Page 76 of Second Quarter Comeback
He scowls, but it’s the kind of scowl that’s more adorable than intimidating. “Why would she even say that? She hates me.”
“She actually suggested I tease you with it,” I say, grinning now. “And judging by your reaction, it worked.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Scottie’s a menace. She plays all of us like she’s some evil genius. Love her to death, but she’s a nightmare of a little sister.”
“She knows how to push your buttons, that’s for sure,” I say, still grinning.
Instead of deciding to retort, he steers the conversation back. “So, what’s the plan with the house hunt?”
“This guy—Jacob, I think his name is—gave me some contacts,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
“Jacob McCallister?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Yeah,” I reply, setting my glass down. “Scottie suggested I talk to him in case I feel like I needrepresentation. You know, since I’m apparently becoming a public figure now.”
“He’s my agent,” he says, eyebrows shooting up. “The asshole’s good, I’ll give him that. But you know my offer still stands—you could just move in with me. I’ve got more rooms than I know what to do with.”
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can say anything, my phone buzzes from the counter. I glance at the screen and see Jerry—the doorman.
“Hold that thought,” I say, standing to answer the call.
“Dr. Ashby,” Jerry says, his tone careful. “Your parents are here. Should I send them up?”
The words hit me like a bucket of cold water. My parents. Here. Now.
“What?” I blurt, gripping the edge of the counter like it might keep me from floating away. “Like . . . downstairs?” Okay, not my most intelligent response, but seriously—what the fuck are they doing here?
“Yes, ma’am,” Jerry replies patiently. “They’re asking to come up.”
“I mean . . . I guess?” My voice shakes a little. “It’s not like I can keep them in the lobby.”
I hang up and turn back to Killion, who’s watching me with a raised eyebrow, his fork frozen mid-air.
“What’s going on?” he asks, setting it down and leaning forward.
I take a breath, my thoughts spinning. How do I explain this? I haven’t talked to them since I told them Iwas going low contact. And now, out of nowhere, they’re here? Uninvited? Unannounced?
“My parents,” I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “They’re downstairs.”
“Your parents?” he repeats, glancing toward the door. “Didn’t you say everything’s okay now? Water under the bridge?”
Is that what I told him? I don’t even remember what I’ve said about them. Damn it.
“Um . . . it’s complicated,” I say, rubbing my temples. How do I even begin to explain the mess of our relationship?
Before I can elaborate, there’s a knock on the door, loud and insistent. I jump, my heart pounding like it’s trying to escape.
Killion stands and heads toward the door, throwing me a quick glance over his shoulder. “You want me to get that?”
“No—yes—” I stammer, panicking. “I mean, sure, go ahead.”
He opens the door, revealing my parents standing there, dressed to intimidate. My mom’s wearing one of her impeccably tailored suits, her hair styled with such precision it looks like it she’s heading to one of her charity events. Her gaze sweeps over the room like she’s cataloging every imperfection. My dad’s expression is unreadable, but his posture radiates disapproval.
“Oh, good,” my mom says, her voice as smooth assilk and about as comforting as a blanket made out of barbed wire. “You’re home.”
“Camille,” my father says, his tone clipped, each word like it costs him something. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” I reply, crossing my arms. “I was very clear over the phone when I said, ‘I need time to digest your past behavior and current beliefs in my love life.’ Why are you here?”
