Caylee doesn’t play along with Debra’s lie, laughing and telling Connor, “Mom’s bet is that Poppy is preggers. You got yourself a little Poppyseed muffin in the oven?”
“Caylee Marie!” Debra shouts. She looks to me, horror in her eyes, not at the thought but at it being laid so plainly bare. Quieter, and aiming for some semblance of manners, she asks, “Uhm, but since Caylee mentioned it . . . are you?”
“No, Mom,” Connor snaps, not seeing the humor in it all. “I didn’t knock her up.”
I shake my head and tell Debra a bit more gently, “Not pregnant, though the practicing is fun. But we’re safe. We stretch before and after to prevent pulled muscles.”
Whatever relief she felt from finding out that I’m not pregnant is dashed at the mention of Connor’s and my sex life, but hey . . . ask personal questions, get personal answers.
Connor, though, is still a bull in a china shop with almost no relaxing despite my attempts at humor. “I’d bet Dad’s guess is that I’ve been charged with something. What about you, Caylee?”
Caylee rolls her eyes but doesn’t look upset. “Right on Dad.” She snuggles into Evan’s side and adds, “Our bet is that you two eloped and you’re here to tell us that there won’t be a wedding because you’re already hitched.” She sighs. “I wouldn’t blame you. I wouldn’t change a thing about our day, but damn, that was stressful. All the planning and work, the expenses, and the people. If I’d known, I might’ve considered running off to a beach somewhere, just the two of us, to get married. The wedding costs alone would have snagged us a down payment on a house, you know that?”
“We’ll get there with our next quarterly bonuses, honey,” Evan says, looking at his bride with so much newlywed love that it inspires me.
That’s definitely a better muse for book three. I got Ryker and Amber back together after their trouble, but I’ll need fresh drama, and then maybe I can find a way to have them renew their commitment to each other in some sweet, private way.
Fresh drama . . . maybe a kidnapping? Or what about a coma? Meh, a bit soap opera . . . but I’ll figure it out.
“Thank you, you guys. Eloping is an awesome idea,” I tell them as I tap my forehead, storing that idea away for later consideration. Connor glares at me, and I assure him, “For a story. I’ll explain later.”
Closing his eyes, he pinches the bridge of his nose for a long second before striding over to the bar. He pours a double shot of scotch and drinks it in one swallow without making a face despite the burn that must be searing his throat right now.
I sit on the other couch and point at the chair next to Robert, telling Debra she should sit too. “This is about to get good.” Slowly, she does, but she’s tenser than a virgin asshole lubed in lemon juice.
Connor turns around, leaning on the bar. When his eyes meet mine, I expect to see resolve, excitement, maybe even some gloating, considering he’s about to throw his family’s preconceived notions about him in the gutter and piss on them. But what I see is doubt, uncertainty, and an overwhelming amount of fear. We talked about this before asking for this dinner, and I know he’s worried that even the truth won’t be enough.
But I believe in happily ever afters, and I have enough faith for the both of us. Hell, if I can forgive him and he can forgive me, surely, his parents will understand if given a little time and the whole story.
“Connor,” I tell him, “hit ’em with the biggie first. I wanna see their faces when you tell them.”
He grits his teeth, and before my eyes, I see him gather his courage. Slowly, so slowly I hope to not be noticed, I pull my phone out. But Connor, always aware of everything, sees. “No filming it, Poppy.”
I want to argue, to explain that right now I’m more in awe of him than ever before, but that wouldn’t help Connor. So instead, I crack a grin. “Spoilsport. I think it’ll be funny . . . later. Much later.”
He growls, and I shrug an apology, putting my phone down on the coffee table so it stays in plain sight before placing my hands on my crossed legs and smiling innocently.