Page 108 of Triple Play
We lie there in comfortable silence until Jordie pipes up: “So who’s cleaning these sheets? Because I’m not doing laundry tomorrow.”
“Rock paper scissors,” Wyatt mumbles, half asleep.
“You’re all children,” I mutter.
But I’m smiling. And for the first time since I arrived at Crestmont, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MEET THE PARENTS
Elise
Jordie’s childhood home looks like it was ripped straight from a Hallmark movie—white columns, perfectly manicured lawn, and enough Christmas lights to be visible from space.
“Your house has columns,” I say from the passenger seat of Grant’s truck.
“Three generations of senators.” Jordie’s voice from the back seat is tight. “Columns are apparently mandatory.”
We’re all crammed into Grant’s truck because arriving in separate vehicles would’ve looked suspicious. As it is, we’re “teammates carpooling for the holidays” which is technically true if you ignore the part where I’ve had all three of them inside me.
“Remember the rules,” Jordie says for the tenth time. “We’re friends. Teammates. Elise is Grant’s friend from—”
“We know,” Wyatt cuts in. “You’ve briefed us like we’re going into combat.”
“My mother will grill you like you’re going into combat.”
Grant parks and we all pile out. I’m wearing the most conservative outfit I own—high-necked sweater, knee-length skirt, boots that are practical not sexy. The guys are in button-downs and nice jeans. We look like we’re attending a job interview, not Christmas break.
The front door opens before we reach it.
“Jordan!” A woman who’s clearly Jordie’s mom—same blue eyes, same bone structure—descends the steps. “You’re late.”
“Traffic, Mom.” He hugs her, and I watch him transform. The easy-going golden retriever energy gets dialed up to eleven. “This is Grant, Wyatt, and Elise. Teammates I told you about.”
Mrs. Dickson’s eyes land on me and I feel assessed in about three seconds. “Elise. How lovely. Jordan mentioned you’re pre-med?”
“Yes ma’am. Hoping for Johns Hopkins.”
“Impressive.” But her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Come in, all of you. Dinner’s almost ready.”
The house is exactly what I expected—expensive everything, family photos covering every surface, a massive Christmas tree filled with heirloom decorations. Senator Dickson is in the living room, drink in hand, watching a hockey game.
“Dad, the guys are here.” Jordie’s voice has this forced brightness that makes my chest hurt.
“Grant. Wyatt.” The senator shakes their hands with politician efficiency. Then his eyes land on me. “And you must be the girl.”
The girl. Like I’m a category, not a person.
“Elise Hart, sir.”
“Hart. Any relation to the Connecticut Harts?”
“No sir. New Jersey Harts. Very different tax bracket.”
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. “I like her. She’s got spine.”
Dinner is torture.
