Ruthless In A Suit(60)

“Yes?” he says, not looking up.

“Feel free to say no,” I begin, “but would you want to go with me out to Lexington this Sunday for brunch? With my family?” I’ve mentioned the Sunday morning brunches to him before, and he knows I haven’t been to one since we started seeing each other.

He stops what he’s doing and looks across the room at me. “First of all, I always feel free to say no. Second, my goal in life is to never say no to you.” I grin, feeling all butterfly-ey. “Third, yes. I will go to brunch at your parent’s place this weekend. In fact, I’d love to.”

“Really?” He nods. I jump up and run toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck and covering his face with kisses as he laughs. “Thank you! They’re going to love you, I know it.”

We don’t talk about what this means for our relationship. These things still go unsaid. It’s fine, I tell myself. Even though we don’t say the words, I know that Jackson feels the same way about me as I do about him. I can feel it in the way he looks at me, how he touches me with both passion and warmth. And now, by the fact that he wants to meet my family. This may be my first relationship, but I know what that means.

It means things are serious. And I am seriously excited about the future.





Jackson





I’ve met other women’s parents before, but usually at a wedding or some sort of reception or other work-related event. Normally when I meet the parents it’s because our families are already connected in some way through business. In many ways, meeting the parents is just another business connection to make.

Meeting Emily’s parent’s is none of those things. It’s something I truly want to do. I want to know more about her family.

Emily has big plans for the weekend. She doesn’t just want to get in the car Sunday morning and drive out to Lexington. “Let’s go out Saturday night,” she says, “and I get to choose the place. And I get to pay!”

I laugh. She’s sitting on my lap in my office, having just asked if I would go to the brunch this weekend. “You can choose the place,” I tell her. “But I can’t let you pay.”

“Jackson, I have a job,” she tells me.

“Part time,” I clarify.

“I still have money,” she says. “I’m not destitute. I can afford to take you out for pizza.”

“So we’re going for pizza?”

“I’ve said too much!” she says, and she’s just so damn cute. Her excitement is contagious, and the weekend can’t get here fast enough.

On Saturday, Emily insists on meeting me at my house but says I will still have the chance to be a gentleman by taking her home later.

“Now you’ve got me thinking about getting you home,” I tell her as I kiss her neck in the cool night air. She laughs and squirms away from me.

Emily directs the cab driver to a place in the South End. A pizza place.

“Just wait,” she tells me, her eyes sparkling as she takes my hand and leads me inside. “This is the best pizza you’ll ever have in your life.”

“I have to tell you,” I say, “that I have had pizza in Naples.”

She slaps my chest. “Don’t ruin it before it begins!”

I take her hand and kiss her fingers.

The place is small with distressed wooden booths and little round tables. The walls are red and look like they’ve been painted over a hundred times. It’s slightly dark and Italian folk music is playing on the overhead speakers. The small space is warmed up from the brick oven behind the counter.

“It certainly smells good,” I say, because it does. I can tell already that good fresh ingredients are used.

We take a small table near the back—the more I can get Emily alone, even in public, the better. Although the table is so small I don’t know how a pizza pie will ever fit on it. We’re so crammed into our seats that I can keep hold of her hands in mine under the table. Bonus? Despite the feel of fall outside, Emily is wearing a skirt, some fluttering thing that I can scoot up higher on her thigh beneath the table, if I so choose. Which I will. Soon enough.

“Okay, so I don’t know much about wines and I really don’t want to know about the vineyards in California you might own,” she begins, “but I do have a recommendation on which pizza we should get if you don’t mind. It might sound boring but it’s amazing, I promise.”

“Whatever you want,” I say. “This is your deal.”

When the waitress comes over Emily order the pizza margherita. She explains to me that it’s really simple but they use great ingredients so everything really shines. I kiss her check when she finishes her explanation because, oh, sweet Emily. I don’t want to spoil her fun by telling her that I have had this very kind of pizza in Naples, that they invented it, and that nothing is better than the local Napoli ingredients. But I’m sure the pizza—and the Chianti she orders with it—will be great. One thing is for sure—nothing can beat the company.