Page 26 of The Waiter at Table 6

“Do you have any crazy sibling stories?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Crazy doesn’t exactly belong in the same sentence with my family,” she says. “I have an older sister, but we never had the kind of relationship you seem to be describing with yours. We—” She cuts herself off, her eyes flicking over to me in hesitation.

I nudge her gently. “You can tell me.” When she still looks skeptical, I add, “I won’t judge you for anything. Especially not with my boner in a treehouse story.”

That seems to do the trick because the tension eases from her shoulders. Her attention locks onto the group golfing in front of us as she starts talking.

“I grew up in a very traditional family who… let’s just say never wanted for anything.” In other words, richer than God. Got it. “Even when I was a kid, my sister and I were expected to act a certain way, talk a certain way, be a certain way. Our lives—and our personalities—were carved out for us.” Her voice takes on an edge. “Be a nice, polite girl. Get good grades so you can go to a good college. Find a wealthy husband to take care of you. Be a nice, polite wife.” She sighs, the sound sad. “I love my family, and I’m immensely grateful for the life they’ve provided for me, but they’ve never felt like the kind of family you just described in one story.”

An ache spreads in my chest at her admission, her hesitation to step into a relationship making a little more sense. By the sounds of it, she didn’t only spend a decade of marriage being told who to be. She’s overcoming an entire lifetime of it.

“You can meet my family, if you want,” I say before thinking better of it. “Come to a Sunday dinner at my parents’ house, my sisters will cure you of ever wanting siblings.”

Vanessa gives me a smile, but it looks a little sad. I don’t want to think about if it’s because she knows that won’t solve her family problem, or if it’s because she doesn’t want to get that close to me.

Thankfully, the group ahead of us finishes up before the moment can turn awkward. We silently stand from the bench, and I gesture for Vanessa to go first.

I watch as she places her ball on the ground, then lines up her shot with the utmost concentration. I can’t take my eyes off her.

Until she swings and hits the ball clear across the greenery and into the hole at the other end.

For a moment, I can only stare in shock. It takes me a second to unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

“I take it back; you’re not allowed anywhere near my sisters. You’re a hustler.”

She chuckles, swinging the club over her shoulder. “I promise that was just beginner’s luck.”

My eyes narrow. “I don’t believe you.”

With a sparkle in her eyes, she gestures for me to take my shot. “Only one way to find out.”

It takes me five tries to get the ball in the hole. By the time I finally sink it, Vanessa is failing miserably at holding back her grin.

“It takes me a little to get warmed up,” I grumble as I scoop the ball up.

Vanessa’s laugh is a tinkle in the air, but it’s her hand squeezing my forearm that really takes my breath away. I don’t even think she realizes she did it.

It takes another swallow to be able to get out, “I don’t know how to feel about the fact that you see mini golf as this incredible thing I’ve suggested, but meanwhile I’m trying to fight back memories of being destroyed by my sisters during family nights here.”

I don’t really expect her to respond to that as I line up my own shot. But then I hear her muse, “When you put it like that… we do seem to come from very different worlds.”

That’s enough to make me pause and look at her. “Is that bad?” I ask bluntly.

When her expression softens, my heart rate goes back to normal. That first night at her house—when I saw her house—I had wondered if she’d think we were too different to make any of this work. I had meant to ask her the morning after, but...

Her voice is sweet when she says quietly, “Ryder, that’s only ever been a bonus.”

And that brings my grin right to the forefront. Spinning back around, I line up, bite my lip in concentration, and haul back on the shot.

Hole in one.

I don’t even bother to smother the joy. I’m fist pumping as soon as the ball drops in the hole.

“Now who’s being hustled?” Vanessa asks with a laugh.

“Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are. I think that’s happened maybe twice in twenty years.”

That earns me a sigh as she hits her ball again—right into the hole, of course. “I keep forgetting how young you are,” she says.

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