Page 79 of Under the Ink

“They are. And I bet they’ll be way nicer to you than me.”

Naomi shook her head, smiling. “I doubt that.”

“Well…just wait.”

She still doubted it, knowing Sage was likely just pulling her leg. But, even if his parentsdidtreat him like crap, she suspected they wouldn’t shame him—at least, not in front of her.

Or did all parents do that crap and she was just too naïve to realize it?

Naomi followed Sage into the dining room—and what she loved about it was how it had a log cabin feel. After weeks on the road, either crammed into a sardine-like bunk or spread out in a lavish hotel room, being someplace homey was exactly what she needed. And she wouldn’t have known it until this point.

But that wasn’t all. The way their home was decorated just added to it—warm, earthy tones, a lot of polished wood, nature scenes as the artwork. And the table was already set with ceramic plates adorned with a simple flower pattern and shiny silverware.

Sage’s mom was there, placing salt and pepper shakers on the middle of the table. The woman was tall and thin with short brown hair and muscular arms. “Naomi, we wanted to thank you again for spending time with us.”

“Thanks for having me.” Naomi’s manners would have made her parents proud.

Maybe. Since leaving home, she’d never felt like she could do anything right.

But this woman immediately put her at ease. “It’s our pleasure. Now,” she said, pulling a napkin holder from the hutch up against the wall, “do you like fried chicken?”

“Yes.” That wasn’t entirely true. Because she hadn’t actually eaten fried chicken since she was a kid, so she didn’t know for certain.

But shethoughtit would still be true.

“Fantastic. Sage misses that good ol’ home cooking, so I always try to spoil him when he comes home—and if I’m not frying chicken, his dad is grilling t-bones or I’m barbecuing ribs.”

Sage grinned, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. “Thanks, mom.” To Naomi, he said, “She’s from the south—so she also makes good mashed potatoes and gravy and cornbread.”

“And grits—which youdon’tlike.”

“I like everything else you cook.”

“I beg to differ.”

Naomi was already starting to feel uncomfortable—because even though this seemed like playful banter, it reminded her of “discussions” she’d had with her parents that started out feeling lighthearted and ending as a screaming match. But she tried to ignore the bubbles brewing in her belly.

“There’s my guy,” a man said from behind them. When Naomi turned, she saw that it was Sage’s father—and even had she not met him earlier, there would be no mistaking that they were related. Sage looked like a younger version of the man, with one exception: his father was about an inch shorter, but that was only evident when they stood next to each other. Reaching his son, he patted him on the back. “It’s good to have you home.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

“That’s why we’re making a big deal out of it,” his mother said. “We have to enjoy you while you’re here.”

“Was Sasha gonna be able to make it up?”

“She said she couldn’t—but she wanted me to make you swear you’d come home for Thanksgiving.”

“I can’t make any promises—but probably.”

“Honey?” Sage’s mom said to his father. “Everything’s ready. Could you help me bring it all out here?”

“Yep. That’ll give me the chance to scope out what I want.”

“You’ll do no such thing. Our guest has first dibs.” With a smile, his mother started walking to the kitchen, his father right behind.

Sage said, “Need more help?”

“If you want, you can grab the bottle of white wine out of the fridge.”

---