Page 119 of If It Can't Be Us

She rolls her eyes. “God, Mom, don’t stroke his ego. It’ll go to his head.”

“Keep it in your pants, Jackie!” Vivian’s dad yells from the couch.

Jackie sighs. “Excuse him,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“See what I mean?” Vivian whispers to me, laughing softly and shaking her head at her dad.

She leads us into the kitchen. Vivian’s dad is on the couch, intently watching golf. The final match of The Open is on today. I catch a glimpse of Justin Rose on the leaderboard, a fellow Englishman, and I can’t help but look longingly at the game.

Vivian notices. “You can watch, babe,” she offers with a smile. “I’m out. I only watch if Rory’s playing.”

“Oh, I know how you’ve got a thing for Rory, babe,” I tease, nudging her playfully.

She laughs. “Well, I wouldn’tnotput him on my list.”

“Paul!” Jackie calls from across the kitchen. “Get your butt off the couch, and come meet Leo.”

Paul gets up, casting a longing glance at the TV before making his way toward us. He enters the kitchen, his expression shifting from reluctant to welcoming as he greets us.

He comes to me first, and I extend my hand. “Mr. Stone, I’m Leo. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He shakes my hand firmly, nodding. “Please, call me Paul.” He then turns to Vivian, opening his arms. “Viv, my little star,” he says warmly. She folds into her dad’s arms, and he kisses the top of her head. It’s sweet and touching to see her dad embrace her with such affection.

“Mom, do you need any help?” Vivian asks.

“No, honey, you and Leo go enjoy yourselves. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes.”

“You sure?” she insists.

Her mom gives her a pointed look, and Vivian shrugs. “Okay, thanks, Mom.”

“Do you want to watch golf?” she asks me, gesturing to where her dad is settled back on the couch, the low hum of the game filling the room.

“Yeah, in a bit,” I say, glancing around. “Give me a tour. Is this the house you grew up in?”

Vivian nods, her eyes bright with a mix of nostalgia and pride. “Yep.” She takes my hand and guides me through the house. The home, while older, has modern updates—sleek lines and minimalist décor. Family photos and expensive-looking artwork hang on the walls, and the smell of a delicious meal fills the air. I notice the photos of Vivian growing up, each one capturing her beauty, even as a teenager.

We take the stairs to the second floor, where the railing opens up to the airy living room below. We navigate down another hall, arriving at a room at the end.

Vivian pauses, “This is my room,” she says, opening the door as we step inside. The room features hardwood floors like the rest of the house, a large gray and white rug, and a queen-sized bed. An oversized modern light fixture hangs in the center of the room, and framed artwork decorates the wall above the headboard. In one corner, a plant stands tall, and two nightstands, each with a lamp, sit beside the bed.

I smile. “I take it you’ve had a hand in decorating this room?”

Her arms are crossed as she smiles smugly, nodding with pride.

“Please tell me it hasn’t always been this pretty and that you had a normal kid’s room,” I tease.

She laughs. “I did. We redid the room entirely about twelve years ago, and then I redecorated it a few years back.”

“When can we christen it?” I joke.

She wraps her arms around my neck. “How about now?” she says seductively, pressing her lips to mine and pulling away with a soft tug on my bottom lip.

“Babe, we can’t. Your parents are downstairs.”

“Yes, they are,” she says, kissing me again, more fervently this time.

I laugh, unable to tell if she’s serious. “Babe, you better back away, or I’m going to take you right here, right now.”

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