Page 25 of Penelope in Retrograde

My father’s gray eyebrows furrow like a pair of dueling caterpillars atop his narrowed gaze. My mother appears equally perplexed. Her bright blue eyes dart between Smith and Aidan, trying to suss out who the liar is, since the usual suspect—me—is in the clear.

“Well, then I suppose we owe you a thank-you, Smith,” Nana Rosie says. “Thank you so much for ensuring that our Penny made it home safely for her first Thanksgiving with us in far too long.”

“It wasn’t any trouble.” Smith places Ozzie on the pavement, and he immediately runs to Nana Rosie with his tail wagging. “It’s my first time home in a long time too, so I was just as eager to get here.”

“I didn’t think anyone was at your parents’ place this weekend.” Nana Rosie motions to the Mackenzies’ home across the street. “By the way, I’m so sorry to hear about Fiona’s passing. She was a lovely woman.”

Am I the last one to know about her death? I know I’m not the best at staying in touch, but I would’ve thought somebody would’ve mentioned it to me.

“Thank you,” Smith says softly. “She was something special.”

“How about you join us for cocktail hour so we can have a drink in her honor.” Nana Rosie turns to my parents, giving them one of those smiles that appears harmless, but anyone who knows my grandmother knows she means business. “Carter, why don’t you tip the driver for the kids. Penny, you grab your bag and freshen up. Smith, I assume you have your own luggage too? You drop your bags off and come right over for drinks.”

“Nana Rosie, I’m sure Smith is tired,” I say, desperate to derail her plans. “I’m sure he just wants to go home, unpack, and—”

“Actually, I could go for a drink,” Smith says.

“Really?” I choke. “Because we would totally understand if you weren’t up to it. You know, after my parents were so rude to you and all.”

“Penelope!” my mother snaps. “We weren’t rude. We were confused.”

“No, Silvia.” My father clears his throat. “She’s right. We misunderstood the transportation situation and reacted poorly. It’s only good manners that we put our differences aside to host Smith for cocktails in his mother’s honor, and as a thank-you for getting Penelope home safe. We’d be delighted to have you over, Smith.”

“We would?” my mother and I ask in unison.

“Then it’s settled.” Nana Rosie claps. “Drinks in ten minutes for everyone. Well, minus the driver, of course. Tip the man, Carter.”

Nana Rosie takes me by the arm and leads me up the curved driveway. Ozzie trails after us at our feet.

“This is going to be fun.” Nana Rosie’s tone is bubbly with excitement. “Two gentleman callers in one evening. That’s one hell of a way to kick off a holiday if you ask me.”

I gasp. “Oh shit.”

With all the West Side Story street-battle chaos, I somehow managed to forget about my setup with Martin Butler. How the hell am I going to have cocktails with Martin and Smith together without Smith realizing that not only am I not Martin’s girlfriend, but the two of us have never actually met?

“You going to finish that?” Nana Rosie nods at her martini still in my hand.

“Oh, absolutely.” I tilt my head back and drain the rest of the drink down my throat. “And I’m going to need another.”

“I can help with that.”

Chapter 8

Smith Mackenzie should not be coming over for drinks. The name Smith Mackenzie shouldn’t even be said in my house. It hasn’t been for years. Saying the word Mackenzie has basically been the equivalent to saying Beetlejuice three times. We simply don’t do it, because nothing good can come from a Banks discussing a Mackenzie. Nothing.

“We have a problem,” I say, gasping for air. I haven’t run up the winding staircase of my childhood home since I was a teenager, and it shows. I close the door to Phoebe’s room behind me. “I’m fucked. Royally. Also, hi.”

I rip off my clammy flannel and toss it onto the bed in between Phoebe and Falon. I’m about to unhook my bra, when I notice that Phoebe and Falon are eyeing me like some sort of carnival sideshow exhibit. Phoebe throws the flannel back at me.

“What the—”

“I’m just going to excuse myself,” says an unfamiliar voice.

In my haste to get up the stairs and barricade myself in Phoebe’s bedroom for all eternity, I neglected to notice that my sister and Falon weren’t the only two people in her bedroom. Standing in the corner next to the window that overlooks the pool is the man that romance writers have been writing about since smut was nothing more than suggestive drawings on cave walls.

Martin Butler is all sharp jawline, defined muscles, and kind eyes. He’s the type of man you do a double take for when you’re walking on the street. The photo my mother texted me did not do him justice, but then again, I’m not sure even Michelangelo himself could do any better. Martin Butler isn’t a Hemsworth. He’s a category all his own.

“Oh shit,” I say, holding my flannel against my chest. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else up here.”

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