Chapter Eighteen

Luke’s parents look just like their Internet pictures. But the people themselves are nothing like I imagined.

Beau is quite tall, at least six-five, and even slimmer and fitter than the pictures made me believe. His jade-green shirt and black slacks are made with some soft-looking material, and fit him in a way that says they aren’t inexpensive. Although men’s fashion isn’t one of my areas of expertise, I know a thing or two because Nathan’s a clothes whore.

As though he’s sensed my perusal, Beau turns his head my way and studies me, his eyes bright. Unless my radar’s broken, curiosity isn’t the only thing in his gaze. There’s more… I purse my lips. He has the look of a man whose mind is currently wandering down Degenerate Drive, then taking an easy turn at Concupiscent Court. And that’s seriously messed up, because his wife’s standing right next to him, air-kissing Alexandra’s cheeks. He has to be an idiot to check me out like that when anybody can see him. I’m young enough to be his daughter. Or one of his college kids…

I always believe what I see and what I hear. And right now, my man radar says Beau is a creep.

A PhD creep, but still a creep.

His turn comes to greet Alexandra, and his demeanor changes completely, his mind apparently having returned to Appropriate Avenue. A hint of respect and cordial warmth transforms him into a distinguished yet friendly scholar.

Wow. If I hadn’t been the subject of his pervy perusal, I would’ve never suspected.

“Who are you staring at?” Sun asks, apparently finished with oohing and aahing over the ring for the moment.

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “The new people.” I gesture at the Madisons vaguely, just to be clear, since more guests have arrived.

She swivels her head so fast, I’m surprised she doesn’t pull something in her neck. “Do you know them?”

“No. You know I’m not into English lit.” Oh shit. I’m an idiot for blurting that out. Beau doesn’t have “I’m an English professor” tattooed on his forehead.

“I see.” Sun clears her throat. “His wife never fails to put on pretty dresses.” Her voice is extra bright, but there’s a subtle caution.

I glance at Patrice. She’s wearing a hunter-green winter dress cut to flatter her figure, but it’s too conservative and boring for my taste. However, this is probably not the time to argue fashion with Sun. “You’re right. She’s…quite stylish.”

“They’re very successfully married.”

Why she telling me this? And why the stress on successfully? Do people in her circle often unsuccessfully marry?

It’s obvious from the way she’s looking at me that she’s expecting a response, even though I can’t think of anything to say. “May all of us marry successfully,” I manage.

Sun tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Alexandra’s close to Patrice. Well, a lot of people are because her family’s politically successful.”

Politically successful? Is that like being successfully married?

She adds, “Both of her brothers are in the U.S. Senate. Not representing the same state, obviously, but…” She shrugs. “They’re very image-conscious.”

I’m have no idea why she’s telling me all this. She doesn’t know about Luke and me, even though I let it slip that I know something about Beau.

She clears her throat again. “Beau is very distinguished and attractive, but there’re more eligible and distinguished guests who’ll be coming.”

Suddenly it hits me, and I choke, then start coughing.

Sun pats my back soothingly. Before I can assure her my mind has never wandered down any of Beau’s Raunchy Roadways, she adds, “It’s always good to have all the facts before making a decision.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, doing my best not to be sarcastic—she’s just trying to help without realizing how insulting her “help” is. Not to mention, this party is about Jan and Matt’s happiness, not how legitimately annoyed I am over Sun’s ridiculous assumptions. “Older married men really aren’t my thing.” I can be big and understanding, but she should know better than this. I’ve been friends with Jan for years, and Sun’s spent time with me.

“Of course not.” She sighs. “I trust your judgment. It’s just… Well, it doesn’t matter. Would you like me to introduce you to Derek’s best friend from college? He’s here visiting. And”—she gives me a conspiratorial look—“he’s quite adorable.”

“No, thank you.” Sun doesn’t know about my crush on her son David. It isn’t something I advertise, and Jan, being the good friend that she is, has kept it quiet from her family. “I actually want to grab something to drink.”

I walk away without waiting for a response, all the while sending a laser glare in Beau’s direction. May he be struck with a syphilitic impotence no medical wonder can fix, because that’s the least he deserves. If it weren’t for him looking at me that way, Sun wouldn’t have felt the need to come over and inadvertently insult me. At the same time, I can’t believe Sun assumed I’d be the home-wrecking psycho Other Woman. Admittedly, Beau is a handsome guy, but no man is handsome or wonderful enough for me to play that kind of role. Ever.

But if Sun thought that, who else is thinking the same thing?

Hopefully not Patrice. That would be awkward.

Irritation mounting, I scan the party to read people’s expressions. Nobody seems to be looking in my direction. But maybe they’re all guilty of character-assassinating thoughts.

Now annoyed beyond belief, I grab a martini and drain it in one long swallow. The gin and vermouth burn nicely along my throat. I reach for another, then stop when a large, male hand offers me one.

“Alexandra has great liquor,” comes a properly cultured voice. It has the kind of practiced smoothness that says the owner’s used to public speaking and commanding attention. “Although it’s better to drink a martini slowly to fully appreciate it.”

Ignoring the hand, I look at Beau. When did he just appear here?

His wife is nowhere around. Let’s just hope Sun doesn’t see me with him and jump to the wrong conclusion—again. I don’t want to have to take any drastic measures. Like announcing that I’m actually an undercover nun…or a lesbian.

“Do I know you?” I say instead, since I’m not feeling nice enough to play polite.

He takes a sip of the martini. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

And in any normal circumstance, we wouldn’t have—because he should be hanging out with people of similar age and interests, not a recent college graduate programmer.

“I’m Beau. You are…?”

“Jan’s best friend.” I manage a smile only because I’m fantasizing about kicking him in the shin.

He lets out a booming laugh like I’m funny…and I’ll appreciate it that he finds me funny. “Surely you have a name.”

Yeah…except I don’t want him to have it. Engaging is encouraging. And he’s very busy cataloguing my assets.

Why me?

I flip through a few good ways to blow him off without being overly rude, since he is Luke’s dad and Alexandra’s friend. It’s too bad there’s no Cold-Shoulder Sutra. I would’ve memorized every chapter.

Suddenly, a strong arm wraps around me. I almost flinch, then look up and see Luke pulling me toward him. When did he get here?

More importantly, when did he get back into town?

Luke looks amazing, dressed casually in a blue shirt and a pair of worn jeans that hugs his lean hips just so. He feels even more amazing next to me, warm and protective. He keeps the arm around my lower back, his long fingers on the dip in my waist. Small waves of awareness ripple through me.

Beau’s gaze doesn’t miss the small gesture—or my reaction, from the way his mouth tightens.

As a small token of “fuck you,” I lean into Luke and put a gentle hand on his back.

“Luke,” Beau says, his eyes flat. “What a surprise.”

“Dad.” From Luke’s mouth, it sounds like an insult.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were out of town?”

Luke gives him a stiff smile. “I was, until about twenty-five minutes ago.”

I jerk my gaze upward and notice the dark circles under Luke’s eyes and the little lines on his face that say he hasn’t been getting much rest in the last few days. It’s exactly the look my brothers often had when studying for the bar exam.

Just like that, my belly does backflips to rival gymnasts at the Olympics. Stubble covers his cheeks and jaw, and I want to run my hand along the roughness and kiss his mouth.

But not now. I don’t plan on stopping with just a kiss, and we need to go someplace private for what I have in mind.

“Did Alexandra invite you?” A skeptical brow arches as Beau waits for Luke’s response.

“No. I’m really here for my girl.”

“Your girl. Well.” Beau looks at me, his gaze narrow. He opens his mouth, about to speak, but then his wife appears.

“Luke. I didn’t realize you were coming,” she says.

Beau takes her hand in his, the gesture affectionate, but it feels as phony as a thirty-dollar tablet on sale in some street shop in a third-world country.

“I just heard from Brian. He said he’d love to have you join his staff,” Patrice says.

That must be one of the “politically successful” brothers. A U.S. senator. Wonder if I should write to him and let him know his brother-in-law is a creep. Purely as a matter of constituent concern, of course.

“Tell him thanks, but I’m not interested,” Luke answers.

“It’s an honest career,” Beau says.

I almost roll my eyes. English professor or not, I doubt he knows the meaning of “honest.”

Then he adds, “Better than wasting your life away, scribbling meaningless commercial drivel nobody’s going to remember a year from now.” He tilts his chin up. I swear everyone at the party can see his nose hair.

Luke tenses, his jaw flexing. I blink at Beau, then Patrice. Both of them look at Luke like he’s sad and pathetic and incomprehensible.

“Your father’s right,” Patrice says. “You have so much talent. I can’t believe you’re wasting it all.”

I know I’ve led a fairly charmed life. My parents not only adore me, but they’ve always been supportive of everything I ever set out to do. They never once said, “You can’t do that because…” even when I chose to go into programming, a field heavily dominated by men. To them, the only thing that matters is that I’m happy, not whether somebody’s going to be using my app a year or two from now.

I simply can’t imagine being put down in front of my significant other by my family.

Luke’s eyebrows pinch together, and he breathes audibly and a lot slower than is normal. As the awkward moment stretches, Beau smirks, while Patrice sighs. Luke’s still not saying anything. Well, damn. He may never say anything.

No, no, no!

Sudden outrage blazes through me. I’m a nice, polite girl—my parents taught me well—but they also taught me it’s wrong to sit back and watch injustice in silence.

Luke’s parents think they can purposely humiliate him and get away with it. Not while I’m in the audience!

“I’m surprised you feel that way. Have you read Luke’s writing?” I say, fluttering my eyelashes innocently at Beau, then at Patrice.

“I don’t have to read it to know,” Beau says.

Snobbish asshole. “Isn’t that called intellectual dishonesty? Like a student writing an essay on Grapes of Wrath, as if she’s read the whole thing cover to cover, though she hasn’t touched it.”

“Steinbeck wrote English lit. My son’s…‘creative typing’ is English lite.”

“Oh, you couldn’t be more wrong. He’s brilliant. As a matter of fact, he’s one of my absolute favorite authors. That’s how we met.” My eyelashes flutter faster. “I stalked him—not too inappropriately, of course”—I place a hand over my chest and look up at Luke adoringly—“and gushed over his writing at dinner one evening. And the rest was, well…history.”

Beau stares at me. Patrice is frowning as though she’s having a hard time believing what I just said. What’s so difficult about accepting the idea that Luke has fans?

Oh wait. What if he writes porn? I can see how that would be awkward for the parental units. But still, they should be proud. Good porn is as rare as unicorn poop.

I feel Luke’s gaze on me, but I don’t want to turn my focus away from his annoying parents. “Sure, maybe dull literary prize committees just can’t recognize the brilliance of Luke’s writing,” I continue, “but there’s more to writing than winning some prize nobody outside the ivory tower cares about anyway. Personally, I prefer to read something that gives me pleasure and joy. And his work does. After all, people don’t read to be bored out of their minds. Been there, done that. Both in high school and college.” I end with a smile brilliant enough to rival Jan’s engagement ring.

Beau’s complexion is so red, I wonder if he’s really a were-lobster. Oooh, oooh, maybe Darth Maul. He’s certainly vile enough. Breaking eye contact, Patrice mutters something incomprehensible.

I turn to Luke. “You know, hon, I’m a little tired, and the air here is super stuffy. Why don’t we exit stage left?”