my waist. “Thank you.”
“Can y’all stop flirting so I can go meet my future great-grandparents?”
Dating with a child isn’t for the faint of heart.
Wyatt snorts. “You heard the lady.” He rests a hand between my shoulder blades guiding me toward the door. “Let’s go.”
When we arrive at Wyatt’s house, there’s a little old man sitting on the porch swing just waving away. He’s adorable, with a head full of snowy white hair, little round spectacles, and stereotypical plaid flannel and khakis.
“Home sweet home,” Wyatt says, killing the engine.
There’s a little extra pep in his step as he rounds the truck to let me and Prissy out. The man is simply glowing with pride over finally being able to show off the people who raised him.
I, on the other hand, am seconds away from a nuclear-level meltdown. This fit of nerves is ridiculous. I meet new people every day. That is literally my job. But I can’t stop thinking about a conversation I had with Kate the other night—the one where she let it slip how uneasy his Mimi was about the rate at which our relationship has progressed. As a fellow mother hen, I’m now petrified to enter that house.
“Whitney, Prissy… I’d like you both to meet my Pop, Charles Hazelwood.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” I swallow my nerves, steel my spine, and reach for his hand.
“My, she is a pretty one, Wyatt,” he announces, clamping his other hand over mine so it’s sandwiched between both of his.
“Thank you.”
“And who do we have here?” Charles shuffles over to stand in front of my daughter, exerting a heck of a lot of effort to bend his old body to her level. It makes me smile to see where Wyatt gets his finer qualities, always making it a point to be sure that child knows she has his undivided attention.
“I’m Prissy.”
He nods, patting her head with a shaky hand. “That’s some fine, sturdy footwear you’ve got there.”
Beaming, she twists the toe of one combat-booted foot into the ground. “Thank you.” I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen my daughter blush. It’s sweet.
“Pretty sure you’ve just made a friend for life, Pop.” Wyatt swipes his knuckles along my spine, eliciting a full body chill. “Y’all wanna get inside, outta this cold?”
“Boy’s such a wuss,” the old man tuts, easily earning a laugh from my little girl, while trailing his grandson to the door.
“Woah!” Wyatt shouts when Ru—Sprinkles nearly knocks us all over trying to get to Prissy. “Down, boy.”
“Sprinkles, sit!” Prissy commands, snapping her fingers and holding out a hand for Wyatt to get her a treat. “Good boy,” she says kissing all over that slobbery muzzle of his. “That’s a good boy.”
“You could learn a thing or two from that precious little girl there about controlling that beast.”
“You ain’t lyin’,” Wyatt says to the elderly woman hobbling out from behind the stove. “Mimi, I’d like you to meet my girls.”
Well, if my dang heart doesn’t swell to bursting with that proclamation.
“Whitney, this is my Mimi, Melinda. Mimi, Whitney.” Sweat beads over my brow while I extend my hand. I wish Kate hadn’t said anything, because I’m not usually so awkward.
“Oh, darlin’, I don’t do none of that hand shakin’ business. If you’re gonna make it in this family, you’re gonna have to get acquainted with my huggin’.” The short round woman wraps me up tighter than a boa constrictor while Wyatt observes with the hugest smile on his face—completely oblivious to the mounting tension. “Don’t you go hurtin’ my little boy,” she murmurs in my ear, so quietly there’s no way possible anyone heard it but me.
I clear the frog from my throat and nod discreetly. She certainly won’t be hopping aboard the Whitney train any time soon.
“Your turn, little missy,” Melinda threatens, aiming her attention at my daughter.
“Hi, Mimi,” my darling child greets, throwing her arms around the woman’s waist without even being prompted. “I’m so happy to meet you.”
She, too, is well-versed in meeting new people.
“Well,” the woman says, patting Prissy on the back of the head, her eyes suddenly twinkling. “Aren’t you somethin’?”
My baby girl looks up, staring into the old woman’s eyes with nothing but sincere admiration. “People tell me that a lot.”
Wyatt and I reach for each other at the same time, hooking our fingers together, both fighting back laughter.
“Well, I guess they do,” Mimi offers. “I bet you’re a handful.”
Prissy nods. “Yes, ma’am. My teacher says I’m a real piece’a work.”
Leave it to my child