Brie’s a serial monogamist. Before Sara, it was Taylor. Before Taylor, it was Christopher. Each time she gets into a serious relationship, she’s all in—she falls hard and fast, diving headlong into what she hopes will be the end-all, be-all of lifetime loves. Eventually, when the relationship sours or fizzles out, she’s left feeling banged up and alone. This is probably a good thing for her, this “me time.” The fact she’s been single for six whole months is a miracle.
I nod, and we begin walking. “Fair enough, but whenever you’re done with ‘me time,’ there’s a perfectly adorable landlord-slash-bar manager who would love nothing better than to whisper sweet nothings in your ear… and ride the Brie-train to O-town.”
“You’re bad.” She elbows me in the arm, but I don’t miss the way she grins.
Even though the sun hangs low in the sky, the temperatures are still in the upper seventies, and I’m grateful I decided to wear a sports bra under my casual blue-and-white-striped romper. Pausing at the edge of the party, I scan the crowd of people until I spot Devin. He’s talking to an older man wearing khaki shorts, a red polo, and loafers. Judging by his gray-streaked hair and the bone structure that’s nearly identical to Devin’s—same sharp nose, high cheekbones, and striking jawline—he must be Devin’s dad.
I swallow. Meeting his dad is a big step. One I have mixed feelings about, although I’d never tell Devin that. He was so excited when I said yes to his invitation I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was starting to have second thoughts. Formal parent introductions usually only happen after a couple has been dating seriously—and exclusively—for a while. Months, not weeks. So far, Devin and I are neither serious nor exclusive, although that certainly seems to be where things are headed.
Devin’s face lights up when he catches sight of me, and he jogs over. “Cass, you made it!” He sweeps his lips against mine in a burst of a kiss. Heat climbs up my neck.
“Hey, Devin. You remember Brie, right?”
He nods. “You were at Zelma’s the other week.”
“That’s me.” She juts her hip in a mock curtsy. “Nice to officially meet you.”
“Likewise. Is Marcus coming?”
“I’m right here.” Marcus steps up behind us. “Thanks for the invite.”
“Of course. Glad you could make it.”
Behind Devin, the man I’m guessing is his father spots us. Excusing himself from his conversation with a pair of middle-aged men, he ambles over and claps Devin on the shoulder. “Introduce me to your friends, Devin.” His piercing brown eyes peer at each of us in turn.
“Of course. Dad, this is Marcus Belmont. He manages Zelma’s Taphouse in Ohio City. We play rec softball together. Marcus, this is my father.”
Devin’s dad looks Marcus over with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Roger Szymanski.” He extends his hand and they shake.
“And this is Cass Walker, the woman I told you about, and her roommate, Brie…” He trails off.
“Owens,” she says.
Roger gives her the barest glance, then pulls a double take. “Owens… Owens?” he repeats. Squinting at her, he tilts his head. “Are you related to Charlotte Owens by chance? You’re the spitting image of her.”
Her lips quake with the effort to keep her smile in place. “She’s my mom.”
Roger’s eyes light up. “Oh-ho! Devin, you didn’t tell me your friends were so well connected. We’re happy to have the daughter of Cleveland’s most beloved newscaster at our little get-together.”
From behind my bag of snacks, I grab Brie’s hand and give it a surreptitious squeeze. She hates it when people fawn over her mother. The world might think Charlotte Owens is as sunny and sweet as her on-air persona suggests, but we both know the truth: she’s Joan Crawford–controlling when it comes to her only daughter. Their relationship is strained, to put it mildly.
She squeezes back, and some of the tension leaves her. “Thank you. I’m glad to be here.”
Roger nods, and turns his attention to me. “And this is the famous Cassidy.”
“Cass,” I correct automatically.
“Cass. Devin’s told me a lot about you.”
“Hopefully all good things.” And nothing about my accident or the defies-the-odds coma memories. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Szymanski.” I extend my hand and we shake. His grip is firm to the point of overpowering.