Page 98 of Blindly Yours

She nods and turns her mug around in her hands. “Yeah, I don’t want to keep you a secret anymore. I’ve neverwantedthat. It was just…necessary for a while.” She drops her eyes.

“I get it.” I reach out and take her hand. “But yes, I’d love to come to dinner.”

She takes a deep breath like she’s glad she finally got this out, but she grits her teeth. “Just…prepare yourself.”

I laugh lightly. “What, are they going to order me to leave when they find out how much I make?”

Her saddened eyes meet mine. “No, but just…don’t take too much of what they say to heart. They might say some…passive-aggressive things."

I know she’s trying to protect me, and I appreciate it, but I hardly think it’ll be as bad as she says. I squeeze her hand and give her a reassuring smile. “I can handle it.”

***

My hands are sweating against an expensive bottle of wine when Rose pushes open the door to her parents’ penthouse home, revealing a large marble foyer lit with a modern crystal chandelier. I don’t manage this building, but I’m impressed. From the bright downstairs lobby to the mirrored elevators and burgundy-carpeted hallways, it’s spotless and perfectly maintained.

“Mom?” Rose crosses the foyer and peers around the corner.

“Rose!” I hear the familiar voice before she reveals herself. Her mother’s hair is pulled into a soft twist at the back of her head, and she wears a flowing silk dress the color of a cloudless sky. Effortlessly styled and poised, just like her daughter.

She kisses Rose’s cheek and then turns her eyes to me, dragging them down to my shoes—the same brown oxfords I wore on my first date with Rose—and then back up again. She smiles, so apparently, I’ve passed the visual test. "Nate? Right? It's so nice tofinallymeet you.”

I’ve met her twice, actually. Most recently when I fixed Rose’s ceiling.

I extend my hand to her. “It’s great to meet you too, Mrs. Astor.”

She shakes my hand and then waves me off. “Oh, call me Cynthia, please.”

I nod and pass her the wine. “This is for you and your husband. Thank you for having me.”

She turns it around in her hands and her eyes light up. “Oh! It’s the ninety-two!” She looks so much like Rose. She’s a little shorter and her hair is a few shades lighter, but her eyes are strikingly the same. She turns toward the doorway from where she’d come. “Des! They brought the ninety-two!” Then her gaze finds mine again. “Thank you, so much. This is perfect.”

Of course, it is. I asked Rose specifically which wine was her parents’ favorite. I wasn’t going to take my chances there.

Rose’s father comes around the corner and shoves his hands in his pockets with a nod to Cynthia. “What’s this?”

She passes him the wine. “Rose’s friend brought us the ninety-two from Bordeaux.”

Friend?Interesting.

Rose doesn’t say anything, so I swallow my correction and extend my hand to her father. “You have a beautiful home, Mr. Astor.”

He’s taller than me, with salt and pepper hair, and a confidence he’s probably perfected over the years of owning such a profitable company. I’ve actually never methimin person. He wasn’t at the contract meeting years ago, but we have the occasional strictly business correspondence through email.

“Call me Desmond.” He firmly shakes my hand. “Rose’sfriend?Just a friend?”

Rose links her fingers with mine and finally speaks. “Nate and I have been dating for a few weeks. I told you that, Mom.”

Cynthia shrugs and gestures for us to follow her. “Oh yes, right. Must have slipped my mind.”

Rose takes a deep breath and shoots me an apologetic gaze, but I smile warmly at her. She’s trying, and I know this isn’t easy for her, but it isn’t her fault if her mother chooses to conveniently forget this is a thing.

“Come, find a seat. Dinner is almost ready. We’re eating on the terrace tonight.” Cynthia leads us through the living room and out an expansive set of French doors to a balcony large enough to fit a seating areaanda long table set for at least ten.

The breeze that comes with being forty floors up hits me immediately, and my hands start to sweat, but Rose quickly pulls me toward a chair away from the railing.

An older woman in an apron emerges from the doorway as we sit down, and she smiles warmly at me as she places a tray of fancy bruschetta on the table. “You must be Nate?”

“Yes,” I reply, extending my hand.

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