Page 4 of Cupid's Beau

“West African?”

“She’s from Senegal. My dad’s from Mali. They met in Paris, moved to Boston, and now they force feed everyone who comes within ten miles of the inn.” I’m rambling again. “You really don’t have to come,” I add. God, what’s wrong with me?

Jack glances over his shoulder inside the room, then back at me. Something in his expression shifts. He’s considering it…

“What time did you say?”

“Seven.” I try not to sound too surprised. “In the dining room. It’s just the three of us, usually. Four with you. If you come. Which you don’t have to.”

The corner of his sexy mouth twitches. “You already said that.”

“Right.” I feel heat creep up my neck. “Sorry. I’ll just…” I gesture vaguely toward the stairs.

“I’ll be there,” he says. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“Great! Good. Okay.” I take a step back. “Seven, then.”

He nods and closes the door.

I make it all the way downstairs before I realize I’m grinning like an idiot. My mother takes one look at my face and smirks.

“Not a word,” I warn her.

“I didn’t say anything.” She turns back to her cooking, humming what sounds suspiciously like “At Last” by Etta James.

“I hate you.”

She just laughs.

* * *

I’m rearranging the silverware for the fourth time when I hear footsteps in the hallway. The clock reads 6:57. Of course he’s early.

My dad glances up from where he’s setting out glasses of mint tea. “Stop fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting,” I lie, just as Jack appears in the doorway.

He’s changed into dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His hair is damp from a shower, and he’s just as gorgeous as earlier. No, it was not a trick of the light.

“Mr. Ellis!” My mother emerges from the kitchen, beaming. So much for not recognizing him. “Welcome, welcome! I’m Aminata.”

At my mother’s warm greeting, something incredible happens to Jack’s face. His brooding mask melts away and is replaced by a smile that steals my breath - all crinkled eyes and ease. What the hell?!

“Thank you for having me, Ma’am. It smells incredible.”

I repeat, what?!

My mother giggles. The woman actually giggles.

“When you’re done flirting with my wife,” my father cuts in with his brand of dry humor, stepping forward with his extended hand, “I’m Ibrahim.”

“Dad!” I’m mortified by my parents’ behavior but also fighting back a laugh. And Jack’s sheepish expression is priceless.

“What? I’m just saying, if he’s going to turn that Hollywood charm on my woman, I should at least get a proper introduction first.”

We all laugh. And the deep rumble coming from Jack almost makes me forget we’re in a room with both of my parents.The sound is rich and contagious. It envelops me like a warm blanket. Slides along my skin, down my spine, spreads through my chest, sends a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, fizzes all over my body, making my nipples harden under the soft fabric of my sweater, and lands between my legs in a heavy throb… Lord, help me make it through this dinner.

“Please, sit,” my mother says, gesturing to the chair across from me. “I hope you like spicy food.”

---