Page 10 of Our Pucking Secret (2-Hour Quickies #4)

Amanda

A week of "practicing" with Logan flew by faster than I expected. Between stolen kisses, late-night conversations, and actual rehearsals of our story, we've barely been apart. Now, watching the Manhattan skyline grow larger through the car window, I feel strangely ready.

Yet, my nerves are taking over.

I changed clothes about ten times. What do you wear to meet your maybe-parents? I asked Otto, who’s been with me by text, and his answer didn’t help at all.

Otto : Go naked. Most people meet their parents naked.

Me : Gee, thanks.

Otto: Welcome. Also, this fake boy of yours, does he know you snore like a Saint Bernard?

Me : How would you even know that?

Otto : You fell asleep in clinic break room last week. Thought bears had invaded Tennessee.

Me : I hate you .

Otto : That's too bad. Because I like you. Even if you sound like chainsaw fighting moose.

"Stop fidgeting," Logan says, catching my restless hands in his. "They'll love you."

"We need a plan."

"We have a plan. Charm them, observe them, don't mention the whole switched-at-birth thing over appetizers."

"I'm serious." I pull out my notebook. "We need to know what to look for. Genetic markers."

"You made a list, didn't you?"

"Of course I made a list. One of us needs to be scientific about this."

He glances at me, amused. "Let me guess—PowerPoint presentation?"

"No." I try to look offended. "Just a checklist."

"Of course. What's on this very professional checklist?"

"Traits that are inherited. My condition. Dimples. Left-handedness. Ambidexterity. Sleep patterns. Color blindness. The way someone rolls their tongue—"

“Now that simplifies things. All we need is to come up with a way to make the four parents show us how they roll their tongues. Should we have them do it one by one or all at the same time?”

“Shut up. This is serious."

“Yes ma’am.”

“Besides genetic illnesses, we need to watch for athletic markers, and even little things like counting patterns or how someone throws—"

He leans over at a red light and kisses my forehead. "Fine. We'll use your nerd list. But I'm telling you... I'll know."

"How?"

"Some things you just feel."

"Very scientific. "

"Trust me." His smile turns soft. "Though I do like watching you plan world domination in that little notebook."

We pull up to the LaRues’ estate, and my stomach flips. "Ready to meet Parent Set Number One?"

I take a deep breath. "Let's do this."

The door opens and Patricia LaRue stands there, elegant in a cream silk blouse and pearls, her posture perfect. For a split second, I search her face for any resemblance to my own. There isn't any.

My heart pounds as I study her, trying to avoid a creepy stare. This woman could have been my mother. Should have been my mother. Is my mother? The thought makes me dizzy.

"Logan, darling." She air-kisses his cheek. "And this must be Amanda."

"Mrs. LaRue, thank you for having me."

"Patricia, please." Her smile is polite but assessing. "Laurent! They're here."

I squeeze Logan’s hand—this is exactly why he said we needed the engagement story. With these people, anything less would’ve put me in the 'passing distraction' box.

Logan's father appears, tall and distinguished in a casual way. His handshake is warm, though, genuinely welcoming.

"So you're the vet who's stolen our boy," he says, leading us into a dining room that belongs in Architectural Digest. "Logan tells us you run your own clinic?"

"With my best friend, yes. The Bark Side."

"Charming name," Patricia comments, and I can't tell if she's being sincere. “I haven’t seen it. Where is it?”

“Tennessee, actually. A small town called Bellwood. "

"Bellwood?" Patricia straightens. "The hospital there... that's where—"

"Mother," Logan cuts in smoothly, "didn't you want to show Amanda the garden before dinner?"

"Oh, yes." She smiles. "Though I should warn you, we've never been good with plants. No natural talent for it, unlike my sister. She can grow anything."

Is a green thumb genetic? Well, but her sister… and I don’t think Logan has tried gardening anyway. Neither have I.

"I read a piece in Botanical Insights last month," Patricia tells me as we walk, "about how orchids have evolved to mimic the scent profiles of female insects. Isn't that wild? Brilliant survival strategy. You’d think I’d be able to keep one alive—but no. They last maybe a week."

I let out a small laugh. "They're deceptively tricky. Too much care and they rot. Not enough and they wilt."

Patricia hums. "A perfect metaphor for... something." She shoots me a sidelong smile, and I smile back. Just for a moment.

As we reach the terrace doors, I catch Logan’s supportive nod. Patricia continues describing her failed orchid attempts while I'm hyperaware of every gesture, every mannerism. Nothing I could recognize.

"I actually had some health issues a few years ago," she mentions casually. "The doctors called it a connective tissue disorder. Made gardening quite impossible."

My heart stops.

The LaRues' dining room gleams with old money elegance—crystal chandelier, antique sideboard, carefully curated artwork. Patricia sits at one end, elegant and controlled, while Laurent takes the other, more relaxed but equally polished.

Annalise arrives precisely three minutes late. "Sorry, sequencing data wait for no one." She kisses Logan's cheek, then turns to me with bright curiosity. "So you're the vet who's tamed my brother?"

"Trying to," I say, and she grins.

"I like her already."

She has dimples. Like me.

A server—they have an actual server—appears with champagne. I accept a glass, watching Patricia sip hers with perfect poise. My flute trembles slightly as I lift it, wondering if she would have taught me the same grace.

As the first course arrives—something French I can't pronounce—Patricia guides the conversation through their recent travels in Provence, the vineyard they're considering purchasing, their plans for the winter season in Gstaad.

It's surreal, sitting here, watching these people who might have been my family, who live in a world so different from my own.

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of perfect manners and polite discussion—stock market shifts, a new Broadway revival, vacation homes in Tuscany.

Laurent mentions a recent legal conference in Zurich.

Patricia, a departmental grant she’s reviewing at the university.

I try to follow the conversation, but I’m too focused on which fork to use—and on the way Logan watches me, like he’s trying to translate between worlds. Like me.

It all feels… impersonal. Like my story about the puppy who preferred to sleep in my boot instead of his bed would be out of place.

Through it all, I feel Logan's quiet presence beside me, his hand occasionally finding mine under the table when certain words feel too far from home.

I find myself cataloging every detail—the way Patricia touches her neck when thinking, how Laurent's laugh lines crinkle just like mine. Are these learned behaviors or genetics? Would I have been more like them if...

"Amanda?" Logan's voice pulls me back. "Ready for dessert?"

I meet his eyes, seeing my own tumult reflected there. Because how do you sit calmly through dinner with the parents who might have been yours, pretending your heart isn't trying to escape your chest with every new revelation?

You don't. You just hold on tight to the hand anchoring you under the table, and hope no one notices how close you are to shattering.