MATT ARRIVED AT Petit Diable forty minutes later and looked in through the glass frontage until he found the Allens.
He watched for a few minutes, assessing the dynamics of the small group and growing anxious without understanding why—unless it was that they seemed so nice. Laughing, talking, helping serve each other from the platters on the table, focused completely on each other instead of the potential talent at other tables. Vastly different from the rare get-togethers he endured with his parents, during which the only indication they were a family came from his obvious physical resemblance to them both.
Romy didn’t look anything like either of her parents—her father was stick thin and dark, her tiny mother looked like a damn movie star—but you could tell they were a solid unit. Assessing them, he wondered if the way he’d visualized his daughter, as a Matt/Romy combination with hazel eyes and red hair, might be way off the mark.
Something flickered through him like quicksilver—a sense of...disquiet. He stared at Romy’s parents, trying to anchor the thought, but before he could latch onto it his view was blocked by servers clearing their table and he realized he’d have a better chance of latching onto whatever was bothering him if he actually joined them.
The moment he entered the restaurant, Romy looked straight at him—as though she sensed him. Her parents swiveled in their chairs to see what she was looking at, Romy dipped her head and said something to them, and next second they were on their feet, beaming at him.
Matt beckoned to the maître d’ and after a quick explanation, the guy conducted some weird wordless cross-restaurant communication with Romy, and then he was allowed to make his way to them.
“Sorry I’m late,” he announced upon arrival at the table.
Romy’s father grabbed his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “No need for apologies, son,” he said.
Matt blocked a start at the “son” a fraction too late, and then started again when Romy’s mother opened her arms. Shit. She was going to hug him. He didn’t want that. He hadn’t earned that. Didn’t...deserve it.
Matt considered side-stepping her, making an excuse about needing the restroom, but it was too late; he was folded against her. And then that wasn’t enough for her: her hands reached up, his head was dragged down and he was kissed soundly on each cheek. Another hug, and he was released, only to have both his hands held, gripped.
“I’m so very glad to meet you, Matthew,” she gushed. “I’ve been wanting to thank you, personally, for what you’re doing for Romy.” And sure enough, there were tears swimming in her eyes! He wasn’t going to cope with this. He shouldn’t have come. He didn’t belong here. He had to leave. But then she rubbed a rueful thumb against his cheek and said, “Lipstick, my darling, sorry,” and his resistance melted because she was adorable.
His place setting was arranged as if by magic, his chair positioned opposite Romy and between her parents, and Mrs. Allen fussed him into his seat.
She smiled at her husband, who was seated on Matt’s left. “Pour Matthew some wine, my love.” Back to Matt. “Or would you prefer beer? Romy says you like beer.”
“Wine,” Matt said. “Wine is great, Mrs. Allen.”
“Now, Matthew,” she chirped on, taking her seat on his right, “none of this Mrs. Allen business. My name is Lenore and the handsome gentleman on your other side is Graham. And we should warn you that we’re already half in love with you, but if we get too embarrassing give us a stern word and we’ll stop.” She shot him a little twinkling smile. “Or at least we’ll try to stop, but I can’t promise absolutely.”
“Mum!” Romy shook her head. “Matt’s not demonstrative.”
Lenore reached for Matt’s hand. “Matthew can be whatever he wants to be and we’ll still love him.” She gave his hand a squeeze before releasing it. “We’ve had our appetizers, I’m afraid, and Romy’s already ordered share plates for our main course. But I’m sure we can increase the portions. Romy—shall I call the waiter over and ask for Jules?” Back to Matt. “Jules is one of the chefs here, an old boyfriend of—”
“He knows Jules,” Romy put in quickly. “I’ll ask Francois to get a message to the kitchen.”
Lenore leaned toward Matt conspiratorially. “It’s over with Jules, of course. A lovely young man but not for Romy.”
Romy got to her feet with a screech of chair. “Mum! Matt doesn’t care about my boyfriends.”
Lenore raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought you were going to find Francois?”
She waited until Romy had walked over to the maître d’, then focused on Matt again. “So! Now! Matthew! Romy may not have told you this, but Graham and I met at university just as you two did...”
By the time Romy returned a few minutes later, Matt had learned that Lenore and Graham had been married for thirty years, that they lived in Barnes (only thirty minutes away from central London but a world away in its “village family feel,” which was “perfect for grandchildren”), were planning to renew their vows in two months’ time (because “love should be celebrated”) and that he was invited to attend the ceremony (because he was “practically family”).
So far, so...what? Good? Bad? He had no fucking idea.
Romy took her seat and asked him apprehensively, “Are you okay?” which he assumed meant she had no fucking idea, either.
“Fine,” he said, and took a giant sip of wine.
He did his best to keep up with the conversation, but as Romy reached for her water glass, that goddamn platinum ring on her pinky finger flashed, distracting him. Why did that ring bother him so much?
He sifted through his memories of the past ten years of the three of them—him, Romy, Teague—trying to find one that exposed some deep-seated jealousy that would explain his unexpected ring paranoia. The night he and Romy had met three months into their freshman year and they’d almost kissed, but he’d rewound and pushed Teague’s barrow instead. Romy asking his advice ahead of her first date with Teague: What should she talk about? The night she broke up with Teague. Her twenty-first birthday dinner—and yeah, Teague producing the ring had seemed an over-the-top gift, but hey, it suited her. The Fourth of July ball at Teague’s family estate. Matt had been too busy with one of the other guests—Leah Carnegie-Phillips—to resent Teague monopolizing Romy; Matt had described himself as Leah’s bit of rough when he’d told Romy about it, and called Teague Romy’s bit of smooth, which had irritated her so much he’d ended up getting her in a headlock and telling her to get over herself—but they’d been friends again within half an hour.
So many memories. Harmless memories.
He heard a clatter and snapped his attention back to the present. Romy had dropped her fork to her plate and was directing a pinch-mouthed headshake at her mother.
What had he missed?
Lenore smiled at him, a faint stain of pink on her cheeks. Remorse. “I apologize. I thought it was all settled.”
“It is,” Romy said.
“What’s settled?” Matt asked, because it was clearly something to do with him.
Lenore looked from Matt to Romy to Matt. “The adoption,” she said.
Matt frowned at her, uncomprehending. “Adoption?”
She patted his hand. “There’s no difficulty with it, so don’t worry that it will be an inconvenience.”
“Huh?”
“If you were going to be named on the birth certificate, we’d have to get your consent, and Romy’s told us you don’t like being bothered with paperwork.”
“I don’t—Wh—? I thought this baby was—” He looked at Romy. “You’re keeping the baby.” Not a question—a demand for confirmation.
“Yes, of course I am,” she said, flustered. “Mum means when I marry, should my husband want to become...become...”
“The legal father instead of a stepfather,” Lenore finished for her. “Romy’s birth father was on the birth certificate, you see, so he had to give consent, and it took a while to track him down.”
“Hang—” Head spinning. He looked to Romy. “You’re adopted?”
“Yes. I thought...you knew.”
“No.”
“I guess... You see we don’t...don’t think of it, we just... I just know Mum and Dad are my parents, even though I do...I do write to my birth mother, so...” She looked ill. Stricken. “It’s not a big deal.”
Matt stared at her. “Not a big deal?”
“No, that didn’t come out right. I mean things...things have changed, so... Oh God.”
He was still staring at her, but he couldn’t speak, almost couldn’t find the will to breathe.
“Matt, this is something we can talk about,” she said, and reached across the table for his hand.
He jerked his hand away from her touch, pushed his chair back and stood. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have to...have to...go.”
Romy made a move, as though she’d go with him, and he shot her a do-not-even-think-about-it look and headed out of the restaurant.