reaction.
I walk into the kitchen where they’re making dinner, and Dad pauses in his account of a parishioner whose eleven-year-old son was caught sel ing amphetamines at school.
“Not having dinner with us tonight, pumpkin?” he asks, probably noticing no more about my attire than the fact that I’m wearing shoes.
Mom isn’t as clueless. Her eyes go a little wide when she turns around. “Dori in a dress? And heels? What’s happened? Doug, quick, check the window. Are pigs flying by?” She laughs at her own joke and I rol my eyes at her.
“Seeing Nick tonight?” she asks slyly.
I purse my lips. I should have expected that assumption.
“Er, no, actual y. I’m just, uh, going to dinner with Reid.” They both blink, puzzled.
“Reid? As in Reid Alexander, the movie star?” Mom recovers first.
“That’s the one.” My voice is overly bright. I shrug. “He sort of wanted to apologize—wel , you know, as much as he ever apologizes—for being such a pain the past few weeks.”
Her left eyebrow crooks up. “Reid Alexander, the spoiled movie star, is taking you to dinner to apologize for acting like a spoiled movie star,” she reiterates.
I nod.
“And there’s no other reason he wants to take you on a date…”
“It’s not a date,” I say, too quickly, and her right eyebrow rises to the level of the left one, her eyes scanning me head to toe. “Mom, honestly, this outfit is so… so…”
“So unlike something my daughter, Dori, normal y wears?”
My cheeks warm, and I hope the light is low enough to mask it. Dad’s eyes dart between us. He’s trying to determine whether or not he should be alarmed.
“I just don’t want to embarrass myself in front of the spoiled movie star, that’s al .”
Mom looks at Dad pointedly and he clears his throat.
“Um, I don’t think your mother is questioning your motives, pumpkin, just his.”
Oh my gosh. “We aren’t exactly celebrity watchers, but you guys must know the type of girl Reid would be interested in that way—and I’m so not like that. It would be humiliating if I even wanted him to feel that way. Trust me, I don’t and he doesn’t. He’s just being…nice.” I struggle not to think of that kiss, certain it wil show on my face.
“Humph,” Mom says.
“I don’t know, Dori,” Dad says.
Their belief that I could be some sort of celebrity-tempting siren is almost humorous. But since I just twisted the truth claiming I’ve never wanted Reid to want me—even if that desire only existed for a few seconds—this line of questioning is anything but funny. “Trust me.”
“We do!” they chorus, just as the doorbel rings, Esther barks, and I jump, one-two-three.
“Okay, wel , I’m sure I won’t be very late.” As I head for the front door, Mom shoves Dad in my direction.
“I’l , er, get the door and meet the young man before you go. Just in case.”
I don’t ask what just in case means.
Esther is on ful alert, barking like someone is taking an ax to the door. “Esther, quiet. Sit,” Instantly silent, she sits.
“Good girl.” Esther obeys Dad and Deb every time, and Mom and me when she’s in the mood. She knows who she can manipulate to bend the rules a little. Like me and the no-dogs-on-the-sofa rule. Mom and the no-dogs-on-the-bed rule. Both of us and the no-people-food rule.
Dad opens the door with his best Dad Smile—the expression that says: I’m smiling, but if you hurt my daughter, I know a place where no one will ever think to dig. “Mr. Alexander, I presume.”
Chapter 29
REID
“Your parents are nice,” I say as she settles into the back seat next to me, pul ing the seatbelt across her chest and fastening it with a snap. “Not that I expected anything else.” She smirks. “Yes, I come from a long line of nice people.” Her fingertips drift absently over the smooth leather of the car seat. “Those with a sarcastic edge, like me for example, are expected to marry someone super-agreeable, so our descendants don’t become total y unlikable.”
My first thought is that this removes me from the running immediately and without question. The hel ? I don’t want to marry Dori. I don’t want to marry anyone. Ever. I can’t imagine why I’m bothered to be eliminated from the running for something I don’t want.
“That’s too bad.”
Her hand stil s on the edge of the seat. “Oh?” I can’t seem to stop myself. I’ve switched to autopilot. “I think you’d be bored to death with someone too agreeable.”
“So you think agreeableness is boring?” She arches a
“So you think agreeableness is boring?” She arches a brow, as though I’ve just cal ed her boring.
I shrug. “It’s fine, in moderation. But in a relationship, a little fire is a good thing.” What the hell is wrong with me?
“Like you would know,” she says, and then slaps her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
“Touché,” I laugh.
Through her hands, she says, “I’m sorry. That was a hateful thing to say.” But she’s trying not to laugh at the same time.
Insulting my capacity to maintain a relationship, hateful?
Please. That’s probably the least insulting slur she’s thrown at me. “Not unwarranted, though,” I say, stil smiling.
Her hair is down, drifting over her shoulders—no practical ponytail tonight. The highlights and lowlights I noticed when she walked up behind her dad must be natural, because I can’t imagine her bothering to add them.