I brush my hands down the dress I borrowed from Annie as I step out of the car. It’s a gorgeous baby doll style, black and white floral that hugs my upper torso and floats away, starting from the waist down. On Annie, the dress would graze her shins. On me, however, the length is daring, falling just shy of my knees. It’s the curse of being tall. Well, taller than her. But thankfully, the scoop neck keeps it modest enough to meet the parents.
My nerves are shot, and as I stare up at the sizeable Tudor-style mansion, I’m questioning why I agreed to do this. It’s something I’ve been agonizing over since Ransom conned me into being his date last night. I almost backed out numerous times. He still hasn’t provided me with his number, but I have Rebel’s. Unfortunately, every time I took out the business card that he left me and picked up the phone to call, I chickened out. So, here I am.
The Scott estate is stunning. Two stories with a large peaked roof, deep front porch decorated with colorful hanging baskets, and white wooden rocking chairs. Rich hunter green shutters surround every window on this stately house that appears warm and inviting.
It sits on River Road, a location known for its historic—and pricey—homes. The neighborhood is comprised primarily of lawyers, doctors, business owners, and the like. In other words, this is where the wealthy dwell.
I came alone, unwilling to get trapped here if I find a need to make a speedy exit. It’s the best decision I’ve made yet. As I walk up the flagstone path, Ransom steps out onto the porch. His smile is wide as he takes me in, and I paste on a friendly smile of my own, though barely.
I’ve never met anyone’s parents before. Keeping my relationships superficial has afforded me the ability to maintain a certain level of distance from people. Annie is different, though. Like me, she’s alone in the world, though hers is a self-imposed solidarity.
This situation is entirely new to me, and highly uncomfortable. I’ve gone through great pains putting myself together today in order to look the part of a nice, wholesome woman instead of a girl who takes her clothes off for a living. Thankfully, with school being nearly over, I won’t have to worry about that much longer.
I realize that Ransom knows none of this as I climb the two steps onto the porch and lean in to allow him to graze his lips over mine.
“You look fantastic.” Ransom beams as he takes hold of my hand and guides me to turn in a full circle. “If dinner wasn’t moments from being done, I’d give you a tour of my old bedroom growing up.”
There’s that sly smile again. I bite my lip, holding back a laugh. Ransom certainly knows how to make me smile. “What’s for dinner?”
“My favorite.” He doesn’t elaborate.
Keeping hold of my hand, he leads me inside. My gaze flits around, trying to take in my surroundings as we cut a quick path from the entry straight through to the kitchen located at the back of the house.
From what I glimpsed, the home boasts an open floor plan with a receiving and dining room at the head of the house, and a large staircase separating the rooms. The décor is rich, done up in mostly creams and gold, but it’s not overdone. It’s to the style of the house, which I can appreciate. I’m sure everything here is valuable, but I didn’t see any Renoir or Rembrandts hanging on the walls.
My overall assessment: It feels livable.
A woman with blue-black hair, a few shades darker than my own and pulled back in a severe knot, moves around the kitchen, her back to us as she checks the stove and stirs pots. She’s on the short side, is slim and is dressed in a pristine white cocktail dress beneath her pink ruffled apron.
This must be Mrs. Scott.
As Ransom tugs me over to the substantial island to make introductions, my gaze is drawn to the large bank of windows that line the entire rear wall and allow in copious amounts of natural light. Beyond a sprawling red cedar deck lays a short track of green lawn that spills into the calm waves of the Maumee River. Sailboats coast along in the distance and a little ways down, along the rocky shore, stands a couple of men in wading boots fishing.
I am transfixed by the serenity of the moment. In all my life, I’ve never experienced such a thing and I find myself fantasizing about a life where I wake up to scenes like this. I’d spend the weekends sipping hot tea in one of the Adirondack chairs, wrapped in a cozy blanket, with a book to keep me company.
I’m so lost in my fantasy that I miss Ransom’s attempt to gain my attention. When his face enters my line of vision, I blink out of my daze. Looking up, I find that he and the woman are both staring at me in amusement. She is stunning. Her dark hair paired with those sharp, midnight eyes are an exact match for Ransom’s and I can see plainly where he and Rebel got their looks from.
I realize I still haven’t said anything.
“Excuse me,” I say, laughing nervously as I hurry to get my brain up to speed. “This place is amazing. You have a lovely home.”
Holding out her hand, Mrs. Scott shakes mine. “Thank you. My husband, Vincent, had it built for me. I love it.”
“With a view like that, how can you not?” We both laugh at this. Hers is a tinkling, musical laugh lacking any pretense or falsehoods. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Josephine, this is my mother, Seraphim. Mom, this is my girlfriend, Joe.” Ransom’s chest expands. He looks proud.
I like that. It’s a good feeling, having someone be proud to be with me. I find myself beaming back at him. “It’s very nice to meet you, Seraphim.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” she replies. “My son failed to tell me he found himself such a catch though.” Her dark eyes scan my form, though not maliciously. The way she does it is appreciative. It reminds me of my tendency to people watch, studying others and judging how well all their parts match up. There’s nothing but abject curiosity burning behind those eyes.
“Mom,” Ransom complains, though he’s still smiling, which tells me he’s enjoying this. “Don’t run this one off. She’s skittish.” I give him a sharp look and he winks at me.
The oven timer goes off, saving me from a potentially uncomfortable exchange and Seraphim whirls back into motion. When she opens the oven door, the smell of cinnamon fills the room and I inhale deeply.
“Mmm, what smells so wonderful?” I ask.
Turning, Seraphim’s mitted hands set down a bubbling dish. Inside, I see slivers of fruit that have been caramelized in their own juices, and a crumbled topping.
“I made Summer Cobbler for dessert,” she declares. “It contains a medley of peaches, nectarines, and plums I found at the farmer’s market down the road.”
“Mom makes the best dessert,” Ransom states as he draws her into a one-armed hug and kisses the top of her head.
“I can’t wait to taste it.”
After assuring that the dessert will go perfectly with what she’s planned for dinner, Seraphim directs me and Ransom to set the dinner table.
We get to work laying out the fine China. The herringbone pattern is yet another thing that catches my eye and I admire the dishes as I place them just right around the oblong table.
“You never told me what we’re having for dinner,” I say to break the silence.
“Braised pork chops. They’re Mom’s specialty.” Ransom says this with a soft smile that reveals the depth of his love for his mother.
“You said it’s your favorite?”
“My whole life. Every birthday, Mom would ask me what I wanted her to make for dinner, and I always chose that.”
“It sounds like you had a happy childhood.” As I gaze at him from the opposite end of the table, I feel an ache form inside my chest for the family I no longer have. Mom got sick early on, so I don’t recall any family dinners. Just sickness, a lot of crying, and then the silence that followed. Dad was never the same after that, and then he passed, ensuring I wouldn’t be either. I doubt anyone under this roof knows the kind of loss I’ve experienced, and I envy them that.
Ransom must see the sadness in my eyes. Tilting his head, he passes me a curious look. “What was yours like? Were you happy?”
“It was…it was good.” From what little I can remember before my mom got sick, it was really good, but that was a long time ago. I look away, the back of my throat burning. Avoiding his eyes, I get back to work setting the table.
“My mom loves you,” Ransom says softly as we cross paths. He’s in charge of the silverware since he knows what fork goes on what side of the plate.
I chuckle, shaking my head in denial as I begin arranging the stemware. “She knows nothing about me.”
“She’s a good judge of character.”
I refuse to touch that. He is so sure of himself. Of me. I wonder how he’ll react when the time comes for me to tell him how I earn my paychecks.
“I can’t wait for my dad to meet you. I know he’ll love you, too.”
I open my mouth, prepared to tell him there’s no way for him to know that, either, when the front door opens. With the dining room positioned at the front of the house, I have a direct line of sight into the entry.
My heart stalls for a moment, pausing for dramatic effect as I witness Rebel stride in. He’s dressed to kill. Me. He’s dressed to kill me. I’ve gotten so used to the idea of seeing him in a business suit and tie that I’ve begun to associate the two with each other.
Rebel is wearing a black and white checkered button-down that clings to his well-muscled physique, sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing off sexy toned forearms, and tucked into a pair of black jeans that hug his powerful thighs. His dark hair is slicked back off his forehead, and I lose the ability to think clearly from just the sight of him.
It’s instant, burning attraction. Once again, I am reminded of why I chose him in the first place. Rebel’s head swivels in our direction, and when he sees me, he smirks. It’s a slow tilt of his lips, filled with arrogance and raw sexuality. Instantly, my heart rate kicks into high gear, hammering against my ribcage.
Ransom doesn’t miss the exchange.
“Glad to see you could make it,” Ransom greets him. I half expect him to be upset, but he’s not. If anything, he appears happy to see his brother.
In two long, heavy strides Rebel crosses into the dining room, his shoulders rolling with each step. He looks dangerous. The kind of guy a girl would steer clear of if she saw him on the street, but the kind of guy she’d look for if she was in the market for a little hot and sweaty fun.
Standing between these two men, I am keenly aware of their differences. Ransom, dressed in a sensible pair of blue jeans and t-shirt, is relaxed and easygoing. His outside appearance speaks for itself. Confidence pours off him in buckets, but instead of being obnoxious, it gives him an easy grace that is incredibly attractive. He’s charming and alluring and there’s just something about him that screams family man.
Rebel holds that same confidence, but with a deeper, darker edge. It’s as if he knows he can have anything and anyone he wants, and he’ll exploit it in a snap. He’s the kind of guy that will knock you down and fuck you, and then he’ll walk out of your life without explanation or apology. He’s the kind of man you have fun with, but that’s all.
Despite being identical twins, these two couldn’t be any more opposite. I’m reminded of the ancient myth regarding King Solomon. It’s as if someone took a baby and split it down the middle, creating two halves of a whole—the good and evil twin. It’s not hard for me to figure out which one is which.
To my surprise, Rebel picks up a stack of cloth napkins and begins neatly folding them. I pause to watch him, stunned that someone so tough can do such delicate work. Within minutes, he’s laid out five perfectly folded napkins that look like they belong tucked inside a men’s suit breast pocket.
“You’re really good at that,” I tell him.
His black gaze flies up to meet mine. My insides ripple with a touch of fear and arousal and it disturbs me how quickly I respond to him. “I’m good at a lot of other things, too.”
His words are so suggestive, and so out of place for where we are, that I blush. He notices that too, his gaze dipping to my neck where the heat is most concentrated.
I clear my throat and try to act unaffected as I address both men. “So, how do we do this? Ransom already claimed me as his girlfriend,” I say, flashing him a hard look. Rebel doesn’t look too pleased about this either, but he remains tight-lipped. For now.
“We’re going to do exactly what I told you,” Ransom states, making his way over to me and slipping a casual arm around my waist. “We’re going to have a nice dinner and take the opportunity to get to know one another a little better.”
I don’t know how this is going to work exactly. How do I ask everything I want to ask without it looking suspicious? The three of us know virtually nothing about each other. That’ll work fine for Rebel and me, but as Ransom’s “girlfriend,” there are a lot of bases that should have already been covered.
I consider getting a few of those questions out of the way now, but Seraphim chooses that exact moment to stroll into the room. Her hands are full, and I watch as her sons rush over to unload her of the burden.
“Thank you, boys. Now be dears and bring out the rest of the dishes for me.” They do as she bids.
Everything moves quickly from there. At six sharp, a grandfather clock located somewhere on the first floor chimes. Vincent Scott arrives home, hanging his jacket on the coat rack by the front door, and then joins us in the dining room still dressed in his work attire. He reminds me of Ransom and Rebel, too—tall, handsome, and refined—though his age is revealed in the touches of gray dusting his temples and the fine lines wrinkling the corners of his eyes.
He and Seraphim could be siblings, for as similar as they look.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Vincent tells me. He gives my proffered hand two hard pumps, and then he is off to take his place at his wife’s side, pulling out her chair and tucking her back in once she’s seated. Rather than take the chair positioned at the helm, Vincent takes the one directly beside her instead. The whole thing is kind of amazing to watch and it occurs to me, I want that. Is either of these men capable of giving it to me? Or am I just wasting my time?
“You’re with me,” Ransom says into my ear, his hand pressing into the small of my back as he guides me to one side of the table.
There are three chairs positioned opposite his parents, and Ransom holds out the one directly in the middle. I ease into it, smoothing my dress beneath my legs as I sit, and Ransom performs the same gentlemanly treatment as his father.
When Ransom and Rebel drop down beside me, pinning me between them, something niggles at the base of my brain. A warning perhaps. I cast the undeveloped thought aside, getting caught up in answering questions Mr. and Mrs. Scott throw at me and passing dishes around the table.
I am taking a drink of peach flavored tea when I feel it. Hands. One on each of my knees, and I know…
This isn’t going to be an ordinary dinner.
