Of course they were, Naomi thought. She knew the Price family schedule and was aware that it never deviated. Late-morning tea began at eleven and ended precisely at eleven forty-five. After which her mother would drive into town to one of her charities and her father would go to the golf course or, on Tuesdays, the Texas Cattleman’s Club to visit with his friends.
Waiting in the blessedly cool entry hall, Toby took his hat off, then bent to whisper, “Always makes me twitch when she calls me Mr. Toby.”
“I know,” Naomi said. “But propriety must be maintained at all times.” Appearances, she knew, were very important to her parents. It had always mattered more how things looked than how things actually were.
She glanced around the home she’d grown up in. The interior hadn’t changed much over the years. Vanessa Price didn’t care for change, and once she had things the way she wanted them, they stayed.
Cool, gray-veined white marble tile stretched from the entry all through the house. Paintings, in soothing pastel colors, hung in white frames on ecru walls, their muted hues the only splash of brightness in the decorating scheme. A Waterford crystal vase on the entry table held a huge bouquet of exotic flowers, all in varying shades of white, and the silence in the house was museum quality.
Idly, Naomi remembered being a child in this house and how she’d struggled to find her place. She never really did, which was why, she supposed, she still felt uncomfortable just being here.
Toby squeezed her hand as Matilda stepped into the hall and motioned for them to come ahead. Apparently, Naomi told herself, the king and queen were receiving today. The minute that thought entered her mind, she felt a quick stab of guilt. Her parents weren’t evil people. They didn’t deserve the mental barbs from their only child and wouldn’t understand them if they knew how she really felt.
But at the same time, Naomi couldn’t help wishing things were different. She wished, not for the first time, that she was able to just open the front door and sail in without being announced. She wished that her parents would be happy to see her. That she and her mom could curl up on the couch and talk about anything and everything. That her dad would sweep her up into a bear hug and call her “princess.” That she wouldn’t feel so tightly strung at the very thought of entering the formal parlor to face them.
But if wishes were real, she’d be sitting on a beach sipping a margarita right now.
Her parents were seated in matching Victorian chairs, with a tea table directly in front of them. The rest of the room was just as fussily decorated, looking like a curator’s display of Louis XIV furniture. Nothing in the house invited people to settle in or, God forbid, put their feet on a table.
The windows allowed a wide swath of sunlight to spear into the room, illuminating the beige-and eggshell-colored furniture, the gold leaf edging the desk on the far wall, the white shades on crystal lamps and the complete lack of welcome in her parents’ eyes. It was eleven thirty. They still had fifteen minutes of teatime left, and Naomi had just ruined it.
She was about to ruin a lot more.
“Hello, Mom, Dad.” She smiled, steeled herself and released Toby’s hand to cross the room. She bent down to kiss the cheek her mother offered, and then when her father stood up to greet Toby, she kissed her dad’s cheek, too.
“Hello, dear,” Vanessa Price said. “This is a surprise. Toby, it’s nice to see you. Would you like to join us for tea? I can have Matilda brew fresh.”
“No, ma’am, thank you,” Toby said after shaking Franklin’s hand and stepping back to range himself at Naomi’s side.
Franklin Price was a handsome man in his seventies. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and his silver hair was swept back from a high, wide forehead. His blue eyes were sharp but curious as they landed on his daughter. Vanessa was petite, and though in her seventies, she presented, as always, a perfect picture. Her startlingly white hair was trimmed into a modern but flattering cut, and her figure was trim, since she had spent most of her life dieting to ensure it. Her jewel-bright blue summer dress looked casually elegant and at the same time served to make Naomi feel like a hag.
“Is there something wrong, dear?” Vanessa set her Limoges china teacup down onto the table and then folded her hands neatly in her lap.
There was her opening, Naomi thought, and braced herself to jump right in.
“Actually, yes, there is,” she admitted, and glanced at her father to see his concerned frown. “You’ve both heard about this Maverick who’s been contacting people in Royal for the last several months?”
“Distasteful,” Vanessa said primly with a mild shake of her head.
“I’ll agree with your mother. Whoever it is needs to be apprehended and charged,” her father said. “Prying into people’s private lives is despicable.”
“He’s caused a lot of trouble,” Toby said and took Naomi’s hand to give it a squeeze.
Her mother caught the gesture, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Maverick contacted me this morning,” Naomi blurted out before she could lose her dwindling nerve entirely.
“You?” Vanessa lifted one hand to the base of her throat, her fingers sliding through a string of pearls. “Whatever could he do to you?”
Still frowning, Franklin Price looked from Naomi to Toby and back again. “What is it, girl?”
Oh, here it comes, she told herself. And once the words were said, everything would change forever. There was no choice. Toby was right—she couldn’t keep hiding her baby bump with loose clothing. There would come a time when the truth just wouldn’t remain hidden.
“I’m pregnant,” she said flatly, “and Maverick is about to send a video out onto the internet telling everyone.”
“Pregnant?” Vanessa slumped back against her chair, and now her hand tightened at the base of her throat as if she were trying to massage air into her lungs.
“Who’s the father?” Franklin’s demand was quiet but no less fierce.
“Oh, Naomi,” her mother said on a defeated sigh. “How could you let this happen?”
“Who did this to you?” her father asked again.
As if she’d been held down against her will, Naomi thought on an internal groan. Oh, she couldn’t tell them about Gio. About how stupid she’d been. How careless. How could she say that the baby’s father was an Italian gigolo with whom she’d spent a single night? But what else could she say?
They were waiting expectantly, her mother just a little horrified, her father leaning more toward cold anger. She’d proven a disappointment. Again. And it was only going to get worse.
“I’m the father,” Toby said when she opened her mouth to speak.
“What?” she whispered, horrified.
Toby gave her a quick smile, then fixed his gaze on her father. “That’s why I came here with Naomi today. We wanted to tell you together that we’re having a baby and we’re going to be married.”
Naomi could only
