“So, no one can get in, and no one can get out.”
My eyes and mouth widen in disbelief. “Dad!” I scold. “That’s not what he’s saying. God, chill out.”
Maintaining his composure, Greyston smiles and turns to me. “No, Juliette, it’s okay. I get it.”
He’s just turning back to my dad when I reach out and grip his bicep—his strong, hard bicep. With his eyes back on me, I inhale shakily and remember what it is I was about to say. “No. It most definitely is not okay,” I say, glaring angrily at my father.
The cocky jerk only grins at me; he’s screwing with us, and it only seems to be riling me up. “Jules, would you mind grabbing me something to drink?”
His request worries me a little, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me I needn’t. “Uhhhh…” I look between Dad and Greyston, and when my eyes catch Greyston’s, I’m surprised by how at ease he still seems—even after my father’s less-than-kind remarks. Confident, even. “Y-yeah. Sure.”
As I leave the room, I hear Dad asking Greyston more about his neighborhood. While I want to duck around the corner and listen in on their conversation, I know I’ll be found out one way or another. So I continue on, only hearing the first little bit of Greyston’s answer before I’m in the kitchen.
“Hey, sweetie,” Mom says, looking up from her cookbook. “What’s up?”
“Um, Dad asked for a drink,” I say with a shrug, pulling a stool from under the counter, plopping down on it, and resting my chin in my hands. “But I know he was just trying to get rid of me so he could interrogate Greyston.”
“He’s cute,” she blurts out, and I immediately grimace.
“Oh yeah, scaring the crap out of the guy I have to live with is really freakin’ adorable.”
Mom laughs, shaking her head. “Not your father—well, him too, I suppose—but I was actually referring to Greyston.”
Warmth fills my cheeks, and I find myself looking anywhere but at my mother. “Um, I suppose he’s a little good-looking.”
Because she’s my mother, she sees right through me. “Yeah, ‘a little.’ Please, Juliette. You were making googly eyes at him the entire time you were standing in the kitchen.”
I’m offended—and also not surprised. “I was not!” One look from her and I’m burying my face in my hands. “Okay, okay,” I mumble into my palms before peeking at her through my fingers. “What am I going to do?” The left side of her mouth turns up into a sly smirk, and I grab the tea towel off the countertop and toss it at her with a laugh. “Mom!”
Abandoning her cookbook, she comes around and pulls the other stool out next to me. “Relax, I was only teasing. He seems like a very nice young man.”
Suddenly, I hear Dad’s laughter coming from the living room. My eyes meet Mom’s, shock clearly written across my face as I launch myself off my stool. By the time I make it back to the living room, Dad is relaxed back into his chair—his holster no longer on or even in sight.
What the hell happened while I was in the kitchen? I hadn’t been gone that long.
Dad looks extremely happy, his eyes shining with what I assume to be tears of laughter. I can’t even put into words how shocked I am to be witnessing this. And here I thought he was going to be a hard-ass the entire evening. Clearly, I underestimated Greyston’s ability to win him over.
“What’s going on in here?” I ask, looking between the two of them with wide eyes.
Dad glances at me, looking somewhat perplexed. It’s then that I realize I’ve forgotten his drink. Thankfully, Mom’s right behind me to save the day.
“Juliette, honey, you forgot your father’s beer in the kitchen.” Mom hands Dad his beer and sits on the armrest of his chair. “Dinner should be ready right away,” she announces, draping her arm over Dad’s shoulders.
Settling back onto the couch—possibly closer to Greyston than before—I try to get a feel for the atmosphere in the room. Mom and Dad begin to talk quietly amongst themselves, so I decide to ask Greyston how he managed to change my dad’s pre-conceived notions so quickly.
“So,” I begin, “things are going well?”
Greyston chuckles quietly, shifting his body to face mine again. His knee touches mine, and a spark shoots through me. I’d blame static, but this seems to be the effect he has on me every time we’re together. “Your father’s not quite as terrifying as you seem to think.”
“Yes,” I argue. “He is.”