“Okay.” Noah rushes toward me from my room. His socked feet slide on the slick polished floors. Gabriella does a fantastic job, and I steady him.
“Careful, babe,” I say.
His eyes widen. “You’re going into character.”
I blink, then consider what I said. I flash my most confident smile. “Of course.” I lean closer to him. “Or would you prefer honey bunny? Pumpkin? Snugglemuffin? Puck?”
He blinks. “No one calls their significant other puck.”
“Guess that’s yours, my sweet puck.”
Noah laughs at me, astonished. His green eyes are larger than before, and something in my heart absolutely warms.
“You can’t call me that,” he exclaims.
“Why not?”
“It sounds dirty!”
I snort. “Is that why you got into hockey?”
Pink sweeps over Noah’s cheeks.
The doorbell rings, and he turns toward the door. I rush to open it.
Two older versions of Noah stand awkwardly. His mother has his bright green eyes and high cheekbones, and his dad has his athletic figure, if somewhat more rounded. Cold air rushes into the apartment, and they gaze at me warily.
God, I don’t blame them.
My heart marches faster and faster and faster. I want to leave.
Still, I flourish my hand at the apartment and smile, even though his parents don’t attempt any upward lip movements of their own. “Welcome.”
NOAH
“We’re so pleased you could make it,” Finn exclaims. “Absolutelydelighted.”
My parents exchange wide-eyed glances.
“My parents are eager to meet you tomorrow,” Finn continues, with all the energy of a super host. “I thought we could hang out, then go out for dinner. Does that sound good?”
“Um...”
Finn’s expression sobers. “Or if you want to sleep, you can. You two must be exhausted. Or maybe you want to see the city? I, um, can drive you around?”
“Your plan sounds great,” Mom says.
“Right.” Finn nods more times than necessary, then after questioning them on their drinking tastes, hands my dad an IPA and my mother some white wine. Fortunately, he neglects to mention what happened the first time he gave me alcohol.
Finn directs my parents to the couch, so they have the best view of Boston harbor. Both of us take armchairs on either side of them, and Finn and I don’t have to worry about our body language so that we look sufficiently smitten.
My parents gratefully nibble the appetizers that Finn ordered from some caterer. Given the generous slathering of goat cheese and the frequent use of ham, the caterer has gone more for delicious than the healthy side of the spectrum.
“So, you’re really married?” My dad asks after filling his plate with appetizers and leaning against the sofa.
Finn and I exchange a glance. I have an odd urge to curl on the edge of Finn’s armchair or sit in his lap. But that’s ridiculous.
“We are married.” Finn shifts in his seat, and his gaze flickers away for a second. “It was sudden. We, um, hould have invited you.”
