“What? But it’s not even four yet,” he protests.
I snort, tugging him harder. “Yeah, but it’s, like, ten in Sweden,” I counter, as if that’s in any way relevant to this conversation. When no one comments, and everyone stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, I add, “So…yeah. Anyway, I’ll walk you out.”
“All right, pushy,” Damian grumbles, breaking free of my hold to walk over to my mother, extending his hand again. “Carol, it was really nice to meet you.” His head then snaps to the side and he looks at my aunt. “Gina”—he holds out his hand for a fist bump, which, to my growing horror, my aunt eagerly reciprocates—“keep it real.”
“For a Team Jacob girlie, you’re all right,” my aunt says with an approving head nod. Then, with a flirty wave, she croons in a sugary lilt, “Bye Damian!”
Pure mortification rushes through me as I reach out and grab Damian by the wrist again, my fingers a vise grip on his forearm. He doesn’t struggle against me this time as I yank him toward the door.
“Oh, before you go,” my mom calls out when I’m just one step shy of the hallway and salvation from this conversation. Plastering on a smile, I turn to face her, but the blood freezes in my veins at the calculating look on her face. She might be sick, but this is a woman who mainlines true crime. When she’s paying attention, nothing gets past her.
Except, she isn’t looking at me.
“I didn’t catch your last name, Damian.”
“Navarro,” has barely left his lips before I’m tugging him toward the door, lest anyone else feels the undying need to play fifty questions with my fake boyfriend.
I don’t release my hold on his arm until we’re safely outside and the front door is firmly closed behind us.
“Damn, Dornan,” Damian grunts, rubbing his wrist. “You ashamed of me or something?”
“What?” I whip my head to look at him, but my brain fails to communicate this movement to my feet, which continue their forward march and nearly send me plummeting to my death down the porch steps. Damian catches my hand at the last second before I can fall.
Pulse throbbing under my skin, I draw in a steadying breath to calm myself down, and it’s only once my heart rate has returned to normal that I realize my hand is still clenched in his. My eyes dart to the living room window, but although the curtains are drawn, I yank my hand away.
“No,” I answer, and it sounds completely unconvincing, even though it’s true. “I just… I wasn’t really ready for…that.”
Damian’s gaze follows mine back to the house, and when I glance at him again, I wince at the look of dejection that crosses his face.
I know what he’s thinking. Bythat, he thinks I wasn’t ready for my mom to meethimwhen, in reality, it’s the opposite. What I wasn’t ready for was for him to meet mymom. For him to see the truth I’ve been hiding—the last lie I’ve kept between us because I’m scared of what it will mean if I do fully tear down that wall. And of what it’ll do to me if what I’m feeling is one-sided.
“Got it,” he murmurs. And then he’s quiet for a moment as we walk down the steps. “I’m sorry if I overstepped by coming here,” he says once we’re halfway to the sidewalk. “I tried texting, but you weren’t answering, so I just wanted to check that you were okay.”
A foreign tightness squeezes my chest. I didn’t see his messages because my phone has been off all day while I’ve been at the hospital with Mom, and I obviously haven’t had a chance to turn it on since I got home. But seeing as I can’t exactly tell him that, I latch onto the last part of his statement instead.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, feigning confusion.
He stares at the side of my face as if he’s trying to read my expression. Or see past it. I don’t meet his gaze, and if he does sense the false note to my voice, the obvious evasion, he doesn’t call me out on it.
“You got me. I just wanted to see you in one of your cute nerdy T-shirts again.”
He stops walking then, right beside the silver Audi parked outside my house. Fishing the keys from his pocket, he hits the unlock button, and it’s only when the vehicle audiblyboop-boopsthat I finally comprehend what I’m seeing.
“Wait…” I glance from the Audi to Damian then back to the Audi again. “This isn’t your car.”
“Sure, it is,” he says, reaching out and affectionately patting the roof with his palm. “You just haven’t met the Renesmobile yet.”
The…what?
“Renesmobile?” I parrot in lieu of an actual intelligent question.
Damian’s responding grin is borderline maniacal. “Yup. And before you ask, it’sexactlywhat you’re thinking.” He holds out one hand. “Renesmee.” Then he extends the other. “Mobile. Put them together”—he claps—“and you have…” He makes a theatrical gesture toward the car. “The Renesmobile!”
“Oh, my god. Did you seriously name a car after theTwilightbaby?”
Damian chuckles. “What can I say? My obsession knows no bounds. And as a Team Jacob fanboy, it was only fitting.”
My nose wrinkles. “I can’t believe I have consensual sex with you.”
