All the Right Moves (All The Right Moves 3)

I glance at my phone: seventeen more minutes to get ready before Caleb comes to pick me up.

Shoot.

Opening my closet, I peer inside, grabbing out a pair of worn boot-cut jeans and tossing them on my bed. I then thumb through my shirts, biting down on my bottom lip with indecision, but finally pull out a thin gray cable-knit sweater.

Gray heeled Frye boots complete the simple look, and just as I give my hair one last fluff and add some gloss to my lips, the rusty old doorbell croaks out a sickly ding-dong.

Grateful that both my roommates are out of the house, I smooth my hands down the front of my jeans, grab my phone off the bed, my purse from the hook behind my closet, and move through the living room to swing open the front door.

Caleb shuffles his feet on the front stoop, shoulders slouched, looking adorably embarrassed. “Hi.” He shoves his hands into the pocket of his jeans, but today, he’s missing the element of his hooded sweatshirt.

In its place is a flattering blue, white, and green button-down flannel, and I have to admit, it not only does his body good, but it’s also doing my hormones good… but don’t get me started on that.

Stepping out onto the porch, I lock the door behind me and smile up at him.

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip. “You look… cute.”

I feel the blush creeping up my neck at his halted compliment and cast my eyes downward, pulling back a few strands of hair and tucking them behind my ear timidly. “Thanks.” Oh jeez. “Should we, um…”

“Yeah, we should go. My mom’s kind of flipping out. In a good way.” He quickly reassures me, his low snicker filling me with warm fuzzies.

He pulls his hands out of his pockets as we walk. His loose left hand brushes my hip, and then, after a few paces, grasps for my palm.

I love the fact that he wants to hold hands, and it somehow seems intimate.

I love it. Love it.

I love the feel of his large hand clutching mine, holding it tight, the rough, hard-earned callouses a stark contrast to my smooth, self-manicured palms.

And now that I’m being honest with myself, I’ll be honest with you; I don’t just love his hands.

I secretly think I love him.

All of him.

Every quiet, serious, brooding inch of him.

We stroll on without talking, our gait slow and leisurely. Caleb doesn’t say anything, doesn’t prep me or give me a pep talk. He just propels us forward to the Omega house, which sits stately in the center of the block down the street, its white trim and wraparound porch once belonging to a pillar of the Madison community.

Decades old, yet just as impressive.

Obviously, I’m assailed with anxiety as we walk toward this uncharted territory. I’ve never met a boy’s parents, let alone the parents of a boy I’ve only technically been on one date with. A date that we weren’t even on alone.

He squeezes my hand when we get to the edge of the yard, and when we do, a figure in the front window catches my eye. The curtains hastily slide back into place, and beside me, Caleb gives his head a little shake and swallows a curse.

“Please just ignore whatever they tell you. And sorry in advance if they act weird.”

A giggle escapes my lips as we ascend the front steps and cross the covered porch, and Caleb is pulling me by the hand through the front foyer. We’re not five feet in the door when Caleb’s parents walk out of the dining room, a huge, ear-to-ear grin spread across his mom’s face.

Caleb drops my hand and stuffs his inside the pockets of his jeans.

I could have picked his mother out of a line-up: tall with shoulder-length black hair neatly cascading over an aqua-blue running shirt. Mrs. Lockhart has the darkest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen, surrounded by lots of laugh lines.

With an expressive smile resting on her mouth, she is the spitting image of her son. Or he’s the spitting image of her.

Whatever, you know what I mean.

She’s coming toward me, eyes darting down to where our hands had been joined on the way through the door, and, as if it were possible, her beaming smile widens. Then, as she’s biting her lower lip, her cheeks dimple. “You must be Abby!” She enthusiastically embraces me in a hug.

Her cheeks will certainly be sore tonight from all the smiling.

Caleb groans.

“Hello, yes, I’m Abby.” I laugh anxiously. “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Lockhart. Ma’am.”

Ma’am? Ugh—what am I, from the South?

“Oh goodness, call me Wendy. This is my husband, Rob.”

Okay. I thought Caleb looked like his mom, but I was wrong; he is the spitting image of his dad. Rob Lockhart walks toward me. His presence in the room has my eyes widening into saucers. Just a hair taller than his son, he has shaggy black hair, dark brown eyes, and his mouth is set into a serious line.