"The mood will be fine, babe. Stop stressing about it so much."
To that, she gave me a grateful smile, tapping a nail on her phone, trying to find the courage to make the call.
"Are you going to judge my parents' taste in art like you do mine?"
"That depends. Do they like creepy-ass fucking devil paintings like you do?"
She laughed at that, the tension leaving her shoulders.
With that, she picked up the phone, she assured her parents that she was okay, and she told them we would be heading out the following week to catch up.
"Yes, we," she said, giving me what I could only call a shy smile. "Nixon. Yes. It's his real name. Nixon Rivers. Yes. He does private security. Yeah. Okay. I will tell him. Love you too. Bye."
"Tell me what?" I asked.
"To bring your bathing suit."
"You look excited."
"I am. I think that is the first time I've spoken to them that I didn't feel like there were ghosts between us," she told me, moving into the kitchen to grab a peach out of the bowl. "They're excited to meet you."
"Better brush up on my manners then, huh?" I mused, knowing it would never be my strong suit.
"I think my father will like you just as you are. His grandfather started what would eventually turn into the family's empire. He had a fifth-grade education, and insisted until the day he died that cheap wine and the expensive kind were all the same. He was blunt and opinionated and my father looked up to him so much."
"And your mother?" I prompted.
"Bring her a dying plant."
"Excuse me?" I asked, face scrunching up, watching as she bit into the peach. I swear my cock went rock solid just seeing that, imagining the sweet sticky taste all over her lips, her chin, maybe a little on her neck from where she reached up to toy with her necklace chain.
"My mom has always, as far back as I can remember, gone to plant stores or even Home Depot and walked right past all the beautiful green and flowered plants and found the rack in the back with the plants with yellow or crinkly brown leaves, with dying flowers. And she would pick those to bring home."
"Why?"
"Because she said that there was nothing wrong with the plants, that they were just forgotten, unloved. She told us that all anything or anyone in life needed to thrive was the right environment, some sunshine, good food, water, and love. I don't think she's ever lost a plant in all these years. So she will appreciate you bringing her a dying plant."
"I actually have some fucking thing made of half brown leaves hanging in my kitchen. Dusty gave it to me as a housewarming present. I haven't killed it, but it seems like it is determined to die sooner or later."
"That's even better. She will like it even more if you bring it to her because 'you heard she could save it.' She'll fall in love with you right then and there."
"Alright. I can do that. Any other tips?"
"For what? To make them like you?" she asked, throwing the peach pit in the garbage and not the compost bin she kept on the small balcony because 'stone fruit pits take years to break down.' "Since when did you care if people like you?" she asked, brows furrowing.
"Your parents aren't 'people,'" I told her.
I'd never 'met the parents' before since none of the situations I'd had with women could be called relationships, let alone serious ones. This was new ground for me. I wanted to be sure of my footing.
It was important.
Because she was important.
"We will pick up a bottle of Devil Tears when we get there."
"Why would I bring your father his own whiskey?"
"Because you would tell him that it is the best you've ever had. Blowing smoke up people's asses is always a good way to make them like you."
"Well, it wouldn't be a lie," I told her, stepping into the kitchen space, spreading my arms to the island and counter, preventing her from passing.
"What?" she asked, brows pinching as she looked up at me.
My hand lifted, going behind her neck, sinking into her hair, turning, curling, pulling just to the point of pain, her air gasping inward as I exposed her neck to me, leaning down to trace my tongue up the skin, peach hitting my tastebuds.
"Oh," she said, voice airy, hands resting on my arms, holding herself upright as her legs went to jelly when my fingers tugged a little harder.
"What?" I asked when my head lifted again, finding her eyes bright, her smile amused.
"Who'd have thought peaches could be so erotic? Well, I guess that band. You know?"
"That band? No, probably not without more than that to go on," I told her, my own lips curving up.