Nip it in the Bud (Bunch-A-Blooms 3)

“Drew, it’s good to have you over. Come on. The guys are all hanging out in the back,” Petunia says. The gleeful expression makes me feel like I’m about to be tossed to the wolves. I smirk. The girl has no clue what my emails say on a regular basis. I get death threats. A little interrogation isn’t going to do much.

“All right.” I nod my head and squeeze Willow’s side. I walk into the backyard and admire the spread. I’d get lost in a home like this, but it suits the well-dressed men gathered in the space. There’s something in the way they hold themselves along with the expensive clothing that makes the Davenport males stand out. Small clusters of people talk and drink from the built-in stone bar being manned by a hired bartender.

“Hey, guys, this is Drew, Willow’s boyfriend,” Petunia announces.

All eyes turn to me, and I nod my head and meet their inquisitive gazes. I’m used to being judged on appearance first. In my dark denim shorts, black and white tennis shoes, and white Cincinnati shirt I stand out in the group like a sore thumb. Greetings rise up around me.

“Let me introduce you properly,” Willow says as she leads me around. “This is our host, Luca, Olive’s husband.”

“I’m glad you could make it, love. It’s been too long since we all got together. It’s nice to meet you, Drew.” He holds out his hand, and I shake it. He’s a little older than us, and I dig his laid-back attitude.

“It’s good to meet you, too.”

“There are snacks going around in the house, Mason is manning the grill, and the bar is stocked, so enjoy yourselves.”

The names start to blend together as she leads me around … until we get to her parents.

“Mom, Dad, this is Drew.”

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Ridder.” I shake their hands.

Her dad gives me a careful once over and offers no encouragement. As the father of daughters, I don’t blame him. Mrs. Ridder offers up a sweet smile.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Drew. I’ve heard nothing but good things.”

“At least one of us has,” Mr. Ridder mumbles.

Mrs. Ridder elbows him in the side, and he coughs.

“What is it you do?” Mrs. Ridder asks.

“I’m a recording artist.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. Do you tour?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

“And you make money off this?” her father asks.

“Dad.”

I laugh. He’s straight forward. I can respect that. “I understand, Mr. Ridder. I have two little girls off my own. You can never be too careful. Yes, I’ve been fortunate enough to live off what I love to do.”

He nods and huffs. “Two girls?”

“Twins.”

“My Lord. My girls are three years apart, and I think the house barely survived. How do you do it?”

“Well, right now they’re only ten. Ask me this question after the teen years.”

Her father chuckles, and I know we’ll be just fine.

“At least you know what’s coming.”

“I have a younger sister. Watching it remotely was scary enough.”

“Hormones,” her father mutters with a shake of his head.