out of her car, tightened the sash on her beige raincoat, swallowed and went up the steps to Brogan’s house. Her mouth was dry, her hands clammy. If this didn’t work...
The years are precious, egg-wise.
Sigh.
No. Not sigh. Go, team! That was more like it. We want company! she imagined her tiny, aging eggs demanding. In her mind, they were starting to thicken around the middle, wore reading glasses and were developing an affinity for pinochle. Don’t age, she warned them. Mommy’s got company coming.
For one quick second, she let herself indulge in a mental picture of the future. The New House once again filled with children (or at least one or two). Kids who would romp through the fields and woods with her dad; they’d be able to tell a Riesling grape from a Chablis before they started kindergarten. Children who’d have Brogan’s amazing eyes and her own blond hair. Or maybe Brogan’s thick, curly chestnut hair. Yeah. His was better.
With that picture firmly in mind, she knocked on Brogan’s door. The smell of garlic was thick in the air, and her stomach rumbled all of a sudden. On top of everything else, Brogan was a good cook.
“Hey, On!”
Okay, so he did have a flaw (see? no rose-colored glasses for her), and that was to shorten her five-letter, two-syllable name. She always pictured it spelled On, because Hon would’ve been short for honey, and he never called her that.
“This is a nice surprise!” he said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “Come on in.”
She went in, heart thudding. Remembered to smile. “How are you?” she asked, her voice sounding tight to her own ears.
“I’m great! Let me just stir this so it doesn’t burn. I hope you can stay for dinner.” He turned to the stove.
Now or never. Honor untied her sash, closed her eyes and opened the coat, and let it slide to the floor. Oh, crap, she was standing in front of the table, so his view would be blocked. Stepping around it, she waited. Buck naked. Shock and awe, shock and awe... It was chilly in here. She swallowed and waited some more.
Brogan’s father poked his head into the kitchen. “Smells good—oh. Hello, Honor, dear.”
Brogan’s father.
Brogan’s father.
Oh, fungus.
Honor dove under the table, knocking over a chair with a crash, crawled a few paces and grappled for the damn coat. Held it in front of her. Noticed the floor could use cleaning.
“Dear? Are you all right?” Mr. Cain asked.
“Did you say Honor’s here?” Mrs. Cain.
God, please kill me, Honor thought, jerking the coat around her shoulders. “Um, one second,” she said, her voice higher than usual.
Brogan bent down, his face puzzled. “On? What are you doing under—oh, man!”
“Hi,” she said, trying to get an arm in her sleeve.
“Dad, Mom, get out for a sec, okay?” He was already wheezing with laughter.
Where was the damn sleeve? Brogan squatted next to her. “Come on out,” he managed, wiping his eyes. “You’re safe for the moment.”
She crawled out, then stood, wrapping the coat around her. Tightly. “Surprise,” she said, her face on fire. “Sorry. I’ll try never to be spontaneous again.”
He tipped her chin up, and there it was, that mischievous, slightly lecherous smile, dancing eyes. Her skin tightened, lust mingling with mortification. “Are you kidding? My father will like you even more than he already does.”
The words gave her hope. Honor smiled—it wasn’t too easy, but she did—and readjusted her hairband. Dang, she’d meant to leave that at home. Hairbands with a Scotty dog pattern and nudity didn’t really go together. “So. Hello.”
He laughed and gave her a one-armed hug, then turned toward the living room. “It’s safe to come back, parents!” he called.
And back they came, Mrs. Cain’s face in lines of disapproval, Mr. Cain grinning.
Bite the bullet, Honor. “Sorry about that,” she said.
“Absolutely no need to apologize,” Mr. Cain said, his breath leaving in an ooph as Mrs. Cain elbowed him in the ribs.
“My parents are visiting,” Brogan said, his eyes dancing with laughter.
“So I see,” Honor murmured. “How’s Florida?”
“It’s wonderful,” Mr. Cain said warmly. “Stay for dinner, dear.”
“Oh, no. You... I can’t. But thanks.”
Brogan gave her another squeeze. “Yes, you can. Just because they saw you naked is no reason to feel awkward. Right, Mom?”
“Laugh it up,” Honor muttered.
Mrs. Cain was still in lemon-sucking mode. “I didn’t realize you two were...together.” She never had liked Honor. Or any female interested in her son, one imagined.
“Please stay, Honor,” Brogan said. “We’ll just talk about you if you leave.” He winked, utterly unfazed by her little show.
He got her a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, and she changed in the downstairs bathroom, avoiding looking at her face in the mirror. Okay, one quick glance. Yes, she looked utterly humiliated. But if she was going to be his wife, she’d just have to get over this little debacle. It would become part of the Cain family lore. They could laugh at it. A lot, no doubt.
Brogan covered the awkwardness over dinner with shop talk, telling them about the upcoming baseball season and spring training, who was out with what injury, and Honor tried to forget that Mr. Cain had seen her naked.
The elder Cains were only here en route to Buffalo to see Mr. Cain’s sister, thankfully. Maybe the night wouldn’t be a total wash, after all.
Finally, they left. The second their car pulled out of the garage, Brogan turned to her.
“That was maybe the best moment of my life,” he said.
“Yes. You’re welcome,” she said, blushing again. But smiling, too, because there it was, that nervous, tingling feeling. The—she hated to think it, but it was true—gratitude. Brogan Cain, the hottie sports photographer, had just complimented her.
“So let’s pretend the night is just starting, shall we?” he said, pulling back to smile at her. “You go outside, I hear a faint knock, and who is it but the beautiful Honor Holland!” He led her to the door and gently pushed her outside, though the rain had turned to sleet.
And so Honor did it again, and this time, things went a little more according to plan. Except the kitchen table was covered in dishes, so they went to Brogan’s bedroom instead.
And when they were done, and when Honor’s heart was racing, not just from exertion, but from terror, let’s
