Page 86 of Falling for You
‘I didn’t mean to ambush you into spending the evening with my family,’ I say.
And me, I want to add, but I don’t.
‘If you want to go back to a hotel then that’s totally fine. I’ll make an excuse for you, say you have to get back to work or something.’
He smiles at me, and sitting this close to him in the light I notice for the first time that he has a dimple in his right cheek that creases when he smiles. I can smell his earthy, manly scent and for a moment I feel myself leaning closer towards him. But I catch myself.
He’s not interested, remember?
‘Not at all,’ he says, ‘I’m having a great time. Is this really where you grew up?’
I look around at the kitchen. Pots and pans hang from the ceiling, and behind us is our oak table, stained with years of dinners and parties, little hands clutching onto the wood and drinks spilling over after too much generous clinking. Artwork covers the walls, but also framed photos of the three of us: windswept at the beach, huddled around a Christmas tree, standing at the top of a cliff in Cornwall.
‘Yeah,’ I say proudly. ‘It is.’
‘It’s amazing.’
I sigh. ‘I know. I’m really lucky.’
‘It’s just like the houses in the films,’ he says, leaning back on his stool and looking around. ‘My mom would love it here.’
‘Has she been to England before?’
He shakes his head, his dark eyes still scanning the room, taking in every nook and cranny. Every wooden chicken, every framed photograph, every speckled plate.
I’m about to ask him more about his mum when, right on cue, my own mum bustles in. For God’s sake, has she put lipstick on?
‘Right,’ she says jovially as she marches over to the Aga, ‘I think we’re almost there. Where’s your father?’
I start to tell her I don’t know when she cranes her neck and bellows his name over her shoulder. Nate catches my eye and grins.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble again. ‘I hope your family is as mad as mine.’
‘I think they’re fantastic.’
‘Here we are!’ Dad bumbles into the kitchen. Although he hasn’t put lipstick on, I can tell that he’s brushed his hair. Probably the result of a panicked Mum, who I think would be secretly hoovering upstairs right now if she didn’t have a lasagne in the oven.
‘I think it’s ready.’ She smiles at me, her eyes flitting to Nate. She looks as if she’s about to burst with happiness. God, if she’s like this now, how the hell is she going to behave when I bring an actual boyfriend home?
‘I’ll set the table,’ Dad says, rubbing his hands together and pulling open our cutlery drawer.
‘Can I help?’ Nate says, swivelling round on the stool. ‘What can I do?’
I pick up my wine and shake my head. There is absolutely no way they will let Nate even raise a finger while he’s here.
‘Nothing!’ Dad says. ‘You are ourguest.’
I raise my eyebrows at Nate. ‘Just relax,’ I say. ‘They’re not going to let you do anything.’
‘I can’t just sit here and not help,’ Nate protests. ‘You’re already letting me crash your dinner.’
‘Why don’t you tell us about your experience in London so far?’ Dad says.
‘Well,’ Nate says. ‘To be honest, it didn’t really start until I met Annie.’
I nearly spit out my wine. I don’t dare look at Mum; she’s one shared glance away from bursting into a spritz of confetti.
‘Oh?’ Dad says, much cooler than Mum as he lays out the granite placemats, setting our brass cutlery down on the long, rectangular table.
