In my bedroom, I kick aside a pair of yoga pants and slide on a pair of black suede booties. They’re dressy enough to look good with my sweater dress, but they provide enough ankle support that I’m unlikely to break a leg. Then I swab on fresh deodorant, fluff my hair, and take off my glasses.
There.
Only five minutes late. Boom.
The hallway carpet dampens the sound of my footsteps as I leave my room, and I pause for second just outside the entrance to my living room. From here I can peek inside without being seen, and I drink in the sight of Locke in my house.
In. My. House.
He’s never been here before, and the flutter of nerves kicks back up in my stomach, solidifying just how much I missed him.
Locke sits on my couch and studies the room around him—the cozy blankets and pillows, the books layered two deep on my bookshelves because one row per shelf just isn’t enough, the half-melted candles clustered on my coffee table, perfuming the air even unlit.
I watch him quietly for a second before I draw a breath and step into the room. “Hey,” I call.
Locke doesn’t say anything for a second, just stares at me with big eyes and an unreadable expression on his face.
“I’ll have you know that I’m only five minutes late,” I blurt out to fill the silence. I hold up a hand and spread my fingers. “That’s a new Greer Lively record.”
The moment cracks and Locke grins at me, flashing those perfect dimples. “I’ll have you know that I told you a time ten minutes early to offset your possible lateness. Which means we, Greer Lively, are officially five minutes early.”
I drop open my mouth in false indignity. “You didn’t.”
His eyes lock on mine, crinkling at the corners with amusement and familiarity. “I know you so well.”
My heart thumps hard and my stomach dips. God, he does know me. But as much as I want to be his, for him to know me inside and out, none of this is real. Tonight’s just a show for his family.
I take a deep breath to calm my heart and stride past him into the kitchen to grab the cranberry sauce. Molly has jammed the lid on top, and steam fogs the inside of the container, but at least it smells good.
I spin on my heel to face Locke, who’s followed me into the room. “Ready?”
He laughs. “You’re the one meeting my family. You tell me.”
Locke’s mom Dorothy pulls me into a hug the second I walk through the door of her two-story Northwest Contemporary house in Bothell. I smile as her hair tickles my nose, breathing in her soap-and-perfume smell.
Over her shoulder, Locke watches the scene with amusement. “Mom, at least wait until you’ve fed my date before you crush the crap out of her.”
Date.
I try to ignore the nervous pitter in my stomach and bring my attention to Dorothy instead, who pulls back to arm’s length with a smile. “We’re just so glad to you’re here, Greer. Locke’s never brought anyone home before.”
Right. Because Locke doesn’t date people—not long term. I don’t know why someone with a heart as big as his hasn’t settled down by now, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s exactly why we’re in this situation.
My heart squeezes tight. I shouldn’t expect anything to come from my time with him or I’m going to get burned. Still, no matter how fake our relationship is, Locke’s embarrassment is entirely real, and it makes me feel the tiniest bit better.
I hold back a smile at the grimace on his face. It’s cute seeing him like this—a little nervous in his own way. He’s always been so self-assured and confident, and I never thought of Locke as someone who embarrasses easily, but I guess mom time has that effect on everyone.
“I’m happy to be here.”
Dorothy drops her eyes to the container in my hands. “What do you have there?”
“Cranberry sauce. Locke said I could bring some.”
She narrows her eyes at the container in my hands and then opens them wide. “Oh my goodness! You made homemade?”
“Yep.”
She presses a hand to her chest and laughs warmly. “We normally just do the kind in the can.”
Locke groans. “Mom.”
“What?”
“Don’t make her feel…” He bites off his words and tugs a hand through his hair.
Her face falls a little. “No, it’s a good thing. I’ve been telling your aunt we needed to branch out for years, but you know, Grandma has a fondness for the canned stuff.”
My stomach drops. Locke’s told me his grandmother is tough on him, and she’s the main one I wanted to impress. Did I really do battle with this cranberry sauce for nothing? “I didn’t know.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Greer. This is perfect. And I probably have a can of the jellied kind around here somewhere too. We’ll set out both.”
Locke makes a pained face. “Mom, enough.”
“Bu it’s fine.”
A kitchen timer goes off, saving all of us.
Dorothy darts a glance in the direction of what must be the kitchen and says, “I’ve got to grab that. Why don’t you throw your coats in the closet and then say hi to everyone in the living room?”
“Great plan,” Locke says. He looks like he’d be happy to have the floor open up beneath his feet. When Dorothy hurries away, cranberry sauce in hand, Locke leans closer to my ear and whispers, “I’m so sorry, Greer.”
“It’s fine.” My throat feels thick and my jaw is tight, but I’m not here for me. I’m here for Locke. Somehow that reminder makes it easier to joke about everything. “I’ll just have to woo Grandma with my charm.”
“Buckets of charm,” he agrees. “Pools of charm. Olympic sized.” His voice is a little lighter, and it makes me feel lighter, too.
Locke opens the coat closet by the front door and shrugs out of his coat, revealing a hunter green button-down
