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  She shouldn’t go. It would only end in heartbreak.

  “Please?” Closing the distance between them again, Fred squeezed her shoulders gently as he looked down at her beseechingly. “It would mean a lot to me. Okay?”

  After a long pause, she nodded once, a jerk of her chin. The moment she did, she knew that she was going to regret it, but Fred’s smile chased away the chill.

  Fine. She’d go have dinner with his parents. But she wasn’t going to pretend to be anyone but herself.

  * * *

  Four hours later, Amy drummed her fingers on the gold-flecked vinyl countertop in the bathroom she shared with Jo.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Meg insisted as she wound another lock of Amy’s fine hair around the barrel of her curling iron. “You’re going to get burned.”

  “Sorry.” Amy slid her hands beneath her butt to keep them still. She was seated on the closed lid of the toilet as her eldest sister worked on her hair. “Better?”

  “It would be better if you told me why you were so nervous.” Finished with the curling iron, Meg set it on a silicone mat on the counter, then picked up an aerosol can of hairspray. “Close your eyes.”

  Amy did, waiting for Meg to finish spraying before she spoke again. “I’m not nervous.”

  “Pants on fire,” Meg replied around the bobby pin in her mouth. “I just watched you brush your teeth for the third time because you forgot you’d already done it twice.”

  Amy scowled as Meg ran her fingers through the curls she’d just created, then pinned a piece back with the bobby pin. “I’m not... It’s not that I’m scared to meet them, exactly.”

  “Close your eyes.” Satisfied with the hair, Meg waved a mascara wand in the air. “What is it, then?”

  “I already know there’s a really good chance that they’re not going to like me. I’m not their kind of person.” Amy held perfectly still, felt Meg brushing the liquid onto her eyelashes as she tried to put it into words. “That doesn’t bother me, much. It’s more that... shit. I don’t know how to say it.”

  “It’s because you actually care about this guy.” Setting the mascara aside, Meg dusted powder over the apples of Amy’s cheeks. “And you’re afraid that he’s going to start seeing you through his family’s eyes.”

  Amy opened her eyes, squinting narrowly up at her sister. “There’s a terrifying thought. Thank you ever so much for putting it into my head.”

  “You’re welcome.” Meg smiled beatifically. “You’re done.”

  Meg moved back, clapping her hands together to remove the remnants of face dust that clung. Amy craned her head around to the mirror to see. She frowned. “You didn’t do what I asked you to.”

  She’d told Meg to...well, to tone her down a bit. Pink lipstick instead of her signature red. Easy on the eye makeup and the contouring.

  Instead, her sister had taken her usual look and classed it up, for lack of a better word. Her lips were painted red, but it was a deep crimson rather than her usual scarlet. Her eyes had been accentuated with a set of smoky browns, her cheekbones emphasized with a tawny shade.

  She looked like herself. And she looked like she could kick some ass.

  “It works,” she told Meg, nodding with approval. “Even though you went off book.”

  “You wanted me to go off book,” her sister replied with a shake of her head. “You wanted me to make you look like someone you’re not. Like someone you think these people will be happy to meet.”

  “That’s not true,” Amy replied, but even as she did, she knew it was a lie.

  “It most certainly is.” With a wide smile, Meg handed Amy her bottle of signature perfume, indicating with a pinch of her fingers to go easy on it. “But that’s not who Fred invited to dinner. Family or not, I have to think he wants you to be you.”

  “I guess we’ll see.” Sucking in a deep breath, Amy placed a hand on her stomach in an attempt to quiet the nerves rolling around in it. “Still totally not nervous.”

  “Right.” Meg rolled her eyes as she handed Amy a small makeup bag that she’d stuffed with the essentials for touch-ups. “Look. I get that you care about this guy, and that changes things. Believe me, I understand.”

  Meg had gone through her share of strife with her own love, John, so Amy knew this to be true.

  “Here’s the thing, though. If he’s worth it, really worth it? He won’t expect you to change a thing. More than that? He’ll fight to keep you, just the way you are.”

  “Right.” This wasn’t news—it was a truth Amy lived her life by. She’d never before cared enough, one way or another, if someone she’d been seeing came up lacking.

  This time? If Fred proved himself unworthy tonight...she wasn’t sure she could recover.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “WOW.” THE LOOK on Fred’s face when he opened the front door to his parents’ house was worth every second that Amy had let Meg layer her face in makeup. He looked her up and down, appreciation evident in his features. “Hi.”

  “You’re staring.” She smirked at him as she hitched her purse up higher on her shoulder. Her wallet stuck out the top, and she took a moment to tuck it back into the bag—she’d splurged on an Uber to get here. Fred had wanted to come pick her up, but she’d wanted her own means of escape, just in case.

  “You’re worth staring at.” He gestured with his hand for her to turn around. She did, laughing, letting him get a full view. “Let me use some of the many words I’ve learned over my life to say, damn.”

  She knew he hadn’t expected her to show up for dinner in her habitual torn cutoffs and tank top, but he’d never seen her in anything else. She was vain enough to enjoy the hell out of the way he was looking at her, and she knew she deserved it. It had been a bit of work, but damn it, she looked good.

  A sleek, satiny, plum-colored dress clung to her curves from throat to knee. It was Meg’s dress, and where it hit midcalf on her sister, it ended just above the knee for her. She’d paired it with spiky-heeled black boots that made the most of her legs. She’d added a thin black sweater that covered her shoulders and arms but was fitted enough not to distract from the lines of the dress.

  The look had been chosen with care. She wasn’t ashamed of who she was, or the ink that she’d chosen to mark indelibly on her body. That said, she also wasn’t so naive that she thought any set of parents would be thrilled to be introduced to a girlfriend with as many tattoos as she had. She and Meg had chosen this dress because the high neckline covered the black stars on her neck, and the sweater because it took the attention away from her full tattoo sleeves.

  She left her legs bare, the ink there open to view, as well as the four roses that adorned her right hand. And she still felt like herself, but like...well, like a grown-up version. Like a woman who was ready to meet the parents of a boyfriend.

  She’d done a lot of things in her life, but she’d never done that.

  “You’re drooling already? I haven’t even shown you the whole dress.” Her words were teasing. Shrugging her sweater down her arms, she turned away from him so that he could see the back of her dress—or rather, the lack thereof.

  She heard him suck in a breath when he saw the way the high collar of the dress circled her neck, and then the naked skin that continued to the base of her spine.

  She felt him move closer, trailing a finger down her spine. She shivered as he traced her shoulder blades, the muscles of her back, the delicate stripes of her rib cage.

  “Let’s just leave now,” he announced, moving his finger to stroke over the side of her breast. A small sound of arousal escaped her mouth. “Dinner is overrated.”

  Closing her eyes for a moment, she sucked in a deep breath to center herself.

  “No way.” Stepping forward, out of his reach, she slid her cardigan back into place and turned, fixing him with an arched eyebrow. “This was your idea. In
to the belly of the beast we go.”

  “The belly of the beast?” She’d thought that he might be insulted by the description, but instead he sounded amused. “Amy, it’s just my family. The people who raised me. It’s going to be fine.”

  Shaking away the sense of foreboding, she resisted the urge to tell him that she was pretty sure it wouldn’t be. Either way, she was here and she was going to see this through. Maybe she was a masochist, but she knew that she had to do it.

  She wanted Fred, and he came with a family. A family business. She knew that he expected them to just accept her, but she also knew that wasn’t how it worked. She had to know, though—had to know if she would be accepted as part of Fred’s life.

  If she wasn’t, then it would be better to get out now, before her heart could be broken any further.

  “Amy, you dazzle me.” Reaching out, he took her hand, pulling her through the door and into the house. “You’ll dazzle them, too.”

  The Vaughan family was arranged artfully around what she would call a living room, were it not for the ornately carved mahogany bar at one end. They looked like a painting, four people posed beautifully throughout a decorative room, four faces turned toward her and Fred with curiosity written into their features.

  “Hello!” Fred helped her down the steps into the sunken room, waving to the room at large. Amy quickly checked her shoes to make sure she wasn’t tracking mud or wet onto the expensive-looking woven rug that covered a large portion of the gleaming hardwood floors.

  She could feel eyes on her. Normally this wouldn’t faze her in the slightest—nobody presented themselves the way she did if they didn’t enjoy attention. The fact that she desperately wanted the people these eyes belonged to to like her, though, or at least tolerate her?

  She cast a quick, desperate glance to the bar. She could use some liquid courage right now.

  An older man she recognized from the Vaughan Enterprises website that she’d studied earlier this week was standing at the bar, a cocktail shaker in hand. Well over six feet himself, with a rangy build, he looked like an older version of the twins, though the way he carried himself suggested Frank more than Fred. Setting the cocktail shaker down on the bar, he opened his arms in a gesture of welcome as he looked her over.

  She saw the exact moment he noticed the tattoos on her legs, his smile freezing in place.

  Here we go. She tried not to grimace.

  “I was beginning to think your, ah, friend was going to stand us up, Frederick.” Frederick Sr. looked her over top to bottom again, a wrinkle in his forehead demonstrating that he was perplexed. “What is your name again, dear?”

  “Dad, this is Amy.” At the introduction, Amy extended a hand—not the one with the four rose tattoos. “Amy, this is my dad, Frederick Vaughan Sr.”

  “Lovely to meet you.” Amy smiled brightly. Frederick Sr. seemed slightly taken aback by the wattage, as though he’d been expecting her to glower.

  “Ah, hello.” Frederick, Sr. belatedly set down the cocktail shaker and took Amy’s hand. Though he seemed slightly taken aback by her bright smile, his icy reserve seemed to thaw just a bit under the brilliant wattage. “Welcome to our home.”

  “Dad, I’d like one of whatever you’re mixing there.” Fred smiled pointedly at his father to move things along. “Amy? Would you like a drink?”

  “Wine would be lovely.” Her voice caught in her throat—nerves. “If you have it. If not, anything is fine.”

  “Oh, we have it.” Fred rolled his eyes. Reaching over the bar, he grabbed a stemmed wineglass that looked as light as air. “My parents are wine snobs. Red or white?”

  “Really, Fred.” This came from the only other woman in the room, who stood, dusted off her skirt and crossed to the bar as well. “The correct term is collector.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Fred grinned at the woman, who was as short as her sons and husband were tall, with chin-length red hair and a face full of fine-boned features. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Nice of you to make time for your parents,” the woman replied wryly. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Mom, this is Amy.” Fred smiled down at her, rubbing the small square of her back where his hand rested. “Amy, this is my mother, Rosemary. The wine collector.”

  “That’s it. None of the good stuff for you.” Rosemary rounded the bar, snatching the glass Fred had retrieved and replacing it with a shorter goblet that had a shallower cup. “I’ll send someone out to Discount Depot, shall I? Now Amy, tonight we’ve opened a Chevalier-Montrachet we purchased several years ago in France. It has hints of citrus and some spice notes, when served in the correct glass. Does that sound appealing to you?”

  “It sounds lovely.” Amy smiled mildly. The wine she usually drank came from the aforementioned Discount Depot, usually for about seven dollars a bottle. She was sure she’d like whatever they gave her just fine.

  Rosemary filled a glass precisely one-third of the way, then handed it to Amy as if bestowing her with a glass of liquid gold. Amy quickly lifted it to her lips and sipped. When she lowered it, everyone in the room was staring at her, aghast, except for Fred.

  “It’s...very nice.” What? What had she done? From the corner of her eye, she watched Frederick Sr. pick up his own glass. Holding it beneath his nose, he sniffed at it as though he was starring in a commercial for men’s body spray. He then took a tiny sip, rolling it around his lips before nodding and, finally, swallowing.

  Amy was put in mind of the time her brother-in-law Theo had taken them all to a fancy restaurant—one that wasn’t too far from this house, actually. Theo had ordered the wine, so the waiter...no, not the waiter, but the sommelier...had initiated something similar. He’d poured a swallow of the wine into a glass and handed it to Theo, who had sniffed and tasted, approved, and then promptly been called a pompous ass by Jo.

  So apparently rich people drank their wine a certain way. Duly noted. She sniffed awkwardly at her glass, sipped again and received a thin smile, but a smile regardless from Frederick Sr.

  “How’s that cocktail coming, Dad?” Sensing her discomfort, Fred cast his father a look. With light pressure in the fingers that rested at the small of her back, he quickly and smoothly steered her across the room, stopping in front of his twin. Amy’s fingers clutched the stem of her wineglass tightly as Fred clapped his brother on the shoulder, then shook the second man’s hand.

  “Amy, you know Frank.” Still put off by Frank’s backhanded comments that afternoon, Amy didn’t offer a hand. “This is his boyfriend, Mark.”

  So Frank was bisexual, or pansexual. Not something that would normally have her even raising an eyebrow, but she did wonder what the very proper Frederick Sr. and Rosemary thought of it, when her own reception had been so very lukewarm. Of course, clad in a pricey-looking blue button-down, navy blazer and well-cut charcoal trousers, Mark gave off a very different vibe than she did.

  A bead of cold sweat rolled down her spine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so uncomfortable. Why was she doing this again?

  Fred chose that moment to press a light kiss to the silky gold curls on her head. An absentminded gesture, but it sent warmth streaming throughout her entire body.

  This. This was why she was here, at this dinner where she didn’t feel entirely welcome. And maybe it would all be okay.

  “You know Frank as well? How interesting.” With her own glass of wine in hand now, Rosemary settled herself back on the sofa. An amused smile curled her lips. “How did you come to meet my boys? Neither of them seems the type for tattoos.”

  Another subtle zinger from a Vaughan. Lovely.

  “Well, I lease a space in the newest Vaughan Enterprises property,” Amy started. She stood tall, trying to draw confidence from her core. Fred pressed his hand more firmly against her back, so she continued. “But I actually met them both in Europe, five years a
go.”

  “The infamous postgrad Europe trip.” Mark elbowed his boyfriend lightly, careful not to let his martini slosh over the edge. “You were there? I have so many questions.”

  “All in due time,” Frederick Sr. started, “but I can see Margaret waving from the kitchen. Let us adjourn to the dining room, shall we?”

  Wrapping an arm around her waist, Fred steered Amy toward the attached room, with its long mahogany table and velvet-cushioned chairs. As he pulled out her chair for her, he bent to whisper into her ear. “You’re doing great.”

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she replied through a bright, fake smile. He rolled his eyes.

  “Amy.” Settling himself into the chair next to her, he ran a finger along the line of her jaw, just one quick movement. “I don’t want you to pretend to be who you think they want you to be, okay? Just be yourself. Be the woman I lo—the woman I know.”

  The woman he what?

  “What did you just say?” Amy turned fully in her chair to face him, but then the woman she assumed was Margaret, a young woman with pale blond hair, was there. She took the crisp cloth napkin from the table in front of Amy, flicking it through the air before laying it gently in her lap. She repeated the action for every person at the table, then disappeared into what Amy assumed was the kitchen. She returned with a tray, placing small bowls of soup in front of each of them. Amy dragged her attention back to the table. She reached for a spoon, then froze.

  In front of her was a place setting more intricate than anything she’d come across before. Could all this really be for her? A quick glance around the table showed her the same setting at every place. Unlike her, however, no one else seemed intimidated by it.

  The central feature was a plate, shiny gold and larger than a dinner plate. The napkin now on her lap had been resting on top of it. Arranged precisely around the plate were four different forks, two spoons, two knives, another napkin, a bread plate and four glasses. She looked from all of it to the soup and back again. Which one was she supposed to use?