Page 41 of Her Billionaire Boss
“You’re right.Thanks,” I said, a little sheepishly.“Safe travels.”
We hung up and I paced the bedroom.I wanted to win the Holmeses over.There had to be a way to signal that I was a normal, healthy guy for their daughter to be with, despite the part where I was a billionaire who lived in what Charlotte described as “a supervillain’s weekend lair.”
My gut rumbled again.Maybe it wasn’t nerves.Maybe it was the scallops Charlotte and I had made for ourselves.
That was it!I could surprise them with a home cooked meal, without any of Charlotte’s help.That would be a charming, normal thing for a regular boyfriend to do.I wouldn’t go with scallops, but the internet was full of recipes, and I’d learned enough from Charlotte that I could pull off something simple.
I was going to pass the parent test so hard, I would become legend.
I just wouldn’t do it with scallops.
* * * *
I was halfway through the middle of cooking The Dinner when Charlotte texted me announcing their arrival.I’d sent her to the airport with my driver to collect her parents because it would buy me time for the surprise, but to my dismay, the recipe I’d picked had turned out to be a little more complicated than what Charlotte had taught me.
I needed one of those meal services that had suddenly started advertising to me on social media.
There didn’t seem to be any danger of burning at the moment, so I hurried to the foyer, catching them as they entered.
“Hey,” I said, weakly raising my hand.“Welcome.”
Charlotte’s parents were the type of people you would handpick to represent upper-middle class white boomers.Bill had a broad, perfect-toothed smile and the freckles of a chronic golfer—unfortunately the exact type of older man who rang my daddy bell.Holly dressed a shade too chic to be described as casual and had too few lines on her face to be aging naturally.Not that I was in a position to judge; my premature crow’s feet hadn’t miraculously vanished on their own.
“How was your flight?”I asked, shaking Bill’s hand firmly.
The last time I’d spoken to Holly and Bill, it had been when I’d first called to check in on Scott after the wedding debacle.I’d still been in the hospital and on heavy drugs, but I distinctly remembered apologizing profusely for the fact that my last words had almost been about fucking their daughter.
Her dad squeezed my hand a little too tight.
“It wasn’t too bad,” Holly said, and she went in for what, according to everything I knew about them, was an uncharacteristic hug.
Behind her, Charlotte mouthed,“Xanax.”
“Wouldn’t it have been nice if you’d been able to fly in his private jet?”Charlotte asked, blinking innocently at me.
I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Bill swooped in and rescued me.“She told us that you don’t have a jet because of the environmental concerns.Don’t cave into her demands.She can be doggedly persuasive.”
“What’s with the apron?”Charlotte asked, tipping her head.
I looked down.“Oh yeah.Surprise.I’m cooking dinner.”
“All this, and he cooks?”Holly said with a broad smile.
“No.But Charlotte is working on that.”I jerked my thumb over my shoulder.“But I don’t want to burn anything so… Charlotte, if you want to show your parents to the guest room and then bring them up?”
“Formal dining room or regular dining room?”she asked.
I noted the look Bill and Holly shared.They seemed impressed, and I couldn’t put my finger on why that bothered me.
“The normal one.”Was this how Charlotte had felt at my mother’s house?Trying to fit in, wanting to wince at every perceived misstep, wondering how, exactly, she’d mis-stepped in the first place?Because my first instinct was to defend my fucking dining rooms and overexplain why I even had two in the first place.Doesn’t everyone have two places to eat?What’s the difference between a dining room table that hardly gets used and a coffee table in front of the television, and having two dining rooms?Not a god damn thing.
I chalked my defensiveness up to nerves not about her parents—I already knew they liked me well enough—but to my fears about screwing up dinner.Which, I reassured myself, would not happen.
Even if I did have to pry a few of the unopened mussels apart.
That ended up being the most difficult step of the whole process, but the end result tasted fantastic, even though I’d largely skimmed the end of the recipe.I was quite proud of myself as I loaded up the serving cart and headed to the dining room.
Charlotte was already pouring the wine when I entered.
