Page 29 of Crossing Lines

“I wanted to,” he insists, gently pecking my lips to avoid smearing my lipstick. “Let me put it on.”

I twist my wrist after he locks the bracelet. “It’s pretty. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He kisses my hand. “Let’s go.”

“Hang on.” I place the roses in some water, grab my jacket and clutch, and head out with him.

Arriving at an upscale restaurant, Jamir hands the keys to the valet, opens the passenger door for me, and leads me inside.

“Good evening,” the chirpy ivory-toned hostess greets. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Bartley,” he says. “My parents are already here.”

Jolted by the reveal, I snap my eyes to him. “We’re having dinner with your parents?”

“Yeah,” he replies with a nonchalant shrug.

Since the hostess is watching, I maintain my smile. “You could have mentioned it. Thought this wasourdate night.”

“My mom said they were coming here, so I figured we could join them. It’s not a big deal.”

“Sure.”Maybe not for you.

Internally seething, I trail him through the lavish restaurant to his parents’ table.

“Hi, you two.” Mr. Bartley gives me an affectionate hug and a peck on my cheek. His wife, however, embraces her son and sits after a dry wave to me. Her behavior isn’t new. I suspect it’s because she considers her family elite black excellence, and mine are average.

Sitting down, I catch her scrutinizing my natural curls while touching her straight, dyed bob.

“Davia, you’re lovely as ever.” Her husband’s compliment diminishes it. He’s always been pleasant.

“Thank you, Mr. Bartley. So good to see you both.”

“You as well.” He nods at his son. “Jamir truly got lucky with you.”

Mrs. Bartley huffs as Jamir and I chuckle.

“Thanks, Dad.” He turns to me and squeezes my hand. “You’re right. I am lucky.”

“Hm.” I smile at him.

“Davia’s the lucky one,” Mrs. Bartley slides in smugly. “After all, she’ll be set for life if you marry or if she ends up pregnant.”

“Geez, Mom,” Jamir sighs.

“Just saying.” Her lofty snicker annoys me.

Mr. Bartley clears his throat and steers back to me. “They have vegan-friendly wine and pasta dishes, Davia. I remember you like lentils with rigatoni.”

“Thank you for thinking of me.” In my peripheral, I notice his wife shifting as if she caught my shade.

His aged eyes beam at me before signaling to the server. Once we order, we catch up over wine until the meals arrive.

Mr. Bartley makes a toast and falls back into conversation. “One of these days, we’ll cook a vegan dinner.”

“I doubt I’ll be able to eat anything without meat,” Mrs. Bartley states, slicing her steak.

“I’m the same,” Jamir seconds. “I don’t know how you do it, D.”

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