to get to my parents’ house, all of which were silent, with the exception of Nixon’s playlist streaming through the speakers. Guy had a thing for moody music. Pretty sure his Spotify-recommended playlists were titled Break My Heart, Another Rainy Monday, and Down in the Dumps.
He pulled into the driveway next to Jeremiah’s truck and killed the engine.
“You seriously don’t have to come if you don’t want,” I offered for the hundredth time.
He had the nerve to look taken aback. “I like your family.”
“Right.” It was just me he didn’t like, which would make Sunday dinner all the more fun. I steadied my temper with three measured breaths, mentally listed every sweet thing he’d done for me, then followed Nixon up the porch steps. We’d have it out at home, not at Mom and Dad’s house.
“We’re here!” I didn’t bother knocking as we walked into my parents’ house.
“Oh good!” Mom called out from the kitchen.
We hung our coats on the rack and headed that way. Mom met us both with hugs, which Nixon handled with so much ease I almost smiled.
“Dad has Levi and Ashley Sandguard in the yard,” Mom told us as she fussed over the flowers Nixon had brought her.
It was official—I’d somehow broken him, taking him from a sex-crazed, arrogant rock star with a smirk that could melt the very panties off any girl, to a moody, brooding—fine, he was still a rock star—who wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole but brought flowers to my mother.
“Who is Ashley Sandguard?” Nixon asked, sliding onto one of the barstools.
“Next-door neighbor’s little girl,” Mom answered. “Her mom had to rush Carrie—that’s Ashley’s little sister—to the emergency room for a pretty nasty cut. Don’t worry, everything is fine, she just needs a few stitches.”
“So, set an extra place for dinner?” I asked, already crossing the kitchen.
“Already done.” Mom waved me off. “And I told your father we’re ordering pizza. I hope that’s okay with you two?”
“Fine by me,” Nixon answered. “Anything you need help with?”
Who the hell was this guy?
“Not at all. But I wouldn’t mind hearing how the San Francisco trip went since my daughter’s only details included the words fine and okay.” She took the stool next to Nixon’s.
Nixon’s gaze flashed to mine, and I turned away before I did something uncontrollable, like blush or throw every can in the recycling bin at his stupid, perfect head.
“I thought I heard you pull in,” Naomi said as she came in the side door, rubbing her hands. “Jeremiah and Dad—”
“I need you for a second.” I grabbed her hand and tugged her into the laundry room, shutting the door behind us.
“You need me to do laundry?” she asked with a furrowed brow.
“What? No. But now that you say it…” I grabbed the basket Mom always kept of household wash, threw it in, and started the machine, then nodded when the sound of rushing water filled the room. Hopefully it would give us another layer of privacy. “I need to ask you something.”
“Go for it.”
“I…uh…hmmm.” Now that I had her here, the question seemed, well, stupid.
“Zoe, I work in the world’s smallest health clinic, and we’ve been friends since we were five. Whatever you need to ask, trust me, I’ve been asked worse.” She leaned back against the washer.
“I somehow doubt that.” This was a level beyond embarrassing.
“Does it burn when you pee?”
“What? No!” I shot her a what-the-hell look, and she shrugged.
“See? Already not the worst.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
She arched a brow. “Have I ever not kept one of our secrets?”
“Even from Jeremiah?”
“As long as you’re not asking me to break my wedding vows, I think we’re in the clear. What’s up?”
I glanced at the closed door, then took a deep breath. “Hypothetically, is it possible to be so bad at sex…well, not even sex, it didn’t get that far. Let me rephrase.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
“Is it possible to be so bad at foreplay that your…partner,” I enunciated that word to keep from saying Nixon’s name on accident, “runs away and locks himself in a bathroom until the pilot orders him into a seat because the plane is getting ready to—”
“Nixon did what?” Her mouth dropped open a good two inches.
“I didn’t say it was Nixon,” I whispered in a hiss.
“Yeah, okay.” She rolled her eyes. “Because you spend so much time flying around with other people.”
I glared at her.
She cringed. “Sorry, you were saying something about the plane?”
“It landed. And…the partner…hasn’t spoken more than four consecutive words to