His brows knitted as he chewed. “So what exactly are they going to think of me?”
I laughed, covering my food-filled mouth with my hand. “I have absolutely no idea.” It sounded terrible, but I wanted this engagement to cause him at least half the discomfort it was causing me.
“I erred in not asking your father for your hand before I proposed.”
I shrugged. “He won’t care. It’s not like he knows whether you are good for me or not. Actually, it probably works in your favor that he doesn’t know anything about you.”
“I would defend that statement if it wasn’t accurate. So, how do you propose we tell them?”
My fork froze. I hadn’t actually considered the fact that I would need to tell my parents. Now, it seemed ridiculous that the thought hadn’t crossed my mind, especially with all of the questions he had just asked me. “Do we have to tell them now?”
“Why would we wait?”
“Ummm ...” I slowly moved my fork the rest of the distance to my mouth, chewing the meat ridiculously slow. I mumbled the next sentence through pork and saliva, hoping that the words wouldn’t translate properly. “Because I may not have told them that I broke up with Luke.”
“What?” He moved the fork away from my face. “I couldn’t understand that through your mastication of food.”
I slumped, finished the chewing process and repeated the sentence.
He shook his head in disbelief. “Why not? It’s been, what, almost two months? Isn’t that the type of thing that comes up in phone calls?”
“My parents raised me to be independent. Ever since I left for college, I haven’t been in as close of contact with Mom and Dad. It’s not that they aren’t interested in my life—they have just encouraged me to spread my wings, live my own life. Luke loved my parents, and Mom really took to him. I guess I’ve just put off making the call to tell her. I didn’t really want to hear her thoughts on the matter, especially once my decision was made.” The reminder of Luke’s reaction to our breakup—his repeated calls, guilt trips, his insistent to let our relationship go—made me frown. The truth of the matter was, I hadn’t really wanted to speak ill of him, to explain in honest terms to my mother the multiple reasons behind my decision. I looked up, meeting Brad’s steady gaze. “It hadn’t, at the time of the break-up, seemed like urgent, I-must-share-this-right-now news. And now, two months later, I just haven’t got around to telling her yet.”
He stood, walking over to my bag and rummaging through it, then returned to the table and set my cell in front of me. “Call her. Now.”
“Fuck you. I’m not calling her now.” I shoved the phone to the side and defiantly scooped up some mashed potatoes.
“If you don’t call her now, you’ll wait weeks, and then you’ll have to explain why you waited so long to tell her the news. My family already knows. When they meet I don’t want you stressing out the whole time over whether your mom will find out how long we have been engaged.”
My jaw dropped. “When they meet? They aren’t meeting.”
He raised his brows at me as he stood over me, still pushing that damn phone toward me, somehow making the infuriating gesture look sexy. I picked up the iPhone and threw it, the landing making a satisfying crack against stone that caused both pleasure and despair to shoot through me. But at least I wouldn’t have to call my mother.
He smirked, which pissed me off even more.
I stood, the heavy chair beneath me not cooperating, and I untangled myself from it until I was beside him—still six infuriating inches too short to meet his gaze full on. “I’m not introducing my lovable family to your bloodthirsty vulture nest.”
He staggered back, his hand across his heart in mock pain. “Dearest, that is my blood you speak of.” He stepped forward again, gripping my waist sternly and bringing me to him. “I’ll have to ask you to take that back.”
I narrowed my eyes at him and pushed him back, the damn man for once cooperating, releasing my waist and leaning back against the table, our eyes now level. “You plan on us being married and our families not meeting? That’s not going to work out. Besides, your family will love my family. Trust me. They’re Italian. Being warm and hospitable is second nature to them.”
“So are iron suitcases and broken hubcaps!”
He tilted his head at me, a large grin crossing his face. “I think you confused that ... never mind. Let’s cross one disastrous bridge at a time. Do you want us to go to your parents, or should I bring them here?”
My body was on the verge of a breakdown—stress, anticipation, and anger all fighting losing battles inside of me. I imagined Brad’s huge body in my mother’s small kitchen, her Southern hospitality ingrained insistence that we stay with her, my tiny bed, the house hot, her thermostat religiously resting at seventy-eight degrees. Then I imagined my dad here, lost in Brad’s huge house, his worn-out suitcase rattling and rolling around the stone floors, him finding a gun when he reached for a toothbrush. Panic started to set in, spots appearing in the air between him and me.
My face must have shown something, for concern lit Brad’s face, and he reached forward, pulling me gently to him and hugging me against his chest. I sagged there, my arms stretching around his body to grip him tightly. My cheek pressed against the silk blend of his dress shirt, and I inhaled the scent of him—slight citrus, masculine, ocean, spice. A delicious blend of everything. “Just call them, babe. We don’t have to worry about making travel plans yet. Just call them, tell them the news, and then let me talk to them.”
I murmured a string of words against his hard chest, the word ‘phone’ slipping out into the open air. He straightened me, my legs wobbly before finding firm footing, my eyes focusing on him. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell, handing it to me with a warning look.
“Don’t throw it.”
I hefted the phone in my hand—his seemed pounds heavier than mine, though that was impossible. Then I sighed, pressed in the digits for my family’s home phone, held the phone to my ear, and hoped like hell no one was home.
Chapter 8
I should have prayed instead. The phone didn’t ring three times before my mother answered, her voice breathless, as if she had sprinted across the house to answer the call.
“Mom, you sound busy. I can call back.” I spun, walking across the kitchen and opening the back door, which lead to the porch.