Rhys was right. That felt good. “Shoot” just didn’t alleviate the feelings of frustration the way a curse word did. And let’s face it … I was in deep shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

“Shit.”

“Parker Brown,” Mom hissed. “Language.”

By this point, Easton was giggling so hard, I’d have sworn she was drunk.

Cheeks blooming red, I threw my mother an apologetic look. “Sorry. It’s just …”

“It’s just what?” Dad strode forward to cup my cheek.

The concern in his dark eyes made me hate myself even more.

“Peanut, what’s going on here?”

Staring into my father’s eyes, I curled my hand around his wrist and gave him a tremulous smile. “I just thought I’d have more time to adjust to being in a relationship again before I introduced Rhys to you all.” The lie tripped off my tongue, every word making me more and more nauseated.

That feeling was further compounded by the relief I saw on my dad’s face. “Peanut, I’m just glad to see you moving on. If you need a little more space, we can do that.”

“Of course.” Mom squeezed my arm, giving me a small smile. “I don’t know how we can give you much space right now since we’re all at the same party, but I promise not to push for a family dinner with Rhys just yet. Rhys.” She smiled at my father. “That’s a solid name, don’t you think?”

Dad returned her smile and then focused on me again. He brushed a thumb over my cheek before releasing his hold on me. “All I know is he must be something special to have caught our Parker’s eye.”

It didn’t surprise me that my parents couldn’t care less that Rhys wasn’t of society. All they cared about was seeing me happy again.

And that was what made lying to them so goddamn awful.

“Parker!”

Feeling exhausted by my mental self-flagellation, I had to paste on a smile as I turned toward Jackson and Camille. My boss strode across the lawn with his fiancée, and they weren’t alone. A woman around my height, a little curvier, dressed in a white, conservatively cut summer dress accompanied them. Her shining dark hair was styled into an immaculate bob and when she raised her arm to take a sip of champagne, sunlight dazzled off her diamond tennis bracelet. Her face was strangely ageless, either because of enviable genetics or the best plastic surgery I’d ever seen. She could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty and you wouldn’t know, unless you asked.

However, since her face was also familiar, I knew she was forty-seven years old.