Page 74 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

I angle my head to look up at the top of the walls protecting the homes from looky-loo tourists like me. “This is where you grew up?” Laughing, I add, “Like the show?”

“Nothing like the show.” I notice how his fingers whiten around the steering wheel. It appears someone is sensitive about pop culture shows of yesteryear.

I cover his right hand since that’s the one I can reach from the passenger’s seat now, trying to contain my laughter. “Did I hit a nerve, Counselor?”

Glancing over at me, he clenches his jaw, another tell of his revealed.He’s bothered.“Everyone thinks they know you the minute you say Beverly Hills.”

“So what you’re saying is that it’s not all shopping, life lessons wrapped up in an hour, and hanging out at the Peach Pit? That’s seriously disappointing.”

He chuckles. “Okay, fine. We hung out at the Peach Pit all the time.”

“You did?”

“No,” he deadpans. “The diner is fictional, just like the show. Although I will say that one was built just for tourists like you.”

“Can we go?”

“No.”

I love pushing his buttons. It might be my new favorite thing, right after his lips on my body and how he makes me scream his name.Twice this morning.

I whack his arm for mocking me, though I’m not really bothered. I love old TV shows. I make no apologies. “Make fun all you want, but I bet the burger is pretty good. Hey, don’t you owe me a trip to In-N-Out?”

“I do.”

I almost roll my eyes from hearing him say that phrase again, but this time it holds new meaning, and I grin instead. “You sure are comfortable with that phrase.”

That finally cracks the tension I’m thinking he’s feeling from bringing a girl home, his future wife to be exact, and the smile I’ve fallen in love with shows up.

Rubbing my leg again, he rests his arm on the console between us and leans over. “Figured I should get some practice in, so I don’t fuck it up when it’s showtime. And don’t worry about In-N-Out.” He waggles his brow. “We’ll hit it up later.”

The car pulls onto the entrance to a long driveway, but we’re stopped at the gates. He clicks a remote, and the large iron gates open, revealing a white painted brick home with black accents—shutters, roof, and doors. “Holy crap, you’re rich!” I exclaim, not meaning to be so obnoxious. The St. James are wealthy, but wow, this place is more than impressive. It’s not a mansion; it’s an estate. If it has a pool house like on “The OC,” then I’m upping this to a compound. The place is huge, but don’t get me wrong. It has a tasteful feel to it. He shifts the car into park and cuts the engine. “My parents are. I’m still saving for my beach house.”

The bungalow.I’d almost forgotten they own that in Malibu too. I don’t care that they bought it twenty years ago. The Christiansens are loaded and can afford it even with inflation based on this property. “Apparently, business is really good.”

He chuckles and then leans over to kiss me on the cheek. “It’s going well.” He comes around and helps me hop from the seat. I’m not short, but the height of this SUV makes me feel that way. He adds, “Home sweet home.”

“Not for long, Christiansen.”

That really makes him smile. “Can’t wait. You ready to meet my family?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be. How do I look?”

“Beautiful, like always.”

“I just realized you didn’t give me any details to plan my small talk.” My feet stop beneath me, my mind spinning to an abrupt halt. “Oh my God, I don’t even know their names, and please tell me we aren’t making any announcements.”

Glancing over his shoulder, appearing to make sure the coast is clear, he then turns back to me and angles down. “No announcements today.” He takes my hand, the pad of his thumb rubbing gently along the top of my hand. “That information is just for us for now. And there’s no need to prepare a small talk spiel. My mom already loves you because you make me happy.” We start walking again, but slowly, which is fine with me. “I’m not sure if Andrew will be here. He has an apartment downtown close to the office. And as for my dad, he’s a bear to most, but Corbin Christiansen knows how to temper that side when it comes to his family.”

“That’s a relief.” I wipe the imaginary sweat from my forehead. We reach the steps that lead to the front door, but I tug him to a stop again. “So, Dad is Corbin. Andrew is your brother. Mom’s name?”

His reluctance starts to worry me. Finally, he says, “Don’t make fun.”

“Why would I make fun of her name?”

“It’s Cookie, all right?”

“Cookie?” Gingersnaps, peanut butter, chocolate chip, and snickerdoodle. Our conversation comes barreling back. “Like what you eat, cookie?”

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