Rm W/a Vu (22 page)

I nod. “Same thing I always have when I feel like this.” He looks at me expectantly, so I continue, blushing because the sheer amount of food I’m about to consume rivals what I saw Toby put away last week. “The International Crepe Passport.” Greyston looks amused—and somewhat impressed—by my choice. Probably because it also comes with eggs, bacon,
and
sausage. “And you? What are you having?”

“The Breakfast Sampler.”

The server returns then with our coffee, and Mom and Dad are ready to order. Dad and Greyston let Mom and me go first. After Mom orders her spinach and mushroom omelet, I order my meal, having decided on a banana crepe option.

 “So the strawberry-banana crepe?” Mel asks, jotting our food down on her little pad of paper.

 “No,” Greyston and I say in unison, drawing the undivided attention of both of my parents.

I’m fairly certain my heart skips a beat when our eyes connect and he corrects the order. “Just banana. No strawberries at all.”

 “Oh,” Mel says sweetly, looking at me. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

Dad and Greyston order next, and I find it kind of cute that they order the same thing.

The minute Mel leaves to put our orders in, I look across the table at my mom—who’s looking mighty smug and even a little thrilled. I know immediately that Greyston speaking up about my breakfast order has brought their curiosity back to what they walked in on.

 “So, things between the two of you seem to be going…well?” Mom inquires not-so-subtly.

Dad’s posture noticeably shifts to Alpha-male mode, and I give him a light kick under the table. “Be nice,” I tell him quietly.

 “Always so quick to assume the worst, aren’t you, Jules?”

I open my mouth to protest, but Greyston clears his throat, and when I glance across at him, he’s got an eyebrow arched. “You can’t refute that,” he challenges.

 “No,” I grumble, glaring at him playfully. “I suppose I can’t.” Turning back to address my mother’s original question, I smile. “Things are fine.”

 “Fine?” she asks, sounding almost incredulous that I haven’t opened up and told her that things were so much better than fine. That, had she and Dad given me five—maybe ten—more minutes, I was pretty sure I could have convinced Greyston that the kitchen counter could have been the perfect place to finish what we started. “Seems like things are a little better than
fine
.”

I pick up my coffee and take a sip. I know I can’t avoid having this conversation, but I need to find a way to have it in front of my
father
without wanting the floor to open up and swallow me whole. As it is, my cheeks are on fire, and my hands are trembling.

 “Mr. and Mrs. Foster?” Greyston interjects, surprising me a little because he didn’t use their first names like he did at dinner. I can only assume that’s because he’s still feeling a little weird about this morning—and rightfully so. “I know that what you walked in on today was probably the last thing you expected, but I want to assure you both that I care very deeply for your daughter.”  His eyes find mine again, and I smile, wishing so badly that we weren’t diagonal from each other so I could reach out and take his hand. “These last couple weeks with her have been…incredible. I would never do anything to hurt or disrespect her…or either one of you, for that matter.”

 “While I want to believe you,” my father speaks up, “the simple fact remains that you’ve known each other all of two weeks. Things seem to have escalated rather quickly.”

He’s right. He usually is.

 “I know, Dad.” My agreeing with him seems to shock both Greyston and my mother. “But can you tell me that you and Mom never gave into your urges? Because based on what I’ve seen—”

Dad’s quick to clear his throat, but not before Greyston has fully started to understand where I was headed with that comment. “I guess it just all kind of took me by surprise, is all.”

Mom reaches across and pats the back of my dad’s hand. “It took us both by surprise, dear. So, how long have the two of you been dating now? I mean it was just last week that you were telling me you didn’t think there was anything you could do to—”

My eyebrows shoot up, and I give her a
very
pointed look. “Mom, please stop talking.”

 “That was me?” Greyston smirks cockily. I swear his ego’s growing by the second.

 “Maybe,” I tell him. “And this just sort of happened, Mom. Last night…this morning? I’m not entirely sure what day we’re counting here.”

Dad turns his head toward me. “So, you’re not even technically dating?”

 “Well, we haven’t labeled it yet. We haven’t really gotten the chance to talk about it, you know?” I know the minute I’ve said it that I shouldn’t have. Dad’s face is turning red, and I can see that vein in the middle of his forehead beginning to pulse. “That’s not…that came out wrong. It’s not like we’ve been too busy, you know, doing
that
to talk.” I’m growing more and more flustered with every attempt to fix this, so I just give up.

 “Things have been pretty hectic for us,” Greyston jumps in, saving me from rambling further, should I decide to open my mouth again. “I just got back from Houston last night, Juliette had a—” He stops himself mid-sentence, probably gathering that my father will likely have a conniption if he heard I went on a date with somebody
else
last night. “Juliette had previous plans with a group of people. I had actually hoped to talk to her about all of this last night over dinner, but I didn’t want her to have to cancel.”

While I’m more than thankful for his stepping in to rescue me, I shoot him a look that calls him a liar; he
did
want me to cancel on Erik. And, truthfully, I really should have listened to him. You know what they say about hindsight.

Mel returns with our meals, and we stop talking while she places them in front of us. After thanking her, she turns and heads back toward the kitchen.

Deciding that this is as good a time as any to save Greyston or me having to explain further before we actually get a chance to talk alone, I change the subject. “So, Dad, you excited about the game tomorrow?” It’s not a seamless segue, but I’m hoping it’ll do the trick.

This seems to change his demeanor, and I feel like I can finally relax. “It should be fun…assuming my interrogating the two of you hasn’t gotten my invite revoked.”

 “Don’t be silly,” I say, poking at the bananas on my crepe before taking a bite.

Everybody else follows my lead and digs into their brunch before Dad starts asking Greyston about what he was doing in Houston.

 “I was there signing a young baseball player who’s fresh out of college,” Greyston explains. “He was being scouted by a few teams but had no representation, and the Diamondbacks are very interested in him. We had him signed by Thursday, and have begun the process of getting him a contract for next season.”

This then starts a debate of the Phillies versus the Diamondbacks between my Pennsylvania-born father and an Arizona-raised Greyston while Mom and I talk about school and her job.

 “I’ll be happy when winter break gets here,” I tell Mom. “I feel like I’m running on fumes.”

 “I tried to warn you, sweetheart,” Mom tells me, her tone indicating that she’s sympathetic to my plight, but not quite saying,
I told you so
.

As brunch wears on, I begin feeling full a lot sooner than I was expecting. While I’m sure my hangover has something to do with my diminished appetite, I refuse to let more than half of my meal go to waste. After eating my entire crepe and about a third of everything else, I finally admit defeat and place my napkin on my plate. We don’t leave right after our meal, instead choosing to stay for a few more cups of coffee and catch up.

 “You know,” Greyston says when my mom starts talking about having us over for dinner in a week or two. “I was thinking of inviting my folks over for dinner next Sunday. Why don’t the two of you join us?”

It’s ridiculous how happy something as small as Greyston inviting my parents to meet his parents makes me.

Wait… His parents? I’m going to meet his parents? In a
week?

 “That sounds lovely,” Mom says to Greyston. “Just let us know what time, and we’ll be there.”

With our plans for next Sunday finalized, we decide it’s time to go. Dad and Greyston have a mild debate over who will pay the bill. Ultimately, Dad wins, saying it was him and Mom who invited us out.

It must be hotter outside than I was anticipating when we left the house, because I begin to feel slightly uncomfortable as we walk through the parking lot—almost flushed—and there’s a faint prickle running along my arms and neck. Once I’m buckled in and Dad’s started the car, I roll my window down in hopes that the fresh air will help.

It does a little, but my skin still feels like it’s crawling.

 “Juliette?” I turn to look at Greyston. “Are you okay? You’ve been scratching at your neck since the restaurant.”

Mom turns around in her seat, and Dad looks back at us through the rear-view mirror. “Oh? I hadn’t realized. Yeah, I’m fine. I must still be a little hung over.” I move to scratch my neck again, but Greyston grabs my hand and stops me.

He unbuckles his seatbelt with his other hand, scoots across the seat until he’s sitting right next to me, and uses the backs of his fingers to sweep my hair behind my shoulder so he can look. The tips of his fingers trail across my skin, and I smile, remembering how his fingers felt trailing down my neck in the kitchen earlier.

 “You look a little red,” he tells me softly. “Like you’re breaking out in a rash.”

 “It’s probably from the heat,” I assure him, bringing my hand up and laying it on his. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He shakes his head and holds my gaze. “It’s not that hot outside, Juliette.”

Curious to see if he’s right, I look at the digital temperature display mounted above the rear-view mirror and see that it’s actually a little on the cool side. Then I realize what probably happened. “My crepe.” Greyston looks at me curiously before he, too, draws the same conclusion as me. “I’ll bet they accidentally put strawberries on it and Mel corrected them. They probably didn’t even replace the crepe, just the bananas.”

 “Do we need to stop somewhere, kiddo?” Dad asks.

I shake my head, pulling Greyston’s warm hand away from my neck and threading my fingers through his; it’s not that I don’t enjoy his touch, but the warmth of his hand only makes the itching worse. “No, I’ve got some antihistamines and some hydrocortisone cream in my washroom.” I look out the window, feeling the breeze on my face and neck. “God, this is so embarrassing,” I whisper to myself.

Greyston pulls his hand free and places it on my thigh, giving me a gentle squeeze and redrawing my focus to him. “Hey, don’t worry about it.”

 “Oh, I’m worried,” I tell him softly, hoping my parents aren’t eavesdropping. “You think this is how I wanted the afternoon to go?”

 “We have all the time in the world,” he assures me, running his hand back and forth over my thigh.

The gesture reawakens my desire for him, sending my pulse racing and my mind whirling. Before I let my growing craving for him take control, I lay my hand over his and stop it from moving before laying my head on his shoulder. “I’m going to need you to stop doing that,” I whisper, tilting my head up and meeting his gaze. “It’s making it hard to concentrate.”

 “My apologies.” He doesn’t really
look
apologetic, what with his sly smirk and mischievous eyes.

I settle back against him and look toward the front of the vehicle. When I catch my dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror once more, he winks at me, and I give Greyston’s hand one more squeeze before turning back to look out the window.

We arrive home a short time later and say goodbye to my parents before heading inside. I have to laugh when Greyston makes a point of locking the door before pulling me into his arms and kissing me softly.

I want nothing more than to pick up where we left off this morning, but the irritating itch that’s covering my arms and neck is far too distracting. “Hey,” I whisper, leaning my head back and looking him in the eye. “I really need to hop in the shower and put my lotion on. I’m sorry.”

His eyes roam down, and he gently pushes my hair away from my neck again. His fingertips tickle the skin below my ear, and I shiver slightly. I desperately want this to be one of those moments between us where I get all weak-kneed and light–headed…

Oh, who am I kidding? Rash or not, Greyston still has that effect on me.

Leaning in, he places a gentle kiss on my jaw, just below my ear, before running his finger faintly along the length of my neck. “It’s really not so bad,” he tells me, reaching for my right arm and pushing the sleeve of my shirt up to my elbow. “See?”

It takes a minute, but I’m finally able to tear my eyes away from the line of his jaw—where I’d been intently focused since the minute he started checking out my neck. I’m pleasantly surprised to see that he’s right; the rash isn’t
too
bad. It’s still worse than I’d prefer—because I’d prefer
no
rash—but it’s not quite as inflamed as it has been in the past.

“Go take care of yourself. I’ll be down here when you finish up.” He stands up straight, after giving me one final peck on the lips, and turns me toward the stairs.

“Okay. I’ll be down in a bit.”

Once upstairs, I close myself in my washroom and start the shower.  I pull my shirt off and lean in toward the mirror to get a closer look at my neck. Thankfully, it’s barely noticeable, which means I’ll be able to walk around with it barely covered in order to help clear it up. If it had been any worse, there would have been little to no chance I’d leave my room for as long as it took.

As I strip down, I notice that the rash is mainly on my arms and neck with just a few very faint pink splotches on my chest. It’s so minimal that I’m confident I should be able to clear it up within a few days.