Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“What’s with the apron?” Charlotte asked, tipping her head.
I looked down. “Oh yeah. Surprise. I’m cooking dinner.”
“All this, and he cooks?” Holly said with a broad smile.
“No. But Charlotte is working on that.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “But I don’t want to burn anything so… Charlotte, if you want to show your parents to the guest room and then bring them up?”
“Formal dining room or regular dining room?” she asked.
I noted the look Bill and Holly shared. They seemed impressed, and I couldn’t put my finger on why that bothered me.
“The normal one.” Was this how Charlotte had felt at my mother’s house? Trying to fit in, wanting to wince at every perceived misstep, wondering how, exactly, she’d mis-stepped in the first place? Because my first instinct was to defend my fucking dining rooms and overexplain why I even had two in the first place. Doesn’t everyone have two places to eat? What’s the difference between a dining room table that hardly gets used and a coffee table in front of the television, and having two dining rooms? Not a god damn thing.
I chalked my defensiveness up to nerves not about her parents—I already knew they liked me well enough—but to my fears about screwing up dinner. Which, I reassured myself, would not happen.
Even if I did have to pry a few of the unopened mussels apart.
That ended up being the most difficult step of the whole process, but the end result tasted fantastic, even though I’d largely skimmed the end of the recipe. I was quite proud of myself as I loaded up the serving cart and headed to the dining room.
Charlotte was already pouring the wine when I entered.
“Sorry it’s not coming out in courses,” I apologized, placing the huge bowl of Caesar salad on the table. “Or elegantly plated. This is my first time.”
“Well, it smells amazing,” Holly said, raising her glass.
“Charlotte taught me everything I know.” I got a weird sense of pride out of doing something people did every day. “To be honest, I feel like cooking is such a basic skill, I’m like a four-year-old showing you the drawing I made in preschool.”
“I’ll hang it on the refrigerator,” Charlotte said with a laugh. “Until it gets moldy.”
Never in my life had anyone hung one of my pictures on the refrigerator. No one would have seen them, except for the staff. I doubted my mother even knew where the kitchen was.
“Charlotte is cooking? When you have someone to do it for you?” Bill blinked in surprise.
She bristled. “I cooked for myself at home.”
“I know you did, sport. But I also know that if there’s an amenity available, you’ll take advantage of it.”
Sport? I set that aside for a later conversation and brought the main course to the table in its huge serving dish.
“Is that fettucine vongole?” Holly asked with a gasp.
“It is… is there a problem with that? Charlotte said you didn’t have allergies—”
“That was our first dinner together on our honeymoon in Venice,” Holly said, beaming. “Charlotte, did you tell him to make this?”
She shook her head. “No. I had no idea what you ate on your honeymoon. I wasn’t there.”
“Scott was. Technically,” Bill joked, and Holly made an exclamation of shocked horror.
“Hey, I’m not here to judge your family history, okay?” I laughed nervously. “I’m here to hopefully win you over as the parents of my girlfriend.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Bill said, in an earnest dad-voice that was impossible not to believe. “We vetted you as Scott’s friend and didn’t find you wanting.”
“And you got Charlotte out of our pool house,” Holly added.
“Hey!”
I recognized the hurt Charlotte disguised with her laugh. Another thing to address later, although I wanted to say something about it right now. Something like, do you have any idea how fragile your daughter is? Do you have any idea how a single comment like that could make her bolt, not from my life, but from yours?
Then again, they probably already knew. The Holmeses weren’t uncaring. That seemed to be the crux of the problem; they cared about Charlotte’s happiness too much for her own good.
Bill swirled the wine in his glass absently. “We didn’t come here to decide whether or not Charlotte is allowed to live with you. She’s her own person. We would never forbid her from anything. You’re not on a job interview.”
“Well, thank god for that, because I didn’t prepare my resume.” But my chuckle was still forced. If they thought I wasn’t going to over-analyze my every word and deed while they were in my home, they were naive. Or they’d never met someone’s parents before, which I highly doubted.
We served ourselves from bowls we passed around the table, and I thought to myself, this must be what family dinners are like when servants aren’t involved. I didn’t voice that, though I did ache to ask.