Page 23 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)
It’s not often that people slip something by me. Even in the eleventh grade, I found out about the surprise birthday party Ashvi was throwing me because I overheard her speaking with my mom. It isn’t that I don’t like surprises. It’s just rare that they happen.
So far, they’re three for three, though, if I consider the surprise regarding my ex included.
After the park, the kids had taken a much-needed nap, which left me about two hours of free time that I used to scribble away in my notebook about chemical reagents and mixtures that I could test the next time I found a lab with available supplies.
This morning, I started reaching out to the colleges within an hour’s drive to see if I could rent lab space.
It isn’t unheard of, but it’s also not common within the science fields.
If I can snag a grant before the end of summer, I may be able to purchase my own supplies, though buying from the school will make things easier.
Dean had popped into the kitchen while I was jotting down notes and calculations like a madwoman while sitting at the kitchen table as the kids snoozed.
He’d given me that smile I was growing far too fond of before apologizing for interrupting and immediately exiting.
I don’t know what he had to be sorry about.
It was his house after all. But I appreciated that he understood I needed the quiet.
I may have watched his backside as he swept out of the room, marveling at the genetic masterpiece.
Gosh, I love science.
Even as I sit in the passenger seat of the oversized SUV, my mind doesn’t stop racing with the possibilities of the new findings I’d read about in a science publication this morning from a friend in Michigan.
“You okay?” a gentle voice asks from beside me, and I nearly jump in my seat when I feel the pad of a finger brush across the back of my hand resting on my thigh.
“Sorry, just lost in my own little world,” I explain as we barrel down the one-lane road heading toward my parents’ house. Dean let it slip that we were heading there for dinner tonight when I saw my mom’s name flash across his cell phone as we got in the car.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes. When my ideas start flowing, sometimes it’s hard to shut them off. It used to irritate my parents when we’d be out somewhere, and I doodled in my notebook.”
“I’m sure they’re awfully proud of you.”
Shrugging, I turn away from Dean and look out the front windshield. “I suppose all parents are proud of their kids in some aspect. They can’t be too pleased I’m jobless right now, though.”
“I doubt that makes any difference to them.”
The silence stretches for a bit, and between the equations and theories slicing and swooshing in my mind, a thought pops free, and I open my mouth without thinking. “You know. You don’t talk about your parents much. They must be just as proud of you for all your accomplishments.”
Dean’s easy demeanor slips away, and I immediately regret my question.
He hardens in a way that hints he’s closing off.
Despite how wary I had been to return home after my breakup, it was never because of my family.
Dean has heard all about them at various times since I’ve lived in his home.
But those conversations only left me wondering about Dean’s parents and sister.
The latter, he still seems to be grieving, so I keep her questions off the table, but his parents are nothing more than a mystery to me.
“I doubt my parents, if you can even call them that, give a rat’s ass—” He immediately checks the back seat to apologize for the curse word, but his stiff chest deflates when he sees both kids wearing headphones and watching a movie on the headrest screens.
“As I was saying, they don’t care about me or what I do.
Some people seek out a fancy watch, designer handbag, or overpriced shoes to accessorize with.
My parents? They chose children as their ultimate decoration. ”
“That’s…”
“I mean, what better way to show your money and power than leaving your legacy with heirs? Too bad it’s all blowing up in their face now.”
Dean chuckles devilishly, and I’m left wondering if there is some underlying secret in the Harrington family.
Since living with him, I’ve done my fair share of research regarding the elite Harringtons.
Originally from Maine, they had a flourishing yacht business, and they moved their headquarters to Miami in the seventies.
The list of their clientele left me speechless.
Kings, queens, and sheiks custom order these enormous boats.
I wonder if it was for their enjoyment or simply to be one of the few who owned a Harrington original.
Pictures of Dean’s parents weren’t hard to come by. It’s clear they love every minute of their time with the rich. So much so that they have become celebrities themselves.
His sister, the main heiress and socialite, had taken her party-girl ways to the extreme.
There were fewer pictures of her on the red carpet and more of her partying in nightclubs.
Most were dated prior to five years ago, though.
And I can only hope that she had been working to turn her life around when Oliver came into the picture.
I did my best to avoid searching Dean’s name in particular.
He made no effort to mask the fact that he was a playboy.
It’s in the way he flirts and carries himself.
I doubt there is a single woman who could resist his charm.
Myself included. That didn’t mean multiple pictures didn’t show up in articles of him at various charity events, a different woman on his arm each time.
There was no need for me to feel jealousy though, even though she reared her ugly head.
There’s no disguising Dean’s good looks.
Even when he’s not trying to look attractive, like now while he drives the vehicle, he oozes sex appeal.
It’s the way his hands grip and wrap around the steering wheel.
The way the seat struggles to contain his large, muscular chest. The way his jaw ticks every time I shift in my seat. We women don’t stand a chance.
But I’m sure as hell trying my hardest to resist him.
“What do you mean?” I ask as I gnaw at his words. He shifts his attention to me momentarily, cocking his eyebrow. “You said it’s blowing up in their face now. What does that mean?”
“Is this the turn?” he asks, swiftly changing the subject.
When I nod, Dean turns the vehicle toward the worn gravel path I know all too well. The path isn’t as tranquil as the one at Dean’s house. No trees lining the path or flowers blossoming along the edge. Just acres upon acres of grass until we reach the front of the house.
Most family members park their vehicles around back near one of the many barns, but I direct Dean toward a small graveled area under a large oak tree.
The kids are already bouncing in their seats, ready to get out. Oliver’s halfway through unstrapping his belts by the time I unbuckle myself.
“I’ll come around,” Dean growls as I reach for the door handle.
“Dean, that’s silly.”
“Don’t argue,” he says with narrowed eyes, staring at me until I pull my hand back.
Wordlessly, he exits the SUV and makes his way to my side. As he opens and holds out his hand to assist me, I’m struck by the realization that Prescott never once held the door for me. Not in the two years we dated and were engaged.
“Thanks,” I mumble, hating how my heart leaps the moment our hands touch.
Together, we maneuver the kids out of their seats and walk toward the front door.
To anyone looking at us, we probably appear as a unit.
A family. Two parents with their two kids wedged between them.
Part of that dream everyone is supposed to yearn for.
For me, my dream has always been to use my knowledge to better the world.
I thought Prescott changed my mind about shifting my focus, but as I glance at Dean out of the corner of my eye, I fathom that maybe he is the one changing my mind.
I smooth my hands along the sides of my pants, my nerves rolling like the stones in the driveway that crackle under my feet. The scent of my mom’s daffodils lining the flower beds fill the air around us, reminding me of the warm days I’d spend outside with her, pulling weeds and planting bulbs.
“You don’t have to look like you’re being dragged to the barracks,” Dean says with a smirk, his free hand shoved in the front pocket of his jeans and his other clasped with Evelyn’s.
He looks handsome in his jeans and blue-and-white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in that effortless way.
And it’s not until I’m in front of my parents’ door, holding the hand of little Oliver, that I realize maybe I didn’t warn Dean enough about the chaos he was about to find himself in.
“Dean… you still have time to turn around and go home. My family can be…a lot.”
Ignoring my warning, Dean reaches out and presses the doorbell. Not that he needs to. I can already sense my mother standing on the other side of the door. The man has no idea how ill-prepared he is for tonight’s dinner.
Mom opens the door wide and hugs Dean as if they’ve been friends forever. In my mom’s defense, I want to wrap my arms around him too. Of course, it’s for purely intimate reasons that I need to keep it in check if I’m going to continue living in his house. I will not be the one to break.
Dean and I quickly follow my mom inside the house, and the kids trail us like little shy mice.
It’s not until she gets down to their level and whispers something to them that they relax.
Smiles grow on their lips, and their eyes sparkle with glee.
My mom has a gift, truly, and it’s the kid whisperer.
It takes just a split second for Oliver and Evelyn to dash off ahead of us, skipping toward the kitchen.
Dean stares after them, mouth hanging slightly agape.