“Do you have a secret ingredient? Everyone else seems to. Some cumin, maybe? Cayenne? I’m sure you know all about Louisa and her mayonnaise.” She gave a shudder, but her eyes twinkled at me. They honest to God twinkled. Oh, I liked her a lot.
So I smiled back. A real smile, not a polite one, as I leaned into her, about to impart a secret. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
She chuckled and gave me a light pat on the shoulder. “You’re going to do fine, April.”
I glowed from the compliment as I finished making my guacamole—sans cumin, no thank you—and set my bowl on the counter next to the others, with a saucer in front of each one. Family members started filtering in, snagging chips from big bowls set out nearby, demolishing the dishes of guacamole in record time. We were each armed with a penny, which we used to vote for the guacamole recipe we liked best.
I jumped only a little when Mitch slid his arms around me from behind, cradling me to him. I glanced up at him and he smiled down at me, the picture-perfect boyfriend. As he bent to brush a kiss across my cheek he whispered, “Which one is Grandma’s?”
I turned in his arms with a gasp. “You’re not voting for mine?” I kept my voice a low murmur. “I worked hard on that shit.”
“Listen.” His voice was a low rumble in my ear, and to everyone else it looked like a loving embrace, instead of an impending betrayal. “You’re great and all, but this is my grandma we’re talking about. She’s going to win. That’s how it goes.”
I pressed my lips together, but couldn’t hide my smile. “The yellow,” I murmured. Sure enough, when I glanced over to the kitchen island, the saucer in front of her yellow bowl had quite a lot of pennies in it. So much for a fair and impartial contest.
“Got it.” He nodded, and I tried to not pay attention to the smooth circles his hands made on my back. He was undoubtedly playing up this whole couple thing in front of his family, but that was the point, wasn’t it?
The entire dinner was Tex-Mex themed—which had to be in honor of the guac-off, since we were hundreds of miles from both Tex and Mex—with a massive tray of enchiladas in the middle of a large oak table. As dinner wound to a close I nibbled on a tortilla chip and sipped at my second margarita, imagining the many Thanksgiving dinners that had taken place around this table. This was a large, loving family, something I didn’t have much experience with, and I could see why they all meant so much to Mitch.
But it was still a lot to take in, and as evening became night, I grew restless. It had been a long day. Beside me I could tell Mitch felt the same. After a few minutes he nudged me. “You ready to head back?”
I nodded, a little too emphatically. I liked these people, but it was exhausting being around them all. And tomorrow was going to be another long day.
It wasn’t until we were back in his truck and almost out of the neighborhood that something occurred to me, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to bring it up. Mitch had said that not everyone was staying with the grandparents, and the rest were at the hotel with us. But we were the only ones leaving the house that night. I turned in my seat, looking through the back window at the darkened street behind us.
“Everything okay?” Mitch glanced over at me.
“Yeah.” I dropped down to face forward again, thinking hard. Maybe the others were just staying a little longer. Maybe us leaving hadn’t broken up the night for everyone else. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were the only ones in the family staying at the hotel. I wasn’t sure what that meant. And until I did, I wasn’t going to bring it up with Mitch.
But I forgot all about that potentially awkward conversation when we got back to the hotel and a more awkward, more pressing situation presented itself.
Bedtime.
“So.” Mitch cleared his throat and looked around the room, as though surprised that the rose petals hadn’t cleared themselves away and the giant bed hadn’t split itself in two while we were at dinner. “I can sleep on . . .”
“No, you can’t.” I didn’t let him finish the sentence, because there was no way he could that would make any sense. There wasn’t a single piece of furniture that could possibly support him with any kind of comfort. I took out my earrings, laying them on the bureau beside my purse as I surveyed the options. “I could take the . . . chair.” But my voice betrayed the uncertainty I felt about that option, and Mitch snorted.
“Which one? The desk chair? Or that one by the window?” He had a point. The mesh-back chair by the desk might be ergonomic for working at a laptop, but not much else. And the two chairs by the window could be pushed together, maybe. But they looked hard and unyielding—obviously purchased for aesthetics as opposed to comfort.
I sighed, which he obviously took for assent. “Look.” He rolled his head around the back of his neck. “We’re both adults here, I think we can handle this. Right?” His slightly uncertain look belied the statement, but I knew what he meant. This bed was massive. If we each stuck to our sides, the chance of even running into each other between those sheets was minimal. Hopefully.
“Right,” I said. I dug my pajamas out from the top bureau drawer, where I’d stashed them earlier this evening. I’d unpacked and hung up the clothes I was planning to wear this weekend, putting everything else in the bureau. Mitch’s clothes remained in his leather duffel in the corner of the room. “I get the bathroom first.”
“Be my guest.” He brushed his arm in an arc across the bed, dislodging some of the rose petals, before picking up the remote and pointing it at the television.
Through the closed bathroom door I could hear the sounds of a late-night show while I washed my face and brushed my teeth. While I hadn’t anticipated sharing a room with Mitch this weekend, I was thankful I’d had the presence of mind to pack real pajamas instead of relying on my standby: an old tank top and whatever underwear I’d worn that day. No reason to scandalize the boy. Besides, he didn’t need to see my scarred-up right leg. No one did. The doctor had done a great job, sure. But there was only so much a person could do with an injury like that. I preferred to keep it covered up and out of sight.
I took one last look in the mirror before turning off the light and leaving the bathroom. I wasn’t one for wearing a ton of makeup, but the complete absence of it, with serum and night cream massaged into my skin, definitely added years to my face. My gaze fell on my makeup bag, nestled on the counter between the sink and Mitch’s Dopp kit. It looked very domestic, yet unfamiliar. Comforting, yet slightly terrifying.
I blew out a long breath and turned out the light, forcing the discomfort from my mind as I strode back into the bedroom. “All yours,” I said cheerfully. With any luck I could be under the covers and asleep by the time Mitch came to bed.
Came to bed. Jesus. How on earth was I going to sleep a wink tonight?
* * *
? ? ?
I must have slept, but even in sleep I remained tense, because I woke up the next morning practically clinging to the edge of the bed. I carefully rolled on my back, doing my best to move as little as possible, and turned my head to the right. Mitch lay on his stomach, head turned to the side in my direction, sound asleep. I’d still been awake, trying to concentrate on the book on my e-reader, when he’d come to bed, dressed in a T-shirt and basketball shorts. I had a feeling the outfit was a concession to me, as I’d caught him tugging at the shirt a couple of times. He’d been a perfect gentleman, watching television while I read for about a half hour in some kind of farce of domesticity before mutually agreeing to turn out the light. By the looks of things, he’d remained firmly on his side of the bed, and he hadn’t even hogged the covers.