Page 42 of Unforgettable

He kisses my temple, and my ability to distinguish between the game we’re playing and my real feelings becomes almost impossible.

“I’m just going to apologize in advance,” Archer, Dixie’s fiancé, says as he sticks a fork into a large piece of breaded cauliflower. “But since I was the most recent addition and I copped the twenty-questions routine, I think it’s only fair that I start the family interrogation.”

Oz glances over at me apologetically, and I discreetly place my hand on his knee and give it a little squeeze.

“Ask me anything,” I challenge.

He steeples his fingers and rests them against his mouth in concentration. “Let’s start easy.” He clears his throat. “How did you two meet?”

The knife I’m using to cut into my eggplant parmigiana, slips between my fingers as I berate myself for not preparing for this question. It’s so obvious and completely careless of us to not have planned out what to say.

“We met on Blush,” Oz intervenes. “Matched. Went on a date and then he got a job at the bookstore half of Vino and Veritas.”

It’s the parent-friendly version of exactly what happened, but I’m relieved that Oz is a quick thinker, and the story isn’t full of holes or too outlandish.

“Did you know Oz worked there when you took the job?” Maddy asks, but the mischievous smile on my face reminds me that Oz tells her everything.

“I didn’t,” I reply. “Oz hadn’t mentioned it the night we met, so it was ahugesurprise.”

“I bet it was,” she murmurs, and I catch Oz kicking her under the table.

“Are you from around here?” Bethany asks.

“No,” I supply. “I’m actually from Connecticut, but I was in Seattle, for college, before I moved here.”

I don’t add how I’m moving back to Connecticut when the summer ends, because not only does it discredit the authenticity of our relationship, but it’s also not something I want to think about.

His parents almost jump out of their seats at the mention of college, and I pray that this isn’t the part where it gets awkward.

“What did you study at college?” Oz’s father asks.

I don’t answer straight away, and I know Oz notices my hesitation. Under the table he entwines his fingers with mine and answers for me. “He studied business and finance. He’s eventually going to work for his parents.”

“They own a finance company?” Kat queries.

“Yeah,” I confirm. “They own Hale Finance.”

“Oh, my goodness. I’ve heard of them.” Bethany looks at Oz. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a catch.”

Even though it’s obvious the comment is meant to be harmless, it still rubs me the wrong way. And not because I am so much more than my parents’ name and brand, but because it feels like it’s been said to measure my worth against his.

But Oz takes it in stride, smiling and winking at me. “He’s alright.”

I don’t know if the statement bothered him, but I do know that it doesn’t change a single thing between us. He doesn’t care about my family name or its worth. Fake or not, I’m confident Oz only really cares about me. The person. The man.

The conversation eventually steers away from Oz and his shiny new toy. They all start to talk about work and the kids, and how Dixie’s pregnancy is going.

It’s nice. It’s normal. And it’s very different from the dinners Callie and I had, with either a housekeeper, nanny, or cook as our only company. It’s a miracle she and I even managed to form a relationship in such a cold environment.

It’s evident that the Walkers have created a home full of love, passion, and friendship. It’s easy to see how Oz’s willingness to help and care for others was fostered, and why his recent arguments with his parents cause him both pain and fill him with frustration.

He loves them. So much. And even through the disagreements, there’s no mistaking how much they love him too.

When Oz and his sisters stand and start clearing up the table, I, too, rise and pick up my plate. “Oz and I can clean up,” I offer. “It’s the least I can do after you both welcomed me into your home for dinner.”

They all glance at each other and then at Oz and me. “Okay, we’ll make ourselves scarce,” his mother says, and soon enough, they’ve all filed into the living room, leaving Oz and me alone.

We work in perfect sync, clearing the table, stacking the dishwasher, and wiping down the surfaces. When we’re done, Oz drags the tea towel out of my hand and drops it on to the counter. He grips my hips, and I quickly look over at his family to see if they’re watching. They’re not—well, not blatantly anyway—but it doesn’t do anything to expel the nervousness racing in my veins and the abundance of butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

---