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She eyes my outstretched hand for a moment before cautiously slipping her own into my palm.
It’s clear how unnatural it is for her by the stiff way she barely curls hers around mine. I shake it out, hoping to rid the nerves for her before going ahead and lacing our fingers together.
She looks down and watches, as if she’s studying the way it appears for her pale, freckled fingers to rest between mine. Or studying the way it looks to hold someone’s hand in general, I’m not sure.
“C’mon, wife.” I lead her back into the dining room. “Time to play along.”
Kennedy points in the direction of the private dining room and when I reach out to open the door for her, a server steps up and does it for us instead.
He’s in a three-piece suit and I don’t miss the way his eyes quickly scan my clothes on my way into the dim room. My bad for thinking a nice button-up and clean jeans qualified for dinner attire.
As soon as I step inside behind Kennedy, I realize the look he gave me maybe wasn’t judgment at all, but instead a warning that I should turn around and run in the other direction as quickly as possible.
A long wooden table stretches the center of the room. Six people sit on one end, one of whom I assume is Dean’s dad, seeing as his son is the spitting image of him minus thirty years or so.
But now that I think about it, I don’t remember ever seeing him at one of Dean’s games growing up.
I catalog the woman to his left as Kennedy’s mom. Call it intuition, but when I look at her, there’s a burning desire to light her ass up with my words, which would only make sense if she were Kennedy’s mother.
She looks like one of those women who would send her kids off to boarding schools because they’re a nuisance to her. Add that to the fact she’s prim and proper and has a dirty scowl on her face when she finds my hand connected to her daughter’s.
Kennedy must spot it because she drops my hand immediately, clasping her own in front of her body.
Yep, not a fan of her mother at all.
An older couple sits on one side of the table, and across from them, another couple who couldn’t be anyone other than Kennedy’s ex-fiancé and stepsister.
The guy—Cameron, Conrad, something—smirks this little smirk that doesn’t work for him at all. That kind of smirk only works when you’re not radiating douchebag energy behind it, but he just looks creepy doing it.
His attention drifts down to both Kennedy and me as if he were calculating our body language, and when he spots the twelve inches of space between us, that smirk turns evil and knowing.
It’s then he slides his palm over the woman’s knee who is next to him. Mallory, I think was her name. I vaguely recognize her from the quick moment I saw her the night of her bachelorette party.
She’s tall. Brown hair, tan skin. She looks a lot like Dean and somehow, I think I might like her even less than her brother.
Mallory takes the cue and leans into her fiancé before rubbing her hand over his chest. Her left hand, mind you. Where a diamond ring is on full display for both of us to see.
Yeah, I don’t like these people at all.
There’s so much money and entitlement suffocating this room. Not a single warm smile. No welcome to their family dinner.
The family dinners we have back in Chicago are filled with laughter and friendship. I used to bail on them if I had other plans, but over the last eight months, I’ve looked forward to those family dinners. For Kai and me, coming from a family of two, it’s nice to have our friend community around who has become our new family.
As discreetly as possible, I glance down at my wife, but her attention is locked on the man she was planning to marry and the woman at his side. I give one of her heels a small nudge with my foot, trying to remind her that we’re standing in a silent room with her family who is waiting for her to introduce me.
She doesn’t notice, so I clear my throat. “Sorry I’m late.” Fuck this is awkward, and even more so when I lift my hand and wave like a fucking dork. “I’m Isaiah. Kennedy’s...” My words drift off, unsure.
“Husband,” she finishes for me.
Calvin rolls his eyes.
She takes a step into me, her hip resting against my thigh as he watches.
Atta girl. There it is.
I take her hand in mine again.
“Isaiah, this is my mother, Jennifer. Dean’s father, Henry. My stepsister, Mallory, and her...” she hesitates. “Her fiancé, Connor.”
