“Mom. Did we keep you waiting long?” I asked, being perfectly sweet.
“Yes,” she said, pinching the arm of her sunglasses and lifting them so I could get the full hit of the ire that burned in her eyes. “You’re late.”
“That’s my fault, Mrs. Dunn,” Adam stepped forward. “I’m sorry. One of Mark’s cousins saw us in the lobby, and her son is a fan. I stopped to say hello.”
Mom touched her hand to her chest. “Oh! That was lovely of you. Why don’t you both sit down? I’ll get the first cocktail brought over for us to try.”
I took a deep breath and reached for my chair, but Adam beat me to it. He pulled it out, the bottoms of the legs scratching against the patio we were on.
Mom caught it, raising an eyebrow, but she didn’t say anything.
“Thank you,” I said softly, taking my seat.
Adam positioned himself between us. A wise choice. The women in my family had been known to kick each other under the table on occasion.
Mom sat up straight and waved in the direction of the bar. “Rosie asked them for three light pink cocktails to match the theme of the wedding, and we have to pick one out of the three. The first we’re trying is a rhubarb and ginger gin cocktail.”
“Rhubarb? In a cocktail? At a wedding?” It escaped me before I could engage my brain. “Really?”
She sighed. “I know. I raised the same concern. Gin is rather an acquired taste, not one I’m sure I possess.”
“They put rhubarb in a cocktail and the gin is what you’re worried about?”
“It might be nice,” Adam said in an obvious attempt to defuse the situation. “The weirdest things make sense sometimes. Like pineapple on pizza.”
Mom shook her head. “Pineapple on pizza never makes sense.”
With a grimace, I nodded.
“Why are you smiling like that? Is it because you’re agreeing with me?”
I pretended to look around at the bar. “Are the cocktails ready yet?”
Mom smiled and looked at Adam. “Pineapple on pizza is about the only thing we agree on. That and the shortness of her temper.”
“Really? You agree about your temper?” Adam turned to me.
I shrugged. “I have a hot temper. It’s not my fault. It’s the redhead in me. My temper strikes like a match.”
“And burns like a house fire,” Mom continued.
“If prison suits didn’t clash with my hair, I’d probably be a murderer.”
“They’re orange. They blend with your hair,” Adam said, frowning.
Mom shook her head. “She wore orange once. She looked like a human bowl of fruit.”
That was sadly true.
I sighed. “That was a rough day.”
Adam looked at me and tilted his head. “So that’s really your natural hair color?”
“You didn’t know that?” Mom asked.
“We’ve never discussed her hair,” he said honestly.
“Yes.” I jumped in before it could go any deeper into what we had and hadn’t spoken about. “The bottom isn’t, but the top is,” I explained, referring to the ombre effect I had that took my hair from dark ginger to a lighter, brighter color. “Keeps it fresh. I like it.”
“You never discussed it?” Mom continued with
her interrogation.
Great. Now she had a bee in her bonnet. I saw the glint in her eye. She was a bloodhound and she’d picked up the scent of absolute bullshit.
“Do you discuss your hair with Dad?” I shot back.
She paused. “Well, no.”
“There you go then.”
Right on cue, the server appeared with a silver tray. Three small glasses that resembled stemless wine glasses sat on it, filled with a light pink liquid, a handful of ice cubes, and a weird swirly pink thing that I was afraid was real rhubarb.
I was already skeptical, and now I was ready to veto this drink just on its look.
“Rhubarb and ginger gin cocktail,” the server said, lowering the tray to the table. One by one, he picked up the glasses and set them on woven coasters in front of each of us. “And your menus.” Folded, laminated menus were then placed in front of us.
“Thank you,” Mom said. “Could we have some bread, please?”
“Absolutely, ma’am. I’ll get that for you now.”
“Thank you.” She opened the menu, effectively dismissing him, and Adam glanced at me.
It lasted only the briefest of seconds before he returned his attention right to the glass.
His expression could only be described as one thing.
Regret.
“Are you all right?” I asked him.
“Yeah. I’m just considering how I’d never live it down if any of my teammates ever saw me drinking pink cocktails.” He frowned. “I don’t think I will, even they don’t see me.”
“You’re doing it for the greater good,” I told him chirpily. “And a lunch date might stop random teen girls screaming at you.”
“That happened one time,” he reminded me, holding up a finger. “And it was not my fault.”
“Teen girls screamed at you?” Mom asked, picking up the cocktail before quickly putting it down. “Do we need to send out a note asking people to control their children?”
I choked on my own saliva. “What is this? A freaking zoo? Mom, you can’t do that!”
“Well, if you hadn’t had brought a famous sports star as your date…”
And this was why my mother and I did not do lunch dates.
“I didn’t do it deliberately.” I shifted in my seat. Oh, if only she knew how true that was! “It’s not like I set out to sabotage a wedding or anything. Hell, I didn’t even know who he was when we met.”
That’s right. I was going to toe the line of truth as closely as I could. The fewer lies I told, the less chance I had of being caught with my pants on fire.
And nobody wanted their pants to be on fire. If my pants were on fire, my vagina would be at risk, and man was that a useful thing to have around and fully functioning.
Especially if the person who could, you know, do something with the vagina was Adam Winters.
Luckily for me, right at that point, the server saved my ginger ass once again.
“Here’s the bread basket you requested, Mrs. Dunn.” He put a wicker basket full of sliced bread in the center of the table, along with three small plates, knives, and a small dish full of butter. “Did you look at your menus or taste your drinks?”
“Yes, I know what I’d like to order,” I lied, opening my menu for the first time. Skimming it with my eyes and pretending like I knew what I was looking for, I ran my finger across the menu. “I’ll have the salmon with sweet potato fries. Thank you.” I folded it and handed it to him.
Adam’s eyes widened like I’d told him a puck was coming at his nose. “I’ll uh, I’ll have the steak.”
“Which steak, sir?” the server asked.
“Rump. Rare.” He snapped the menu shut and handed it to the server.
Mom, however, looked marginally amused. “I’ll have a Caesar salad with chicken, thank you. Dressing on the side.”
With that, he was dismissed. Even if he did open his mouth to ask about something else—probably our cocktails. I didn’t blame him. Mom was terrifying at the best of times. Horrific at the worst.
“So,” Mom said, taking a napkin from the table. Without looking at us, she folded it and set it on her lap. “Where did you meet?”
“In a bar,” Adam answered honestly. “She was the only woman in the general vicinity who didn’t look at me like I was a meal ticket. Turned out, she had no idea who I was.” He peered over at me, lips twitching into a smile.
Okay, wow. We really were going to skirt the truth here.
I picked up my drink and looked at Mom. “It’s true. He could have been that guy who plays for that Spanish team and I still wouldn’t have recognized him.”
“Which guy?” Mom asked, frowning.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “If I knew, I’d have said his name.”
“Ronaldo?” Adam jumped in, saving my ass.
“That guy. Isn’t he in Portugal? Why did I think he played in Spain?”
“He does play in Spain.” He was visibly trying not to laugh at me at this point. “He’s Portuguese, so he plays for Portugal, but his club team is Real Madrid.”
I looked at Mom again and shrugged. “There you go. All I knew was that he was hot with his shirt off.”