Page 107 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
“So,” I said. “I’m meeting your family.”
“You’re meeting my family.”
“How do you feel about that?”
She was quiet for a long moment, lost in thought. “Nervous. Excited. Terrified.”
“All at the same time?”
“All at the same time.” She moved closer to me, slipping her arms around my waist. “So now it’s time for me to warn you about my family’s interrogation.”
“I can handle interrogation. I’m a lawyer, remember. I’ve stared down opposing counsel and came out victorious more times than I can count.”
She laughed. “My Uncle Charles is going to try to get you drunk on his homemade moonshine.”
“I can handle that too.”
“My cousin Patrice is going to ask you inappropriate questions about your intentions.”
“I’ll tell her my intentions are honorable.”
“Are they?”
I cupped her face in my hands, looking into those beautiful brown eyes.
“My intentions are to love you for as long as you’ll let me. Is that honorable enough?”
She smiled, standing on her toes to kiss me. “Yes. That’ll do.”
Chapter
Twenty-Three
NAOMI
My father was grillingribs when Christian and I arrived at my parents’ house. The backyard was already full of relatives I hadn’t seen since last summer, kids running around with water balloons, and the smell of barbecue smoke mixing with my mother’s famous baked beans.
“There she is!” My cousin Patrice appeared at the gate before we could even make it to the porch, pulling me into a hug that nearly knocked me over. “And this must be Christian.”
“Yes, this is Christian. Christian, my cousin Patrice.”
Christian extended his hand and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Patrice.”
“Oh, he’s got manners.” Patrice looked him up and down, as if evaluating livestock. “That’s a good start.”
“Patrice, be nice,” I warned.
“I’m always nice. I’m just thorough.”
She led us into the backyard, where my mother was arranging food on the picnic tables and my Uncle Charles was already holding court near the cooler, probably telling the same fishing story he’d been telling for fifteen years.
My mother spotted us immediately and came over, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hey, baby.” She smiled at Christian. “And you must be Christian.”
“Mrs. Blackford, thank you for having me. I brought dessert.” Christian held up the pie he’d insisted on making that morning.
“Homemade peach pie,” he said. “My aunt’s recipe.”
My mother’s face lit up. “Tell your aunt I said thank you. She didn’t have to make a pie.”
