Page 29 of Karma's Kiss

This doesn’t surprise Kendra. “Of course his grandpa loved you! Are you kidding? Did you flutter those long eyelashes? Did you flash him that winning smile of yours? I swear you would havekilledin the pageant scene when you were young.”

“No, I didn’t do any of that. I insulted his grandson within a few minutes of meeting him, actually.”

“You what?!”

She’s shocked because insulting family members isn’t my usual MO; I would have never behaved like this in my last relationship.

Matthew Mason is technically Matthew Mason IV, the youngest in a long line of Alabama politicians with far-reaching influence and money so old they can trace it back to the Stone Age. The first time I was invited to join him for a formal family dinner, we’d been dating for ten months and I knew him well enough to realize Matthew was extremely nervous about introducing me to his family.

“Is that the nicest dress you have?” he asked as we were about to head out the door.

I looked down at my white eyelet midi dress, belted snugly around my waist and accented with adorable cap sleeves. I’d agonized over it inside a little boutique on North College Street. It’d cost a pretty penny (more than I had to spend at the time), but I thought it looked exactly like what a dutiful southern woman should wear to meet her boyfriend’s conservative parents. In fact, it looked like what I could wear to accompany Matthew and his parents on the campaign trail.

“Maybe button it all the way to the top?” he suggested.

“Like a pilgrim?” I teased, trying to get him to loosen up. The dress was more than demure enough already. If I buttoned it up any further I wouldn’t be able to turn my neck.

“Fine, at least grab a sweater or something.”

Matthew’s parents live in the Old Cloverdale neighborhood near the state capitol, which was an hour’s trek for us getting there from Auburn’s campus on a Sunday afternoon, but Matthew didn’t think much of it. He did it every week as was expected of him and his three younger siblings.

At the door of their stately mansion, we were greeted by a woman wearing a black shift dress, her brown hair tugged back into a severe bun.

“Mr. Matthew, it’s so good to see you,” she said kindly. “Your family is gathered in the blue salon.”

I returned the smile she aimed at me, glad to see a friendly face. I stepped toward her, hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m—”

But Matthew cut me off before I could fully introduce myself.

“That’s Birdie,” he hissed like I was supposed to know exactly what that meant.

“Okay…”

“Themaid.”

I remember feeling nauseous as I walked away from Birdie knowing she’d overheard him chastise me for trying to be nice to her. But then a commanding voice boomed from down the hall, drawing my full attention.

“Matthew!”

Matthew Mason III—Matthew’s father—greeted us wearing a crisp button-down beneath a cashmere sweater vest, pressed slacks, and Ferragamo loafers. An orange AuburnAwas embroidered on his left breast.

He focused his forceful gaze on me as I swallowed past my nerves. “You must be Madison McCall. Wonderful to have you join us.”

His dad was gracious and welcoming, ushering us into the blue salon and introducing me to the rest of the family. All of the women were blonde. All of the men held glasses of dark liquor. An adorable golden retriever sniffed my ankles; I knew he was Matthew’s childhood pet named after Auburn’s mascot, Aubie. I scratched behind the dog’s ears, and this earned me a subtle thumbs-up from Matthew. Then a whispered reminder to “Button your cardigan higher.”

The references to Auburn didn’t end with the family dog. The blue salon—as this room was so dramatically named—was entirely dedicated to navy and orange memorabilia from the university: a vintage pennant pinned in a heavy gold frame, asigned football helmet from Ralph “Thug” Jordan, a pedestal displaying a 2010 championship ring nestled in navy velvet.

I smiled at everyone, spoke when spoken to, and used the exact right fork at the exact right time. In other words, I passed my first family dinner test with flying colors—Matthew’s mother even complimented my dress!—and I knew from discussing it with Matthew afterward that his parents absolutely loved me, and how could they not? I was playing my part to a T. I was being the perfect version of myself.

Thatgirl is long gone, so dead in fact I don’t think I could dredge her up if I tried.

Unfortunately, I don’t come up with a lie to get out of my second date with Sawyer, and I’m too chicken to stand him up. My only option—if I’m going to go through with this—is to completely keep feelings out of it. If he says something sweet, I’ll shield myself against it. If he tips his head to the side and gives me a boyish grin, I’ll remind myself that vigilante heroes don’t have feelings, they have Batmobiles, overloaded utility belts, skintight spandex pants.

This resolve is tested the moment I open my front door to see Sawyer has brought meandQueenie bouquets of freshly cut sunflowers from his grandmother’s garden. Standing on the doorstep, he looks like a dreamboat dressed in dark jeans and a white button-down, clean-shaven and smelling divine.

“Crawford insisted on the flowers,” he says, holding out the bouquets. “Said I had to step up my game if I had any chance of winning you over.”

Queenie exclaims over the sunflowers, one of which is just about the size of her head.

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