Page 12

Chapter 12

Parental Consent

Noah

J une is in the passenger side of my car, arms wrapped around herself, lips swollen from what we just did.

All I can do is look at her.

Cedar Falls is quiet tonight. The kind of stillness you feel in your chest. Houses glowing with string lights, wreaths on every door. Somewhere, someone’s playing an old Christmas carol, and it drifts through the street like the soundtrack of a perfect, romantic movie.

"Cold?" I ask, voice softer than I mean it.

She shakes her head. “No. Just… full.”

“Full?” I blink, misunderstanding. “You’re still feeling it…?”

That makes her snort softly. “Not like that.”

She glances over, her expression unreadable. “Full, like… Of feelings. Thoughts. I don't know.” Her smile is small. Barely there.

I nod, chewing the inside of my cheek. “Yeah. Same.”

I start driving. The silence stretches for a few beats. The heater hums. The town rolls by outside the windshield in soft shadows and Christmas lights. It feels like the world’s holding its breath for us.

When I finally pull in front of her place, I don’t park right away. Just idle in front of June’s family auto shop, Mack’s garage—Cedar Crest Customs.

The sign over the bay doors looks new and professional. The windows glow faintly from a back office light someone forgot to switch off. Or was left on for June.

It feels settled and serene, filled with the weight of this moment—of her life. Her roots. Her people. Her world.

I should be tired. Wrung out. At least a little smug.

Instead, my chest feels tight in a way I’ve never felt after sex.

I’ve been with other women, more than I care to count. But the intimacy I felt with June? It lingers, unfaded, even now. If anything, it’s blooming and surging as my body remembers every breath she took. The way her eyes held mine. How she trembled—not from nerves, but from letting me in.

And she did. She let me in.

The question I asked, about trust… she has more than shown me her answer. I didn’t earn it lightly. I’m still carrying it like something sacred.

I wanted to thank her. Not just for her first time—but for the way she made me feel like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just another man in motion.

I didn’t say it then. But maybe I can show it now.

I walk June up to her porch, the cold air turning every breath into fog. She’s bundled in her winter coat, cheeks flushed, looking satiated.

She goes to unlock the door, but I can’t let her go just yet.

“Hey,” I say, my voice low. “Can I swing by tomorrow morning?”

She pauses, keys still in hand. “Swing by?”

I nod toward Cedar Crest Customs. “Your dad’s shop. Tomorrow’s probably slow, right?”

I look down at my hands. My pulse stutters, but I don’t back down. “I figured maybe I could bring coffee. Say hi. Meet your parents, Mack and Vicky.”

Her lips part slightly. “You want to… meet my parents?”

“I don’t know how to express it, June. This moment I’m feeling particularly overwhelmed by you.”

“So, I want to come by and thank them. For raising someone like you.”

She blinks, visibly stunned.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel something raw unfurl in my chest—like I’m thirteen again, asking to hold a girl’s hand at the movies. Silly. Shy. A little too earnest.

I wonder if I overstepped—if this is too much, too fast.

But something flickers in her eyes. Something that looks a lot like maybe.

Then she leans in.

And kisses me.

It’s not wild or needy or rushed like earlier. It’s careful. Slow. Like she’s matching the words I’m on the verge of saying with a truth she’s not ready to say aloud too.

I cup her jaw, keep her close. Whisper against her lips, “You mean more than I know how to explain.”

Snow starts to fall around us—light, powdery. The kind that makes you feel like time just slowed down for a moment. Like the world’s giving you a breath to remember something good.

She holds my gaze in that magical moment, then says softly, “Yeah. I think they’d like that.”

I pull her close and squeeze her into my arms, my heart beating so fast it feels like it might give me away. But her hand curls against my chest—steady, grounding, like she already knows.

Just her and me, in this quiet pocket of the world, and the dizzy, terrifying certainty that this isn’t pretend. It’s starting to feel real.

“Goodnight, Songbird,” I whisper against her mouth.

She opens the door, glancing back once, and then disappears inside.

I don’t move until I see her bedroom light flicker on upstairs.

Next morning, I show up early. The cold hits me sharp when I step out of the car, but it evaporates when I see the bay doors already rolled open.

I totally overthought breakfast for a full twenty minutes.First it was flowers. Then donuts. Then this gift basket from the fancy market in town, loaded with jam jars and hand-poured syrup. I even thought of bringing F1 merch to pass around, like a complete idiot.

Then I panicked— what if breakfast offends them? Like I’m trying too hard. Or like I don’t think they can feed themselves.

And that’s when it hit me.

In twenty-eight years, I’ve never once worried about making a good impression on a girl’s parents. Never cared whether they liked me. Never rehearsed what I was going to say. Never tried to prove I belonged.

But with June...

I want them to see that I’m worth the space I’m asking for in her life.

In the end, I went with coffee—because if they’re going to sign off on sending their daughter to Europe with a man they barely know, they should at least be awake for it. Plus, a box of pastries, still warm from Main Street Bakery. Simple. Respectful. Sincere.

Because I’m not just here to flirt with their daughter.

I’m leaving for HQ this weekend.

That’s why I’m here this morning. Because if I wait too long—if I lose the momentum of what we shared last night—and June might pull back.

And I can’t blame her.

So before I ask her to come with me, I need to show her parents—and her—that I’m serious.

That I’m not just some guy passing through.

That I see something real here.

With her.

Cedar Crest Customs hums with the low sound of a compressor and classic rock playing from an ancient speaker. Smells like grease, engine oil, and something sugary from the back office—someone's baking, and my stomach growls.

And June—

She’s already here.

Grease-streaked. Glowing. On her back under a jacked-up pickup, boots sticking out, voice humming along to the music like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

I don’t announce myself. Just watch for a second. Because this—this is the part of her I’m starting to love the most.

She belongs here. And it kills me in the best way. Because all I want is to be allowed into this world she’s built. To prove I can belong here too.

She scoots out, wiping her hands, and stops short when she sees me.

“Hey there! You’re early,” she says, surprised.

I smile. “Told you I’d come.”

“Right... for an oil change, sir?" she arches her brow, teasing.

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just here for you.”

She blushes. Tries to hide it by looking away.

That’s when I notice we’re not alone.

A few mechanics are already in the garage, working like clockwork—someone tuning a carburetor near the back, another checking tire pressure on a lifted Jeep. One of them glances up, then does a double take.

And then—

"Holy shit. It’s Noah Verelli!"

Tools clatter. Heads pop up. And suddenly I’m surrounded by grease-smudged, wide-eyed adrenaline junkies with smirks that say they’re trying to keep it cool and absolutely failing.

“What’s F1 doing at Cedar Crest Customs?” one of them calls out, grinning. “You got something your engineers couldn’t solve without some small-town help?”

I grin. "Maybe. Or maybe I’m just here to see someone who knows her way around an engine better than I do."

They hoot. One guy elbows another. Someone mutters, "He means Kennedy, right?"

"Damn right I do."

I don’t say more than that. Don’t need to. I let my eyes land on June—still flushed, still pretending she’s unfazed.

And then a screen door creaks open.

“Thought I heard extra voices out here,” comes Vicky’s voice. She’s got a dish towel slung over her shoulder and flour on her sweater.

Mack steps out behind her, adjusting his flannel. They both take one look at me, then at the coffee carrier I’m still holding.

“Well,” Mack says, sticking out a hand, “you must be the reason our girl’s been humming in tune this morning.”

I shake his hand. “Noah Verelli. Thanks for letting me barge in.”

Vicky doesn’t hesitate. She walks straight up, wraps me in a hug like I’ve known her my whole life, then hooks an arm around June.

“Enough of this garage chat. Let the boys focus on their work. Breakfast is hot. Both of you—inside."

Mack jerks a thumb toward the house. “And wipe your boots before Vicky throws something. Last guy tracked oil into her kitchen and she threatened to bake his phone into a muffin.”

June hides a smile.

I follow them into the kitchen, where everything smells like butter and cinnamon and something vaguely nutty I can’t name but want more of.

They don’t know. Not yet. They think I’m just here because of the camp. Because June and I volunteered together. Because I’m the famous outsider Levi brought into town.

And they’re kind.

Mack pours coffee like he’s done it for decades. Vicky sets the box of pastry I bought on the table, next to her stack of pancakes like she’s feeding an army. June hands me a fork like she doesn’t already know my pulse is a mess.

They ask questions—normal, easy ones. About the off-season. About what’s next.

"Any big plans before things ramp up again?" Vicky asks.

"Few things lined up," I say, glancing at June. "Might try something new. Like camping. If I can find someone patient enough to show me how."

June chokes on her orange juice.

Mack grins. "You’re asking her to take you camping? Son, you know she hasn’t lit a fire since Girl Scouts, right?"

Vicky snorts. "And she got lost at the zoo once. With a map."

June groans. "Why are we like this?"

But she’s laughing. They’re laughing. And I feel like I’m sitting inside a memory I want to keep. This warmth. This ease.

I look around the table, soaking it all in—the banter, the pancakes, the way June teases and gets teased right back.

I’ve never sat at a table like this. Not once in my life.

And before I can second-guess myself— before I can talk myself out of it—I do something reckless. Something I've been thinking about since the look on her face last night on the porch, when she kissed me like she already knew where this was headed.

Since I stood in her world and wanted to stay.

This isn’t about strategy. Or timing. Or what makes sense.

It’s about knowing I don’t want to waste any more time pretending I’m not already halfway gone for her.

And maybe it’s fast. But it’s real. So, I take a breath and ask anyway.

"Would you be okay if Juniper comes with me to Italy this weekend? To visit Fagioli HQ."

The room goes dead quiet.

Mack blinks. Vicky’s head tilts, just slightly. June freezes beside me.

Then Mack’s voice drops low. "My Juniper? Your team needs more mechanics? Don't you have a full staff of engineers?"

I sit up straighter, feeling the weight of what I’m about to say land in my chest first.

Then I look Mack in the eye.

"No, sir. You misunderstood. I like your daughter. I’m asking because I want her with me. That’s all."

Vicky’s eyes widen. Mack stops breathing.

June practically launches out of her seat. “We’ll be right back,” she says, grabbing my arm and hauling me through their house, toward what I think is the den.

No one stops her.

I think everyone—including me—is still catching up to what I just said.

I should’ve led with coffee. Or pancakes. Or anything other than asking to fly off with their daughter.

And yeah, maybe I could’ve eased into it. Played it smooth. Kept it casual.

But I meant it.

And if I’m serious about her—and I am—I’m not backing down now.

She doesn’t say a word until we reach the den.

Then she shoves me—gently, but with purpose—down into the worn leather armchair by the window.

“What the hell was that?” she says, arms crossed, eyes wild.

I blink up at her, still winded from the last two minutes of my life.

“You mean breakfast?”

She narrows her eyes. “Noah.”

Yeah, I deserve that tone.

I run a hand through my hair, lean forward with my elbows on my knees.

“I meant it,” I say. “Look—about this weekend—I have to ask if your parents are okay with you leaving with me.”

She hesitates like she wasn’t expecting me to double down.

“Do you even have a passport?” I ask, suddenly realizing I shouldn’t have assumed anything before asking Mack. “So… do you?”

She crosses her arms tighter, brow furrowed. “Yes. I have a valid international passport. But Noah… this is crazy. You didn’t even ask me.”

I sit back, exhale. “Well, I’m asking now.”

The tension hangs for a beat—then I soften.

“Sorry. I know I’m springing this on you. But, June… you should know by now—I’m crazy about you.”

She doesn’t move. Just watches me.

“In the short time I’ve known you—and the town you live in—I’ve never felt more grounded. And I want you to see my world too. Because I know it’s important to you… and believe me, it’s very important to me that you feel comfortable in it.”

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just studies me.

I lean in a little. "June… I know I blindsided you. But I swear, it’s not just adrenaline or some impulsive rush. It’s not about proving something to your dad, or anyone."

She stays quiet, watching me, cautious but not pulling away.

“I’m not asking you to change your life overnight. I’m asking for a shot. A few days. Just time with you—on my turf. You’ve seen how I am here. I want you to see the rest of me too. The real stuff. The part that isn’t noise and cameras and stats.”

Then, softly—almost like she’s testing the word on her tongue—she says, “Yes.”

I’m so caught in my own head I nearly miss it.

“What?”

She smirks, eyes bright. “Yes, Noah Verelli. I said yes. To the trip.”

Before I can react, we both jump slightly at the sound of footsteps outside the den. Then a soft thud. Then what sounds like someone bumping into a doorframe.

June whips the door open and, sure enough, Mack and Vicky practically stumble into the room.

Vicky straightens quickly, cheeks pink. “We were just, uh… checking if you two needed more orange juice.”

Mack crosses his arms. “Or coffee.”

I rise from the chair, heart thudding, hands weirdly damp. But I meet their eyes.

“Sir. Ma’am.” I clear my throat. “Would I have your permission to bring June with me? Just for a little while. I promise to return her in one piece.”

They both look stunned.

“I mean it,” I add, standing straighter. “I care about your daughter. A lot. I’ll make sure she’s safe in Italy—looked after, respected, and surrounded by people who know how lucky they are to have her around.”

I glance at June, then back at them. My voice stays steady, firmer now. “And when I bring her back—she’ll have new stories, maybe a slight tan, and she’ll know exactly where she stands with me. I’m not asking lightly. And I don’t take her trust—or yours—for granted.”

Mack raises a brow.

Vicky smiles slowly. And as I glance at June beside me, something shifts in my chest.

Mack clears his throat. It’s quiet, but the weight behind it lands heavy.

“You know what I respect, son?” he says, voice even. “A man who means what he says. And says it straight.”

He glances at June, then back at me. “You want to take my daughter to Italy? You treat her right. You keep her safe. You don’t waste her time.”

Before I can respond, Vicky places a hand gently on Mack’s arm.

“She’ll be fine, Mack. Look at him—he’s already halfway in love with her.”

June makes a choked sound next to me. I don't dare look.

Mack sighs. “Fine. But if she so much as texts me that you’ve forgotten her favorite breakfast, I’m booking the next flight to Italy.”

“I won’t forget,” I say. “It’s blueberry pancakes. No syrup. Just butter.”

That earns a soft laugh from Vicky and a raised brow from June.

Permission granted.

But somehow… it feels like more than that.

Maybe a real proposal in the near future won’t that hard after all .

And I’m surprised by my own thought—how natural it feels. Like it’s not some big leap, but the next logical step. Like wanting her with me, not just for a weekend, but for all the moments that come after, might actually make more sense than anything I’ve done in years.

But I also remember what she told me—she doesn’t do whirlwind. She wants time, and something that lasts. So, without sounding impulsive, I’ll tread carefully.

No pressure. No pushing. Just showing up for her every chance I get. Because whatever this is between us—I want it to be real. And I want to earn every part of it.