Praising him came easily to me. But if she repeats any of it, I’m going to sound like a creepy stalker.
But I’m in luck. She gives him a generic smile instead, probably because she wasn’t listening to me anyway. “It’s good to meet you. Come right in.”
“These are for you,” Weston says, offering the flowers. “And I brought a bottle of sauvignon blanc.”
“How lovely,” she says. “Hang up your coats, and meet me in the kitchen. I’ll pour you a drink.” She leaves us alone in the entry hall of this house, which I’ve always thought of as Dalton’s. Never mine. Not even when I lived here.
“Oh jeez,” I say under my breath, realizing I’ve left something in the car.
“Problem?”
“The wine I brought is still outside.”
Weston glances toward the door. “If you want, I’ll step outside right now and grab it for you. But I have a better idea. You could think it over.”
“What’s that?”
“Leave it out there for now. And you and I can drink it later,” he says, his voice richening to a suggestive pitch. “If you’re into that.”
Wait. Now hold on a second. Did Weston just proposition me? For real? I might do a happy dance right here on Lila’s fussy new rug.
“Hello, sir,” Weston says in the next breath. “You must be Dr. Ritter.”
And sure enough, my stepfather is right here with us, reaching out a hand to shake Weston’s. “Call me Dalton,” he says.
They introduce themselves to each other while I stand here feeling befuddled. A second ago—when Weston suggested we save the wine for later—it felt so real. My mind offered up a few naughty ideas on command.
But now I realize that Weston probably saw Dalton approaching and whispered to me because it made us look like a convincing couple. Just a hot hockey player having a private moment with his girlfriend, right?
That has to be it. Weston is just doing his best to nail this acting job.
And it’s too damn bad. Because white wine and a hookup with Weston Griggs would be the most fun I’ve had since…ever.
“Abbi?” Dalton’s voice breaks through my reverie. “Are you coming?”
“Yes,” I say quickly.
Weston takes my hand in his and gives it a friendly squeeze. And that feels nice, too.
It’s all pretend, Abbi, I coach myself. Don’t you forget it.
Four
Mr. Smooth Has Fled the Building
Weston
Mr. Smooth must be losing his touch. I nearly propositioned Abbi under her stepfather’s nose. Awkward much?
Now Abbi is looking at me like she doesn’t quite know what to think. And who could blame her? I should have been more patient before breaking out my hey baby, let’s drink wine and dance the naked tango speech.
This girl, though. She makes me a little stupid. I’ve got to pull myself together.
After hanging up our coats, I follow Abbi and her stepfather through a fancy-ass house to a gleaming kitchen. “It smells amazing in here,” I say, because it does. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Not a thing,” Lila crows, the corkscrew in her hands. “Would you like a glass of wine? I also have beer.”
“I’ll have a glass at the table,” I say. “I don’t drink much during the hockey season.”
“Unless you lose a game,” Abbi points out. “Then it’s like the whole team is on fire and beer is the only thing that will extinguish it.”
I let out a bark of laughter because she’s right. “Good thing we don’t lose very often.”
“Good thing,” she says with a little toss of her head. Then she smiles at me, and this weird date feels like the smartest thing I’ve ever done.
Sometimes you just have to put yourself out there in the universe, you know? Hang up a flyer and see what happens. Maybe the cutest girl at Moo U will call your name.
We make some small talk in the kitchen for a while, until Lila announces that dinner will be served momentarily. Abbi and I help to ferry several dishes through to a dining room with a large round table containing five chairs, five gleaming china plates, and enough silver and crystal to stock a palace.
I pull out Abbi’s chair for her, and she gives me a glance of unguarded appreciation.
Yeah, Mr. Smooth is back. And he’s going to close the deal later.
I sit down beside her. And that’s when an unfamiliar guy sort of slumps into the room. Midtwenties. Dark, shapeless hair. Beefy face and body. He wears the half-alert expression of someone who’s just awoken from a nap.
“Who are you?” this creature demands.
I glance at Abbi, and for the first time today, her expression shutters. Interesting.
“My name is Weston Griggs,” I say, pushing back my chair and standing again so that I can shake his hand.
He scowls, then leans over the table to shake my hand limply.
“And you are?” I ask, trying to keep my tone polite. At least one of us should be.
“This is Price, my son,” Lila says quickly. “And I see you’ve met Abbi’s young man. Price, would you fetch me a glass of ice water and whatever you want to drink?”
He doesn’t acknowledge the request. He just narrows his eyes toward our side of the table. “Abbi doesn’t have a boyfriend. She never brings anyone home.”
Abbi glances down at her plate.
“Price, sweetie, the drinks?” his mother says in a melodic voice. I wonder if she’s just saving face, or if she really can’t hear how obnoxious he is.
Whatever. I settle back in my chair. That’s the glory of visiting with strangers on Thanksgiving. None of the family drama is your family drama.
A few minutes later we’re all seated, and Dr. Ritter clears his throat. “Weston, do you mind if we join hands for a quick prayer before we dig in?”
“Not at all,” I say, offering my hand to his wife on my right. I slip my left hand into Abbi’s, and her smooth palm lands easily against mine. I give her hand a quick squeeze. It feels surprisingly natural in mine.
“Heavenly Father, we thank you for this bounty…” He launches into his prayer at a brisk pace, like a man who wants to do the right thing, but also wants to eat his turkey while it’s still hot.
I lower my eyes respectfully. But a moment later I feel Abbi stiffen beside me. And then—if I’m not mistaken—there’s a bit of violence under the table. As if a feral cat has wandered into the plush family dining room to bite Abbi’s ankles.
But I’m pretty sure there’s no cat. And when I shift my eyes to the side, Abbi’s face has reddened in anger. And she’s biting her lip so hard it might bleed.
“Amen,” says Dalton.
Not a second goes by before Abbi yanks her hand free of Price’s. She sits back in her chair, spine straight, chin held high.
But she is pissed. I barely know her and I can tell.
Our hands are still joined, so I give hers one more squeeze before letting go.
“Weston, why don’t you start the platter of turkey around?” Lila says cheerily.
“Of course.” I pick up the serving fork and turn to Abbi. “Can I serve you some?”