Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

Otherwise those groups were awkward as hell.

I clear my throat. “This conversation is way too insightful and deep for a ride to lasagna dinner.” My hands grip the wheel tighter.

“That’s not true—I love hearing you talk about your experiences. Mine are boring.”

“Boring? How can you call cheering in a stadium boring?”

“It’s not as exciting as everyone thinks it is. For example, I’m always worried I’m going to be off count—the only asshole on the field screwing up the routine.”

“Guess we have that in common then.”

The grin Lilly gives me from the passenger seat has my stomach flipping, and thank God we’ve finally arrived at my house with its two stories and white picket fence and neatly trimmed hedgerow.

With the last of my mother’s flowers blooming before going dormant for winter, it’s a scene right out of the movie Father of the Bride. On the stoop are her mums and other fall flowers—I’m sure they’re vibrant and bright during the daylight hours.

“I’m surprised Mom hasn’t thrown any Halloween decorations out on the lawn for you.”

“Um, that would be amazing.”

She loves the holidays and I’m sure she’ll be bringing up Thanksgiving very soon too; planning is her forte, and it’s never too soon to plan. I swear my mother has the next season up before she has the current one taken down—during Christmas, it looks like the living room has barfed up a tree farm.

I pull up to the overhang on the side of the house, the covered carport with its climbing rose vines and white trellis, parking there so Lilly won’t have to walk far.

The door to the house swings open, my younger brother silhouetted by the lights inside, hair sticking up every which way.

The outside light comes on and Alex hollers, “Hurry up, I’m hungry enough to eat a dead rat.”

Okay then—great first impression, Alex.

My mother’s voice chastises him from somewhere inside. “Alexander Michael!” She sounds horrified. “Get away from that door!”

She appears, shooing him away, oven mitt still on her hand, hair in a ponytail that swings when she grabs hold of the door so it doesn’t slam shut.

“Hello! You made it!”

“Hey, Mom.”

Lilly is rounding the front of the car almost bashfully. “Hello Mrs. Whitaker, it’s good to meet you.” She holds out her hand for my mother to shake, but Mom grabs her for a hug.

Squeezes. “We don’t shake hands here—we’re a hugging family.”

Oh brother.

Over Lilly’s shoulder, my mother moves her mouth and has stars in her eyes. “She’s so pretty!”

I’m in trouble.

“I hope you’re hungry, there is so much food! Dinner is already on the table.”

“Good, because I have some studying to do yet tonight and don’t want to get home too late.” I’m all business, drawing boundaries so Mom isn’t under the impression we’ll spend the night or stick around chatting for hours.

We can talk during the meal. It needn’t continue afterward as she often tries to corral me into doing.

“You should live a little, sweetie. It won’t kill you to take one night off.”

She’s not wrong; I’m very regimented when it comes to my education. But then again, I wouldn’t be where I am today if I slacked off.

“I’ll take that into consideration.” My tone is stiff, mostly because I’m fucking nervous.

Never have I ever brought a girl home. Well…I mean, I have, but it’s been ages.

“He’s an old fuddy-duddy,” Mom confides to Lilly, whom she has by the arm and is dragging through the house and into the dining room. If she’s noticed how informally I’m dressed, she hasn’t commented on it.

“Speaking of fuddy-duddies,” I drawl as we round the corner from one room into another. Aunt Myrtle holds court at the long dinner table, sparkling like a jewel on her throne. Gray hair coifed into a puffy confection, decorative hair pin stabbed through the side. She’s got on what’s likely a housecoat—or caftan—long billowy sleeves and buttoned to the neck.

No idea how this woman gets more dates than I do.

She’s short, tabletop meeting her mid-chest, shoulders slightly slouched from old age.

Her wrinkled hot pink lips part. “There he is. Finally. Thought I was going to die of old age from waiting, not starvation.”

She cackles and high-fives my brother, wrists jingling with glittery bangles.

“Yeah,” Alex echoes. “We thought we were going to die from old age.”

Jeez.

“Everyone, this is Lilly. Lilly, that’s my dad.” My dad stands and leans over to shake her hand. “And Great Aunt Myrtle, and my brother Alex.”

Lilly waves around the table, sitting in the chair my mother has pulled out for her. “Hello everyone. Thank you so much for the invitation—I love lasagna.”

“Well aren’t you a cute little thing,” tiny Aunt Myrtle begins. “Please tell me you’re up to no good with my nephew. We were beginning to worry he’d never have another girlfriend.”

“First of all, it hardly matters if I ever have another girlfriend. Or a relationship—that’s not—”