“Ew.” Marina is the most vocal as we all fake vomit at the sight of my dad making the moves on Mom. Doesn’t matter how old we get, that’s just not something we should be subjected to. Though, as I’ve gotten older, I appreciate the playful side to their love story.

Laughing, they put space, and then an island, between them. My mom says, “I’m grilling steaks. Soup is just the appetizer because I love soup.”

The family disbands—everyone falling into their old jobs from when we were little. Marina oversees the distribution of napkins, Noah grabs plates, Loch walks out to help Dad with the grill, and I pull the silverware from the drawer. Mom pours a glass of wine.

I don’t know why it took me so long to find my way back “into the fold” as Mom calls it. Being here and being with them is good for the soul.

The teasing about my dating life ended after the first course. Although I’m ready to see my girl by the time dessert rolls around, the goodbyes are a little harder tonight with my family.

I carry that feeling with me, the one that adds to a great weekend that started with a girl I met at a gas station. Chuckling, I turn on music to pass the time until I’m back in her neighborhood.

Amanda tells me she’s at her dad’s place and gives me the address with some valuable insight. “Her dad lives for three things in life, in this order. His daughter. Pro sports. And cars.”

That’s some irony right there.

Seems to me that John Summerlin and I have quite a lot in common.

I drive over and park out front. It’s tempting to try the Jake Ryan move on her again, but I have a feeling her dad won’t be as entertained. I knock on the door and then step back, letting the screen door close again.

The door swings open, and her dad answers.

No smile.

No greeting.

Nothing but a question. “So you’re the boyfriend?”

16

Lark

“Yes, sir.”

Harbor tugs at the collar of his crew neck T-shirt and then loosens the jacket he’s wearing, his nerves getting the better of him.

It’s funny seeing him sweat being face-to-face with my dad. If asked a week ago, I would have said Harbor Westcott doesn’t sweat over anything. I grin, knowing that he’s nervous because he wants to make a good impression. He cares about me, or he wouldn’t give a dang about seeing my dad again. And he calls me the sweet one.

I give him a wave from behind my dad. When he sees me, relief eases his shoulders. I nudge the back of Dad’s boot and clear my throat. Hint. Hint.

“Are you coming in?” my dad asks, his tone as unwelcoming as the invitation.

Stepping around him, I push the screen door open and fill the doorway. I hold out a hand, and say, “Come inside, Harbor.”