Hans presses his palm to my lower back, making me walk ahead of him.
Every step brings us closer to my parents, and I’m realizing what a massive error it was to let Hans come here with me. They’re going to ask so many questions and assume so many things, and it’s going to be a disaster.
I slow, causing Hans to apply more pressure to my back.
“What is it, Butterfly?” His voice is low, but it still sends a shiver down my spine.
The nickname is enough to pull my mind away from the edge of stress. “Why do you call me that?”
Hans circles his thumb on my spine. “Ask me later.”
I nod. “Okay.” Then I square my shoulders and step into my parents’ eat-in kitchen.
Before I can try to properly introduce him, my mom cuts in, setting a steaming dish onto the center of the round table. “Hope you like breakfast for dinner. Cassie didn’t tell us she was bringing a friend with her, otherwise we would’ve asked for food preferences.” She cuts her eyes to me when she says friend. And I accept that it’s a freaking miracle she said that rather than just calling him my boyfriend.
“I eat everything.” Hans’s rough voice fills the room.
I have to stop my eyes from rolling back.
I eat everything.
Jesus take the wheel.
“Good.” Mom’s face lights up. “Cassie’s father is the same way.” She smiles over at Dad, who is placing a pitcher of orange juice and a carafe of coffee on the table. “That’s how I first caught his attention. With my cookies.”
Hans makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort.
“Not true.” Dad grins. “It was the way you filled out the seat of your pants.”
“Dad!” I shriek.
Mom hits him with her oven mitt. “Oh, stop it.”
Dad just shrugs. “Cassie is old enough to know the truth now.”
“Now? I’ll remind you I’m thirty, but I could’ve gone the rest of my life without knowing that.” I add my age for Hans’s benefit. I don’t want him thinking I’m too young for him.
“And how old are you, young man?” Dad calmly turns his attention to Hans, like he hadn’t jumped the last time he looked at him.
“I’m thirty-nine, sir,” Hans answers formally.
My dad nods. “Good age.”
Thirty-nine. I memorize the information.
“Name?” Dad prompts.
“Hans,” my neighbor responds, holding his hand out.
Dad shakes it.
“Alright, alright. You can grill the boy while we eat.” Mom gestures to the table. “Everyone, sit.”
I snicker at my mom referring to Hans, the larger-than-life man, as a boy.
The man in question surreptitiously slides his thumb down the back of my arm, and I know it’s his way of warning me that he heard my laugh.
Knowing which chairs my parents always sit in, I move to one of the other two and direct Hans to the last chair.
Mom jumps right into dishing food onto everyone’s plate, starting with Hans.
When she’s done, everyone has a square of cheesy sausage egg bake, two slices of crispy bacon, and wedges of salted heirloom tomatoes.
“Dig in,” Dad commands, already shoving a forkful into his mouth.
Hans stays silent as he takes one bite, then a second and third.
I don’t know if he’s feeling uncomfortable about the situation, but it’s not stopping his appetite.
Hans pauses and looks up from his plate, tomato speared on the end of his fork halted halfway to his mouth. “This is delicious,” he tells my mom before looking at me. “Take it this is where you get your love of cooking from?”
Warmth floods my chest as I nod. “Mom had me helping her before I could even reach the counter. I had to stand on a box.”
“It was a wooden crate.” Mom corrects me before she smiles at Hans. “So, our Cassie has cooked for you? Did you know she has her own food blog?”
I try widening my eyes while she’s talking to get her to stop, but she doesn’t take the hint.
“It’s just for fun,” I tell her and Hans, referring to my blog that practically no one follows.
“You do such a good job at it,” Mom insists.
I’m trying not to grimace when I look over at Hans, hoping he’s not holding back a laugh at the idea of me with a blog. But when I meet his gaze, he’s looking at me seriously.
“I’d like you to show me.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
Why is that so sweet and so dirty sounding?
“Where did you two meet?” Dad interrupts my dirty thoughts.
“Um, well, Hans is actually my neighbor.” I don’t know why that fact makes my cheeks flame red, but it does.
“Oh, really?” Mom picks up her mug, and I can see her trying to remember what the houses near me look like. “You buy the one at the end of the street?” she asks Hans, referring to the unoccupied house.
“I’m in the house directly across from Cassandra’s.” Hans uses my full name, as he always does, and I don’t miss when Mom widens her eyes.
But Dad just nods. “Makes sense.”
Wait, what?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Dad lifts his brows. “Well, you work from home and don’t ever go out to actually meet people, so someone falling into your lap was really the only way this was ever going to happen.”
I groan. “Thanks a lot. But there isn’t anything to happen. We aren’t dating or anything.” My stupid blush is back. “It’s just that my car wouldn’t start, and when I asked Hans if I could borrow his truck, he offered to drive me.”
Dad smirks. “I wouldn’t let you drive my truck either.”
“So—” I talk over the old man. “I invited him to come up for a meal as a thank-you. Please don’t turn it into torture.”
“What’s wrong with your car?” Mom jumps back into the conversation.
I shrug. “Who knows. I’ll get it figured out. I just didn’t have time to do it today without canceling on dinner.”
“How are you going to get to the airport tomorrow?”
At her question, I can feel Hans turn his attention to me.
“I’ll figure it out.” I don’t know why I bother lowering my voice, everyone is obviously listening.
“I’m sure Hans wouldn’t mind driving you,” Dad helpfully chimes in.
“No, that’s not—”
“I’ll drive you.” Hans cuts me off.
I lift my eyes to his. “You don’t—”
He cuts me off again. “I’ll drive you.”
The hard look in his gaze tells me it would be a mistake to argue. “Okay,” I whisper.
Mom clears her throat. “You all packed?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“Where are you going?” Hans hasn’t turned his attention away from me.
“Um, Mexico.” I try to smile. “It’s for work.”
“Where in Mexico?” Hans’s tone has gone hard, like maybe he already knows the answer.
