Out of My League - Sarah Sutton Page 0,61
poked his head back inside. “I’m kidding. Come on, let’s go inside.”
The urge to hit him upside the head worked its way over me. Brat.
There was a small mudroom/hallway that connected the house to the garage, walls completely filled with windows. It was beautiful, of course, and way nicer than the main entrance of my house.
The idea of meeting his family was starting to sink in, delayed from my fight with my own parents. Walsh opened the glass door that led inside, stepping back to allow me to go first. Even as I passed, I could see his eyes darting around, not resting on a single place for too long. “Let’s go see what Chef Hunter is cooking up for us tonight, shall we?”
The little hallway deposited us in the formal dining room, with a crystal glass table that could fit twelve people. Four plates were set out with polished silverware, looking like a fancy restaurant setting. I felt so out of my depth.
As soon as I stepped over the threshold, I caught a whiff of sauce and melted cheese, like a gourmet pizzeria or a high-end Italian restaurant. I almost stopped in my tracks, the smell so good that my mouth instantly started watering. “Whatever that is, it smells like heaven.”
“It’s baked ziti with a cheese sauce, paired with garlic knots and a Caesar salad.” A man came out of the kitchen, stained apron covering his nice shirt. It had what looked like tomato sauce smeared across the front, and more questionable stains near the hem. “Or, at least, that’s what the recipe I printed off the internet said.”
The resemblance to Walsh was striking. Mr. Hunter’s hair was a bit duller than Walsh’s, still blond but streaked with gray, and almost the exact same length. The only thing different about the two of them were their eyes—Mr. Hunter’s were brown and framed by glasses.
“You must be the young lady my son is so obsessed with,” Walsh’s dad said warmly. Walsh’s eyes closed as his dad extended a hand, dirty with flour. Mr. Hunter’s face broke into a sheepish expression. “Oops, sorry. I’ve been cooking all day in preparation for this. My social skills are rusty.”
I shook his dirty hand anyway, smiling. “It smells absolutely amazing, Mr. Hunter.”
“I know it’s very clichéd, but please, call me Wes.” His smile was almost identical to Walsh’s real one, the one he gave people when he wasn’t trying to impress. The one he most frequently gave to me. “Well, please. Come in. Walsh, can you go upstairs and find your mother? She’s probably in her study.”
Walsh rubbed his hand over my back. “I’ll be right back.”
Wes reached his clean hand out to me. “You can help me mix the dressing for the salad.”
Though I’d been to Walsh’s house before, I hadn’t gotten the chance to go through the kitchen. And seeing it now—it was picture-perfect. White glossy cabinets reflected the pendant lights that hung over the large island, parked in the center of the space. Near the sink, there was a large picture window that overlooked the backyard, and in full view, I could see the cliff, the one I’d gone out to after Scott broke up with me. The one Walsh nearly catapulted himself over to rescue my journal.
Oh, my journal. The wound still felt fresh.
Wes filled the island and nearby countertops with dirty bowls, containers, and measuring equipment. He gave a nervous laugh at the sight of it, hands opening and closing over the mess. “A tornado came through here. I—I’m not a good cook. Or a cook in general. Janet usually does this kind of thing.”
I walked over and grabbed a few dirty dishes, moving them from the workspace. “Where is Janet?”
“Oh, her friend was hosting an event and asked her to help cater over in Hallow. Convenient, right?”
“Maybe she doesn’t like me,” I teased.
“How could she not? You’re the only friend Walsh has ever brought home to meet us, besides Zach. She was bummed to miss this.”
So many things caught my attention. How much did Walsh say about me? And wait, what did Wes say? I was the only friend Walsh brought over to meet his family? Surely Wes couldn’t have been serious. Walsh had tons of friends. Have seriously none of them met his parents before?
Before I had a chance to analyze Wes’s words any further, a sharp bang came from upstairs, like a door slamming closed.
A moment later, Walsh appeared from the other end of the kitchen,