stretched wide toward Talon. She wraps him in her arms like she hasn’t seen him in a hundred years, and then she kisses the side of his cheek. He fights a boyish smile that disappears in under two seconds.

“Mom, this is Irie,” he says. “My girlfriend. Irie, this is my mother … Camilla.”

His mom does a doubletake, giving me an obvious once over but not in any kind of rude way, more of a genuinely surprised sort of way. She takes my hand in hers, patting the top of mine as she speaks. “You said you were bringing a friend. I had no idea you were bringing this pretty little thing. When did you two start dating?”

“Just last week, actually,” I answer.

“Well, I’ll be,” Camilla says, her overfilled lips arching up at the corners. “You know you’re the first girl he’s ever brought home.”

I turn to Talon. “Really?”

His hands slide in the front pockets of his ripped jeans. “Yep.”

“So, tell me, how did you two meet?” she asks, leading me to the empty chair beside her. Everything’s happening so fast, I hardly have time to take in the beautiful flower-filled urns that surround us, the soft spa-like music emanating from hidden speakers, and the crash of the ocean on the shore behind us.

Talon joins us.

“We met our freshman year,” he answers. “Took this long for her to give me a chance.”

He winks at me.

“What? Oh, come on now,” Camilla says, chuckling like she thinks he’s teasing. If only she knew the truth. “Irie, would you like something to drink? Marta made the most divine white sangria you’ll ever taste in your life. Mark, will you pour Irie a glass of the sangria, please?”

I realize now that there’s a man standing behind the outdoor bar, not smiling, not saying a word. Talon said his parents were assholes … but so far his mom is adorable. Maybe his stepdad is enough of an asshole for the two of them?

Before I forget, I reach into my bag and pull out her birthday gift. Talon insisted it wasn’t necessary, that she has everything an Orange County woman could ever possibly want and then some. But I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.

“This is for you,” I say, handing her a small wrapped box. “Happy birthday.”

Camilla places a manicured hand over her heart and looks at me with tenderness in her eyes. “Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?”

A moment later, she unwraps the gift and examines the small marble ring box. It’s the kind of item that looks perfect staged on a guest room nightstand or alongside a bathroom sink. Carrera marble goes with just about anything, and it’s timeless and elegant.

I figured with her interior design background, she’d appreciate such a classic, versatile accessory.

“This is gorgeous, Irie, thank you so much,” she says, running her fingertips along the smooth edges. “I know exactly where I’m going to put this.”

Placing it aside with care, she leans over and gives me another hug. Her perfume is distinct and overwhelming yet lovely—much like her home.

A few seconds later, a soft-bellied, bald-headed man shuffles across the patio to offer me a glass of white sangria accented with various floating fruits.

“Irie, this is Mark,” Talon says. “My stepdad.”

“Wonderful to meet you,” I say as we shake hands.

“Likewise,” He says, monotone, his attention veering toward Talon. He makes a face, somewhere between a sneer and a wince. And then it’s gone. Maybe I imagined it?

“Irie’s an interior design major,” Talon says to his mom.

“Oh, you’re kidding.” She swats her hand against my knee, her eyes sparkling.

“Talon told me you used to design,” I say.

“I sure did.” There’s life in her effervescent