“Are you sure about this guest list?” I asked, arms folded as I leaned against the counter, watching Vince tap something into his phone. “You’re really inviting my parents?”
He looked up, brows raised. “I thought it’d be a good
gesture. Olive branch. Show them I’m not the creepy ex-teacher corrupting their
daughter.”
“They still think you seduced me when I was barely out of
high school.”
“You were in your early twenties,” he said gently. “And you
were the one who asked me out.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t say that in front of them. They’ll
spontaneously combust.”
He smirked and walked over, sliding his arms around my
waist. “If it’s too much, I can call them and cancel.”
“No,” I sighed, resting my hands on his chest. “They’d see
that as shady. Just… be boring, I guess.”
“Boring?” he echoed, teasing. “How boring are we talking?
Like khaki pants and trivia night?”
“Exactly that. Khakis. Trivia. Church-approved posture.”
He grinned. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“You’re lucky I’m letting you throw this dinner party.”
He chuckled, but then I added, “Oh—and don’t buy
alcohol.”
His head tilted. “What? Your dad drinks.”
“Yes, but my pastor appreciates alcohol a bit too
much,” I said flatly. “And he’ll be here. You’ve seen him down six pots of coffee
like it’s holy water, right?”
“Yeah, it’s disturbing.”
“Well… he loves alcohol the same way. He’s admitted to
loving it almost as much as he loves coffee.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. It’s just he’s…very honest almost unfiltered –
he doesn’t need the alochol. For everyone’s sake, don’t tempt fate.”
Vince let out a low whistle. “Good to know. Coffee, juice
and sparkling water it is.”
“Thank you.” I pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Also… thank you
for doing all of this. Even if it’s borderline insane.”
He grinned. “Insanity keeps things interesting. I’ll grab
charcuterie stuff while I’m out—crackers, cured meats, some cheeses.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Just don’t come back with five kinds of
gouda.”
“Too late. Gouda’s elite.”
I laughed as he kissed me quickly, grabbed his keys, and
headed out.
Once the elevator doors slid closed, I pulled my hair back
and went full-on tornado.
Sure, Vince was neat, but I had standards—real
standards. I scrubbed the kitchen backsplash until it gleamed, then worked my
way through the condo, dusting every single window blind in every room. I
dragged a stool out of his closet and wiped down the ceiling fan
blades—bedroom, living room, office. Polished every inch of crown molding until
it looked freshly installed. Then I filled a bucket with a bleach and water mix
and got on my hands and knees to scrub the kitchen floor, corner to corner,
tile by tile.
By the time Vince returned, arms full of paper bags and tote
handles looped around his wrists, I’d broken a sweat and still wasn’t done.
“Whoa,” he said as I opened the door for him. “The place
smells like bleach and victory in here.”
I took a few bags from him. “You’re welcome.”
He stepped inside and glanced around. “Did you clean all
the blinds?”
“Yes.”
He tilted his head toward the ceiling. “Even the fan
blades?”
“Yes.”
“…Crown molding?”
“Every inch.”
He set the bags down and turned toward me. “Should I be
scared or turned on right now?”
“Both,” I said sweetly, walking toward the kitchen.
As we started unloading the bags, I peeked inside one. “Five
kinds of gouda. You weren’t joking.”
“Of course not. I also got fontina, pepper jack, and garlic
cheddar. Crackers. Olives. Fig spread. Three types of cured meats.”
“For the charcuterie?”
He grinned. “And for you. Because you like options.”
I smiled, feeling my chest soften. “You really went all
out.”
He pulled a bouquet of artificial eucalyptus from one of the
bags, followed by three more fake floral arrangements.
“I brought several bouquets of fake flowers,” he said,
setting them on the counter. “I don’t want you sneezing all night. Plus, I know
your dad’s going through cancer treatment as well.”
I stopped, touched by the unexpected tenderness in his
voice. “That’s… really thoughtful. Thank you for being considerate of his nose.
It’s gotten more sensitive lately—chemo’s wrecking him in ways he won’t even
talk about.”
Vince reached out and gently touched my hand. “I just want
your family to be comfortable. Even if they’re still side-eyeing me.”
We finished unloading everything in a comfortable rhythm. He
portioned things out for prepping while I grabbed cutting boards, ramekins, and
platters. We arranged the meats and cheeses, pre-sliced some fruit, chopped
herbs for the mains, portioned ingredients for side dishes—everything staged
perfectly so that when guests arrived, all we’d need to do was cook.
When we finally paused, I turned toward the table I had just
finished wiping down and said quietly, “It looks beautiful.”
“So do you,” Vince said from behind me, voice low and
sincere.
I turned and smiled at him. His eyes were soft, his mouth a
little curved, like he was seeing something in me I’d forgotten was there.
I stepped into his arms.
We didn’t make it to the bedroom slowly. He pressed me
against the wall, kissed me like he’d been waiting all day, hands already
beneath my shirt, already tugging at the waistband of my leggings. Clothes were
shed between the hallway and the bed. When he pushed inside me, it was with the
heat of someone who had earned this—who had planned, cleaned, listened,
and waited.
He moved with purpose. I cried out his name the first time I
came, legs shaking. He held me through it, murmuring things I couldn’t even
process, thrusting harder as he chased his own release. And when he came—he
came in me, pulsing deep and warm, groaning into my neck.
We didn’t stop. He flipped me, kissed me, teased me back to
life. We tangled again, and again. Each time I climaxed, he followed, spilling
into me with a kind of reverent desperation, like he needed to be inside me to
remember how to breathe.
We collapsed in a heap, hearts pounding, bodies slick with
sweat and something deeper.
Eventually, we dragged ourselves up. Showered. Stripped the
bed. Tossed the sheets in the wash. We made the bed with the spare set—white
with tiny navy pinstripes—then I pushed open the windows so the condo wouldn’t
smell like sex, lemon cleaning spray and bleach.
“You’re too good at this,” Vince said, placing a vase of
eucalyptus and wildflowers on the entry table.
“At what?”
“Everything. You.”
I smiled, still flushed from earlier but calm now. “Just
wait until they show up. Then you’ll regret inviting all of them.”
He laughed, then turned serious. “I won’t. I want them to
see what I see.”
I turned toward the dining table, adjusted the cloth napkins
one last time, and put the small pillar
candle in the center.
We’d prepped the food. Set the mood. Opened the windows.
And now, we were ready.
Almost.
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