I smile, proud of him for not making it something it’s not. He gets up to flip the burgers, and I get another quick look at Harbor and give him a thumbs-up. Grinning, Harbor reaches over and takes my hand. Bringing it to his mouth, he kisses my palm.

The burgers get extra attention, and my dad lingers, which makes me think he’s aware of us behind him.

Harbor then stands to help oversee the grill, and my dad starts talking to him about techniques, which appears to keep them not just occupied but bonding as well. I sneak inside to give them time to talk about whatever they need to get off their chests. For my dad, it’s going to be questions regarding his intentions, some about his background, and his plans for the future.

I pour a glass of tea, choosing to be the designated driver tonight because I think Harbor will need the liquid courage more than me. The glass of tea reminds me of what that lady said to me. Gross. What a terrible human being.

I’m also reminded that I need to tell my dad. I’d hate for him to hear it from someone else. Who knows what version they’ll tell. I return to the deck and sit on a stool. Harbor sits down, but he’s still laughing. “Yeah, when they traded DeLeon, they lost the soul of the team.”

“That’s what I keep saying,” my dad says, gripping his hands in front of him as he looks up at the sky in aggravation. “Such a shitty move.”

Harbor shoots me a look, furrowing his eyebrow in question. I know what he’s asking. John Summerlin swears worse than any sailor. I start laughing to myself because it’s entertaining to innocently tease Harbor.

He reads me too well. That furrowed brow cocked up on the right side, and he says, “Totally fucked up.”

My dad doesn’t even blink, but Harbor mouths to me, “Paybacks are hell.”

Fortunately, I’m saved by the bell . . . or, in this case, a text, which pulls my boyfriend’s attention away from the trick I played on him.

My smile disappears when I see Harbor’s expression wrinkle in concern. “What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

His response now catches my dad’s attention. “You sure?”

With both Summerlins in your business, Harbor doesn’t fight it. Looking at me, he replies, “My parents asked if we were free for dinner tonight. They’re unexpectedly in town right now.”

“Invite them over.”

My gaze whips to my dad. I stay silent, trying to understand what just happened. Did my dad just invite the Westcotts, of Beacon Pointe, to our house for dinner? “Dad?”

He shrugs. “I threw plenty of meat on the grill.” Ew, the sound of that is not tempting at all. “Invite them over,” he says to Harbor, waving his arm in the air. It’s clearly an invitation gesture, but it also feels a lot like what the fuck, let’s do this.