CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

DANNY

“That thing you did with the Nutella was hot and all, but I’m not sure it was worth this,” I say, eyeing the two-story brick Tudor house my parents moved into after I left. This is the first time I’ve been to their new home. Which isn’t really new, considering they’ve been here for four years.

“And I can’t believe I had to bribe you with a Nutella blowjob just to get you to have dinner with your own family,” Ronnie says, lifting a casserole dish out of the trunk of the car.

I extract the oversized bag that contains a Caesar salad, breadsticks, and a couple bottles of merlot to go with the lasagna she made for my mother’s welcome home dinner. She agrees to be my girlfriend and suddenly she’s Suzy Homemaker. Or, more accurately, Mama Frost Junior.

Don’t get me wrong; I like this side of Ronnie. This person with the need to take care of everyone. She’s suppressed what I suspect is a natural aspect of her personality for so long, it’s probably going to be a little overwhelming for a while, until she gets a handle on it.

My mother’s stroke, followed by my confession about the Harrison family dynamics, certainly didn’t help. I assume because she likes me, and especially now that we’ve officially shifted our relationship to this new level, she’s overcompensating, trying way too hard to please my family.

And I’m not confident it’s going to work. In fact, I’m confident it isn’t.

“Pretty sure you got a reasonable amount of enjoyment out of it too,” I quip, falling into my comfortable role of jokester, casual and carefree guy. The one my dad hates.

She chuckles. “Actually, I got the bonus package. I got an orgasm and far more Nutella in one sitting than an adult woman has a right to consume.”

I’d managed to hold out until she licked my Popsicle stick clean, and then I’d grabbed her hips and slammed into her like a crazed man, and she climaxed after maybe two thrusts. Apparently she’s a big fan of chocolate and hazelnut. And my dick.

Lucky me.

Except afterward, she’d hopped out of bed and headed into the kitchen, whipping up this dinner-to-go, chattering about how Joe said he couldn’t wait to try the lasagna her mother had taught her to make.

“Ready?” she says, reaching for my hand.

No. But I twine my fingers with hers anyway, let her lead me up the path of meandering slate pavers that take us to the front door. It’s thrown open before I can push the bell, and my brother is there, taking up every inch of space in the doorway, holding a beer and grinning, his gaze on Ronnie.

I watch as he deliberately scans her from the top of her dark locks, over those blue eyes that are practically a Frost family trademark, and full, red-painted lips, to the slightest hint of cleavage tucked behind conservative lace and a thin cardigan, down her long, lean legs to the flat sandals on her feet. I wonder if she dressed conservatively because this is apparently the kind of woman my brother likes.

And they have become awfully close over the course of the last week.

I shift the bag to my left hand and wrap my right arm around Ronnie’s shoulders, pulling her tightly against my side. The not-so-subtle act of possession doesn’t go unnoticed by her or my brother. She arches her brows while he snickers and then takes a swig from his beer.

“You look nervous,” Joe says, and I want to punch him for being so observant. If he can see it, so will my dad. And I don’t want that man to know he still affects me. I want him to believe my life is perfect, despite it being nothing like what he hoped for me.

Dad’s voice booms out, slapping at us like the air on a muggy day. “Sit down, Irene. He’ll be in here in a minute. For Christ’s sake, do you want to end up back in that damn hospital?”

Ronnie’s eyes widen while Joe shakes his head. “He’s been like that since she got discharged. I told him he’s the one who’s going to put her back in the hospital, and I thought he was going to take a swing at me.”

Great. This is promising already. I straighten my spine and step over the threshold. “Well, let’s get it over with.”

Joe grabs the bag from my arm and the casserole dish from Ronnie, and she tries to follow him to the kitchen, but I grab her arm and pull her back to me. She’s my rock. I can’t face them without her.

She scowls at me. “Really, Danny, was that necessary? Do you honestly think your brother and I are going to get it on in the kitchen?”

Nope. But I do think my dad will keep his hatred of me to a dull roar so long as she’s in the vicinity. “Come on,” I say without acknowledging her snarky question, and this time I take the lead and guide her into the living room.

It’s straight ahead, through an arched doorway. There’s a brick fireplace built into one wall. Perpendicular to that is a television that’s basically a movie screen. The better to watch sports on, I’m sure. I imagine they have a state-of-the-art surround sound system, too. If Dad can’t be in the arena, I bet this living room sounds like one during football season.

Two leather recliners face the television. My mother is sitting in one of them, a blanket draped across her lap, even though it’s a pleasant 75 degrees in the house at the moment. She looks a million times better than she did in that hospital bed, that’s for damn sure. She has on makeup, her hair is curled, and she’s wearing lounge pants and a T-shirt that says “Skaters Do It Better.”

Jesus, I hope she didn’t unwrap that on Christmas morning.

“Hi there,” Ronnie says, smiling and giving her a small wave. My father stands next to my mom’s chair, like a soldier, prepared to protect her from…what? Her own son? I shake my head and refuse to look him in the eye.

“I like that shirt,” Ronnie says.

Mom grins and pats her chest. “I bought it the last time we went out to California to visit Joe.”

Ronnie snickers.

“You bought that?” I ask.

“Who do you think bought it?” Dad asks.

“Joe,” I reply.

He rolls his eyes. “Your brother wouldn’t buy her something off-color like that.”

“Nope. I have to do it myself.” Mom laughs and Ronnie joins her. This is a side of my mother I’m not familiar with. Is this an aspect of her personality that’s blooming as a result of the stroke, or has she always been like this and I was too busy fighting with Dad to notice?

“I made lasagna,” Ronnie says. “And breadsticks. And, of course, a salad to balance it all.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Mom says. “Did you bring wine too?”

“Of course,” Ronnie replies, grinning.

Dad’s scowl deepens.

“The doctor said a little red wine is actually good for the heart,” Mom chastises him.

“A little isn’t the whole damn bottle,” Dad says in a way that makes me wonder if this is an old argument.

Ronnie glances toward the kitchen, where I can see Joe bustling about, presumably prepping the food we brought. “I should go help him,” she says.

“He’s a big boy,” I say. “He can figure out how to put a dish of lasagna on the table.”

Ronnie purses her lips and gives me a glare before saying, “So are you.” And then she hurries out of the room, leaving me alone with my parents.

Cue awkward silence.

“Uh…” I clear my throat. “You look good, Mom.”

“Thank you, dear. So do you. You look…happy. Is it because of Ronnie?”

Yes. I shrug. “She’s pretty cool.”

“Joe says she’s older than you,” Dad says. “Closer to his age.”

“And your implication is?” I ask coolly.

He shrugs. “Just telling you what he said.”

“What else did he say?”

“That the two of you are in business together.”

I brace myself for the onslaught of insults about my chosen profession, but either Joe didn’t give him details or Dad’s saving it up for a point when it will have more impact. Like the middle of dinner, for example. How many times in my life did I violently shove away from the table and storm out of the room?

Is it too late to come up with an excuse to leave? I glance at the kitchen doorway. Ronnie and Joe are standing side by side next to the stove. I can’t make out what he says, but I hear her responding laugh loud and clear. Without excusing myself, I storm that way, bodily thrusting myself between them. Ronnie is in the middle of tossing homemade dressing into the salad, and when I jostle her, a clump of romaine goes flying and slaps against the front of Joe’s T-shirt.

“Danny,” she snaps, dropping the tongs and elbowing me out of the way so she can brush away the lettuce and then blot at his shirt with a wet paper towel. He arches his back, pressing his chest into her touch. I can see his nipples through the thin cotton.

Jackass. With my luck, he and Dad are conspiring to lure Ronnie away from me and into Joe’s arms. Dad must approve of her if he’s trying to set her up with his favorite son.

“Trust me,” I say. “All it’s doing is improving his appearance.”

Joe snickers while Ronnie says, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” I say sullenly. It’s a blatant lie, and we all know it. But what the hell am I supposed to say? That I’m jealous of the relationship she’s developing with my brother, because I’m afraid she’ll realize he’s a better catch? That I’m dreading the inevitable argument with my dad, even as I wish we could actually get along? To add to my frustration level, I desperately want to tell my parents about our partnership—and I want them to approve, even though I know damn well they won’t.

“Christ, I need a drink,” I mutter.

“Here,” Joe says, shoving a beer into my hand. I’d rather it was something stronger but I suck at the bottle neck anyway.

“Better?” Ronnie asks. I shrug, pretending indifference. She purses her lips and brushes her hands together. “Well, let’s take everything to the table so we can eat dinner.”

Yeah, let’s do that. Let’s set it up for my dad to lambast me. In front of my freshly minted girlfriend.

This should be fun.

***

The ride home is silent. The condemning kind of quiet. The kind that screams, “You fucked up, buddy.”

And yet I let it go on, don’t try to talk, or, what I really should be doing, apologize for my behavior during dinner.

The quiet continues as we head up the elevator then down the hall to Ronnie’s apartment. When she opens the door, Pucker shrieks, “About fucking time!”

Neither of us laughs.

I place the bag of dinner leftovers on the counter, and Ronnie busies herself with unloading everything, putting the food in the fridge, the dishes she cleaned before we left my parents’ house in the cupboard. I make a half-ass attempt to help and she coolly says, “I got this.”

So I snag a beer and lean against the wall, letting her do her thing, waiting for her to finally speak to me.

I really should crack first and apologize, except I don’t know what I should be sorry for. Sure, my behavior was less than polite. Okay, yes, I was an asshole to my brother and father alike. And, of course, I pulled Ronnie into the sniping by announcing that I was an escort and she was my pimp, forcing her, while red-faced and sputtering, to explain that my description wasn’t entirely accurate.

I guess I do know what I should be sorry for.

Before she can do it herself, I make her a drink, Johnny Walker Blue Label over ice. When I offer it to her, she arches her brow before taking it and then walking into the living room. I follow like a meek puppy with my tail between my legs.

“Fuckers,” Pucker says from his perch in his cage near the window.

“I can’t take that,” Ronnie says. “Not tonight.” She strides over and drops the blanket over the bird’s home, and he falls silent.

She sits on the couch, and I lower myself next to her, close but not touching. For long minutes we drink in silence, and I finally can’t take it anymore, so I drape my arm across the cushion and dance my fingers over her shoulder.

She shrugs me off before turning to face me. “We need to talk, Danny.”

Uh-oh. “You sure? I think I’d rather we act instead.”

“Act?”

“Yeah. Action. The horizontal kind.” I waggle my bushy eyebrows.

She rolls her eyes, but her expression sobers in seconds. “What the hell happened at your parents’ house tonight?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to make a snarky reply. What’s that called? Avoidance tactic? Instead, I go for honesty. “I was afraid. And acting out as a result.”

Her brows shoot into her hairline. “Afraid of what?”

My leg is shaking, and it makes me think of my dad, so I stand and start pacing from one end of the room to the other. Ronnie watches me while slowly sipping her drink.

“Everything.” I throw my hands into the air. My beer foams up but luckily doesn’t bubble over. “As much as I pretend otherwise, I really would like to have my dad’s approval. Just once in my life would be nice.”

“I know.” There’s so much sympathy in her voice, it’s enough to make a grown man cry. Almost. “But I think you’re going about it all wrong.”

“Huh?” What does she know about this topic? She’s never had to wonder if her parents approved of anything she’s ever done. They love everything about her. She can do no wrong. Although…

“Remind me to never invite Joe to a Frost family function.”

Her brow knits. “Why?” she asks.

“Because if your mom meets him, she’ll try to set you up with him.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous, Danny. She thinks you and I are…well, I don’t exactly know what she thinks, but it’s enough that she hasn’t tried to set me up since that day she caught us kissing in her kitchen.”

“Speaking of being afraid, is that the real reason why you don’t want to tell her you’re my girlfriend? Because secretly you know I’m not good enough? That you can do way better, and they all know it?”

“Where is this insecurity and self-loathing coming from?”

“It’s fact, Ronnie. Plain and simple. Should I start listing the ways you would be settling if you decide to stick with me long-term?”

“Considering we’ve gone into business together, I’d say I’ve already decided to stick with you long term.” Her voice has cooled so considerably I actually shiver.

“Business and relationships are vastly different, you know.”

“You’re right,” she says, standing. “When it comes to business, you have a great deal of confidence. When it comes to interpersonal relationships, you’re wallowing in self-pity and pathetic, pointless insecurities.” She walks to the kitchen and places her glass in the sink. With her hand on the counter, she partially turns toward me.

“I’m going to bed. Please see yourself out.”