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“Dammit,” Baxter whispers. “Why are they here already. Shit, this is a nightmare.”
His words confuse me, and I let go from around his neck. I turn and spy his parents. At least I think it's his parents. I haven't actually met them, but I'd seen photos. More than once, Baxter and I had bought beer or wine and had a powwow about how hurt he'd been by some shit his parents had done. Needless to say, I didn't get any warm fuzzies seeing them now.
I draw in a slow breath, wishing I’d worn something different. Dammit, I was proud of my clothes, but a woman like Mrs. Baxter-Scott wouldn’t appreciate my style or my designs.
His mom’s lips turn down in a frown before she recovers. “Well, you must be Baxter’s fiancée. Isn't it nice to meet Baxter's fiancée,” his mom says loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear.
Shock pulses through me, stealing my breath. I was about to tell her no freaking way was I Baxter’s wife-to-be when I notice a pleading look in his eyes. My heart twists in a way reserved for lost puppies and injured kittens.
I turn back to his mom and hold out my hand. “I’m Heather Burke, it’s nice to meet you.” Burke was my real last name. I own the business under the name Devonshire, which was my mom’s maiden name. It’s a way to honor her and keep myself hidden from crazies when I just want to be left alone. Right now, I’m glad for the separation because I know Baxter’s parents will bend over backward getting a background check done on me.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Lucinda, and this is Andrew the fourth. Jacey hasn't told us anything about you, not even your name. Honestly, we figured you weren't real." Lucinda lets out a bark of laughter that draws more stares.
Baxter shifts uncomfortably behind me. His dad nods and I get the distinct impression he doesn’t approve of me. His lips turn down in a frown and his nose curls a little. What the heck was going on? I want to ask Baxter, but that would have to wait. Based on their nickname for my friend, I would never be able to call him Andrew again.
“Mom, Dad, it's nice to see you." Baxter's voice is strained and his stance stiff.
His dad grunts and flags down a waitress by snapping his fingers. Maybe the waitresses were used to such treatment in this part of town. Moneyed-up wealthy act like they own the place, and maybe they do, but their treatment of those in the service industry is nearly inhumane.
“Hi, can I get you all something to drink?” the waitress asks.
“Whiskey, neat,” Andrew the elder says.
“I’ll have a cosmo,” Lucinda adds.
"Darling?" Baxter asks, and for a brief moment, I have no clue who he is talking to.
All eyes are on me, so I answer. “Just tea, please.”
“I’ll have a whiskey,” Baxter says.
Maybe he’d changed since college, but back then, he hated whiskey. I narrow my gaze, and he gives his head a quick shake. This isn’t my issue. Then Andrew the elder levels his gaze with me and a sneer mars his features.
“So do you think my son is a ticket to money?”
The question hits my solar plexus like no kickboxing, barre, or CrossFit class ever has. I think a gasp escapes my lips, I’m not sure. “He has money? I didn’t know.” The lie rolls off my tongue like butter on a hotplate. Everyone in school knew Baxter is loaded. “We’re usually busy with other stuff.” I giggle and lean in, brushing my lips over Baxter’s cheek.
A few things happen all at once. Blush stains Baxter’s cheeks. I realize I like it when he blushes. The waitress approaches with our drinks, and Baxter’s mom shows us how fast she can slam a cosmopolitan. The waitress asks if she wants another and Lucinda nods and says to make it a double.
No one says anything until the waitress brings Lucinda’s second drink. I wish I’d ordered something stronger and eye Baxter’s whiskey which he has hardly touched. I get the sick feeling this is fast becoming my problem—Baxter that is, and his parents.
“So, how did you two meet?” Lucinda is trying to be nice and I kind of regret suggesting anything sexual, but Baxter’s tales from his youth still affect me. I may have been drunk those nights we’d spent talking and revealing our scars, but I wasn’t so drunk I didn’t remember every word he’d said.
“Baxter helped me up after someone knocked me from my bike. Of course, it happened at school." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth. Baxter had been the one who'd knocked me off the bike, and we'd both cussed a blue streak at each other until we were throwing out insults like you're a scrubby little chihuahua rocket, and your mother is a miniature goat herder. When I'd lobbed that one at Baxter, he'd thrown back his head laughing manically, then vowed to be my friend forever.
“Undergrad?” his dad asks.
“Yes.” I nod, wishing I could forget the goat herding memory before I laugh and they want me to explain what’s so funny.
“Damn fruits and nuts,” Andrew the elder says under his breath before taking a sip of his whiskey.
Baxter takes a sip too. I drink a little of my tea, studying their family dynamics. What had happened to these people? They are worse than strangers. How had Baxter survived his childhood? I want to roll my eyes as I remember how hurt and broken he’d been when we met.
“We didn’t get together until I moved out here,” I say, hoping to answer questions before they come at me.
“When was that?” Lucinda asks.
“It was last year,” Baxter supplies in a rush.
