Page 71 of Committed to You

“I have to impress your parents.” I’m not telling her this to make her feel better about her nerves. I really am nervous.

She laughs. “You’ll be fine. Be yourself, and they will love you.”

“I hope so,” I say, not totally convinced.

She cups my face. “Hey.”

I lift my eyes.

“Just be yourself.”

“Okay.”

Vivian grins. “I do think it’s kind of cute that you’re worried about it though.”

I laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

“Thank you for surprising me. This means a lot to me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t give you reason to think I would want to know about this. I’ve done so many things wrong, and I don’t want to ruin your night talking about it all, but I don’t want to be left in the dark ever again about anything regarding you.”

She blinks back tears and whispers, “Okay.”

I lightly peck her on the lips when the car pulls up to the red carpet. The driver opens our door. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

I step out and then offer her my hand and assist her out. As we walk the red carpet, cameras are flashing, and Vivian grips my hand. I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her as close to me as possible. We get to the media banner and have our picture taken then go inside.

“See? You’re a pro,” I murmur in her ear.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Thank you for coming. That would have been horrible by myself.”

I put my finger over her lips. “Stop saying thank you. It would have killed me not to be here with you.”

I hear a woman with an accent say her name. My stomach flips. I know who it is without turning around, but when I do, I’m stunned.

Vivian’s mother looks like what I imagine Vivian will in twenty years. She’s aged gracefully and has Vivian’s kind smile. A man stands behind her, who I assume is her father.

Vivian embraces her mother and then her father. They both tell her how beautiful she looks.

Vivian’s mother takes a step back and addresses me. “Mr. New York?”

“Mama!” Vivian flushes.

Her father’s eyes narrow a bit.

My insides drop as I wonder what Vivian has told them. But I put a smile on my face and hold out my hand. “Geia sas, eínai oraío na sas gnoríso,” I say, which Charlotte taught me means hello, it’s nice to meet you.

Her mother and father both respond in Greek, and my face flushes.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means. My Greek is limited.” I run my hand nervously through my hair.

“Ah, my English limited,” her mother says.

Her father and I shake hands. “And who are you?”

---