Page 70 of Wrecked on the Mountain
"Speaking of perfect," I murmur against her skin, "dinner's at six tonight. Mom's making her famous roast lamb."
Brooke smiles sleepily. "I can't wait to meet them."
And I can't wait to show you off,I think, already imagining the pride on my parents' faces when they see what I've found.
Chapter Fifteen
Brooke
I'm standing in front of my bathroom mirror, having what can only be described as a full-scale fashion crisis.
The soft burgundy dress that Jamie's going to lose his mind over is hanging perfectly on my body. My hair is cooperating for once, falling around my shoulders in a way that actually looks intentional. Even my makeup managed to cover the last traces of yesterday's migraine.
I look good.
Reallygood.
So why am I having a panic attack?
"It's just Sunday dinner," I tell my reflection, adjusting the neckline for the fifth time. "People eat food together. You know how to eat food, Brooke."
My reflection doesn't look convinced, probably because she knows the truth: I've never met a boyfriend's parents before.
Ever.
My dating life has pretty much consisted of medical school study partners and exhausted residents who barely had time for coffee, let alone family introductions.
But Jamie...
Jamie talks about his family like they're the center of his universe. Like Sunday dinner is sacred ground where outsiders either get blessed or burned at the stake. There's no in-between and by the sounds of it, definitely no second chances.
No pressure, Brooke.
A knock at my door makes me jump, sending my carefully applied mascara careening toward my temple.
"Shit," I mutter, grabbing a cotton swab to quickly fix the damage.
"You ready, sweetheart?" Jamie's voice calls through the door, and just the sound of it makes my pulse spike.
"Almost!" I lie, because I'll never be ready for this level of emotional vulnerability.
"You know Mom has probably set the table already, right?"
I take a steadying breath and open it to find Jamie leaning against the doorframe. He's wearing a navy button-down that makes his eyes look like storm clouds. His hair is still damp from a shower, and he smells like soap and pure masculine confidence.
Fuck me.
Even nervous about meeting his family, my body responds to him like he's gravity and I'm a woman who's forgotten how to fly.
"You look..." His gaze lingers hungrily on the deep V of my dress, where the burgundy fabric dips low enough to showcase the swell of my breasts pressed together by my best push-up bra. "Jesus, Brooke. You trying to give my dad a heart attack?"
Heat floods my cheeks as I glance down at my cleavage.
"Is it too much? Maybe I should wear something that doesn't make my boobs look like they're about to spill out—"
"Don't you dare." He steps inside, closing the door behind him. His hand starts to reach toward my chest, clearly intending to trace the edge of the neckline. "You look perfect. Beautiful. My sisters are going to lose their minds, and I'm going to spend all dinner trying not to stare at your—"
I smack his wandering hand away with a laugh. "Jamie Striker! We arenotgoing to your family dinner after you've felt me up two seconds before we walk out the door."
