All the Right Moves (All The Right Moves 3)

Cecelia: Gee, I don’t know—because he LIKES YOU??????? Maybe he even loves you? Because he’s not a manwhore? Trust me. I asked around on your behalf. You’re welcome.

Abby: I wish I were better at this. If I blush at him - or the thought of him - one more time, I’m likely to self-combust

Cecelia: Well whatever you’re doing, just keep doing it. And Abby?

Abby: Yeah?

Cecelia: He’s the lucky one here. Remember that.

CHAPTER 22

CALEB

I’m putting the last of the caulk on the trim by the kitchen sink when I hear the sound of the screen door off the pantry open, then bang shut shortly after. I turn to the soft sound of feet trudging up three stairs and a clearing of the throat.

Holy. Shit.

“Dad? Hey.” I set the tube of caulk down and grab a dishrag, wiping my hands clean before moving into my dad’s embrace. He pounds me on the back a few times and steps back to look at me.

“Hey. kiddo. Working on a project?”

“Um, yeah. The trim on the undermount was peeling.” I glance out the window, tapping my middle finger on the wood-grain kitchen countertop. “Is Mom with you?”

“Yes. She’s grabbing a few things from the car. Blaze is giving her a hand with some groceries.”

“What are you guys, um…” doing here? I want to ask but don’t, because I don’t want it to sound like I’m being rude or disrespectful. Don’t get me wrong; I love my parents, and they’ve done a ton of shit for me and my hockey career, but they live two hours away.

They never just randomly show up without giving me a heads up first.

“Just a Sunday drive.” My dad laughs, clamping his hand solidly down onto my shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Mom misses you, bud. We thought we’d drive down and take you for an early dinner. Is that okay, or do you already have plans?”

“Nope. No, that sounds great. No plans.”

Just then, Blaze comes through the door, holding three paper grocery sacks and a blue IKEA bag, propping the door open for my mom with his foot, the only thing in her arms a six-pack of paper towels.

She pats him on the face as she passes. “Good boy.”

Blaze grins. “This is why I love your mom, Showtime. That, and she’s a MILF.”

“No, you love her because she brings you food,” my dad says with a laugh as my mom starts taking foodstuffs out of the grocery bags and setting them on the counter closest to the pantry. “I draw the line at letting your mom unpack everything. Wendy, let the boys do it.”

My mom ignores him.

My dad rests his hips against the counter and folds his arms at the same time my mom hands him a box of garbage can liners without giving him a second glance. “Here. Go put these under the sink.”

Dad unfolds himself and puts the garbage bags under the sink.

Well, I guess we know who wears the pants in that relationship.

Blaze snickers. “What are the Lockharts up to this afternoon, besides checking in on their baby boy?” he asks, taking the paper towels from my mom and unwrapping each roll as I get handed a ten-pack of spaghetti noodles from Costco.

“Maybe just an early dinner,” Mom says, grabbing the Clorox Bleach spray and wiping down the kitchen counter. “If we don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to end up scrubbing this entire place clean.”

“None of the guys would mind finding you down here cleaning, Mrs. L. You’re a total MILF.”

“Hey, cool it with the MILF talk already,” my dad warns him with an exaggerated scowl as he grabs an apple out of a nearby bowl, peeling the little sticker off and taking a bite.

My mom giggles into the washrag, her dark brown eyes gleaming with delight at being called a MILF like it’s a goddamn compliment. You know what a MILF is, right? A “Mother I’d Like to Fuck.” Yeah. And my mom likes it. How sick is that?

Dad swallows his bite of apple. “Blaze, you boys are welcome to join us. We thought we’d just hit The Brewery downtown. Grab a few beers and keep it casual.”

Blaze looks at me. “Are you bringing Abby?”

My dad’s eyes widen. “Who’s Abby?”

Shit. Seriously?

“His new girlfriend,” the traitor says casually over his shoulder, stacking some cans of Chunky Soup into the cabinet above the microwave. I want to grab him by the scruff of his black polo shirt and shake the living shit out of him.

Mom sets down the washrag and pivots on her heels to look at me. “Girlfriend? Caleb, how long… We’d love to meet her, of course.” My mom’s trying to play it cool, but I can see the excitement in her dark, expressive eyes. She’s holding back a million and one questions and clamps her mouth shut to prevent anything more from spilling out. You know, so she doesn’t spook me.