Virgin Seeks Bad Boy (Bliss River #3) - Lili Valente Page 0,43
you.”
“You’re very welcome.” Heart thudding harder, I blow him a kiss before turning and practically dancing down the block, feeling sparkly all over.
If this is what falling in love is like, I like it.
I like it very, very much.
Chapter 17
Nick
“It’s only dinner. You know how to eat dinner,” I mutter to myself as I park the Midget in front of Melody’s parents’ house and wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.
A week and a half ago, this dinner seemed like a good idea, but now…
Now I’m just hoping I’m not about to screw up the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
She’s seriously just…it. The best. Bar none.
I’ve had feelings for women before—even thought I was close to being in love a few times—but nothing like what I already feel for Melody.
Even just hanging out at the shop together—making new playlists between clients or teaching her how to use the tattoo gun on some old oranges from the fridge in back—is more fun than I’ve had at a concert or beer fest with anyone else.
And I really enjoy live music and beer.
We just click. Vibrate at perfectly complementary frequencies. I feel better about everything when I’m with her—my present, my future, myself in general.
I’ve found the girl I hadn’t realized I was waiting for, a girl who makes every bad thing less brutal and every good thing better, just by being there with her smile, her laugh, and her silly, kind, thoughtful self.
I’ve always thought people out looking for “the one” were idiots—in a world filled with billions of people, there have to be at least a few hundred people with whom you’ll be equally compatible.
But now…
Now I think Melody is it. The one. My one.
The thought sets my palms to sweating all over again, making the cellophane wrapped around the flowers I brought for Melody’s mom feel sticky in my hand as I swing out of the Midget and stand facing the house.
But she’s not mine yet—not for keeps.
What if I screw things up with her family? Melody and I might be able to weather Nash’s disapproval until it goes away, but Melody’s father has a reputation for being a hard-ass. Such a hard-ass that even my perfect big brother was on his shit list for a while.
And Nash is a dream son-in-law—secure in a well-paying job, a pillar of the community, and a stable, upstanding guy who’s great with kids, dogs, and the little old ladies who run the gardening club. If Nash isn’t good enough for Bob March’s daughter, what is the old man going to think of a guy who runs a struggling tattoo business, works as a part-time cater-waiter, and who, before meeting Melody, refused to make a long-term commitment to anything more serious than his brand of hair gel?
Get out of here, asshole. Run, don’t walk!
I swallow hard as a bead of sweat rolls down my temple. I’m seconds away from diving back into my car—I can fake a serious illness and make it up to Melody later—when the door flies open and my girl steps outside, looking gorgeous in a pair of dark jeans and a yellow halter top, even as she slams the door behind her with a growl of frustration.
“What’s wrong?” I start toward her, but she’s already running down the walk to meet me.
A second later, she hurls herself into my arms. I catch her with a grunt, dropping the flowers and pulling her tight against me, marveling again at how right it feels to hold her.
“My family is being insane,” she says, her breath coming faster. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand being in that house another minute. Not tonight.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, her voice muffled as she burrows her face into the crook of my neck.
I try to pull back and get a better look at her, but she’s holding on too tightly.
So I stroke her hair instead while studying the house over her shoulder. There’s no one at the windows or the doors, but I have a hard time believing the Marches would let Melody storm out of the house without someone coming after her. I suspect we don’t have much time alone, and it’s probably wise to figure out what’s going down here before I find myself in the middle of it.
“Come on, Mel. Tell me what happened,” I urge “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”