Page 61 of Only for the Season

Spoiler alert. I am not an object to be kept.

“Nope,” Jeremy answers but he doesn’t offer any further information. I nearly giggle. Mom hates it when a person withholds information. Another reason I haven’t explained whathappened at culinary school to her. Her irritation brings me a spark of joy.

“Who are you?”

“Parker’s boyfriend.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jeremy.”

I expect her to ask for his last name, which he won’t give her, but instead she asks, “What do you do for a living?”

He shrugs. “A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”

A muscle ticks in Mom’s jaw. She is not getting the information she wants. I nearly clap to encourage ‘my boyfriend’.

The intercom crackles before an announcement is made. “Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, your order is ready to be picked up at the meat counter.”

“Go ahead.” Mom flicks her hand at Dad.

The intercom crackles again. “Mrs. Shaw. You have a phone call.”

Mom sighs. “Work is never finished.”

They bustle away. As soon as they’re gone, I hurry toward the checkout with the cart. I haven’t finished my grocery list yet, but I am not chancing bumping into Mom and Dad again.

We check out without further incident. Once the groceries are in the trunk and we’re on our way back to the bakery, the tension leaks out of my body.

Phew. Another confrontation with my parents is over and I survived. But then I notice the gleam in Jeremy’s eyes. Hehas questions and I’m afraid he won’t be as easily distracted as my parents.

Where’s a kraken when you need one?

Chapter 21

“Trading trauma for truth. Classic negotiation strategy.” ~ Jeremy

Jeremy

“Thank you for helping,” Parker says once we’ve finished putting away the groceries in the kitchen.

She’s cute if she thinks I’m leaving without learning what the fuck her parents were talking about.

She opens the door and tries to usher me outside. Totally cute. And not happening.

I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the table. “We can do this here or upstairs in the loft but it’s happening.”

“What’s happening?” She fiddles with the hem of her t-shirt and refuses to meet my gaze.

I pinch her chin and lift her face. “Princess.”

“I thought I was a queen.”

“In the bakery, you’re a queen. When it comes to the two of us, you’re my naughty little princess.”

Her eyes flare, and her mouth drops open. As much as I’d love to explore her mouth before moving on to other parts of her, I’m not letting this subject drop.

“Princess,” I growl. “What the hell happened with your parents?”