A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2) (38 page)

Dan examines me from head to toe before turning back to Bridget. “Have I told you how much I love you, Bridget?”

With a justified laugh, she says, “Yeah, I thought so.”

The lights in the bar dim, which means it’s time for Colin’s band. The five of us make our way toward the stage just as they start, and as expected, they rock—the lights, the music, and the intensity of the crowd—the show is incredible. Except . . . I spot a Jason mask on the opposite side of the room and it seems aimed in my direction. Like a spider crawling on my neck, I just know it’s Ian and I turn away. Toward the end of Colin’s set, I risk another glance to be sure. My heart plummets—it’s Ian with the mask resting on the top of his head, his face exposed. He’s staring at me then gives me a nod and a smile. He takes a sip of his beer then licks his lips suggestively. I turn away as a chill runs straight through me.

“What’s the matter?” Dan whispers into my ear. “You’re all tense and white. You feeling okay? Not going to vomit, are you?”

“No, I’m fine. Just cold.”

He immediately shifts to stand behind me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and across my collarbone, holding me against him. He kisses my cheek. “I noticed you have a lasso and Camille has handcuffs. I’m not sure I want to know what Bridget has, but I have a feeling Shane’s in trouble.”

I laugh.

The rest of the night passes without incident, and I never mention Ian’s gestures to Dan. My time with Dan is always too short, so I want nothing tainting it.

Chapter Thirteen

Somehow the holiday season sneaks up on me, which is surprising given the fact that my teacher life was measured by holidays. Nonetheless, this Thanksgiving I’m extra thankful, for an obvious reason: Dan. Not only in having him in my life, but the fact that he’s willingly, and dare I say excitedly, coming to my family’s Thanksgiving dinner despite the fact that my brothers threatened to break his legs last time.

So, here we are on the front steps of my parents’ house, ready to go in, and I’m stalling. Being in a little bubble with Dan before the onslaught of my family is necessary, plus gawking at Dan’s strong jaw, smooth skin, and bright green eyes never ceases to bewitch me. And he’s holding flowers for my mother this time. “Not only are you a momma’s boy, but you’re also a kiss ass,” I tease, nodding to the flowers.

He laughs, holding up a finger. “For one, I am not a momma’s boy. Two, do I really need to point out that right beyond that door is a massive, home-cooked feast that I need access to? Hence the flowers. And three, you must stop your obvious gawking and panting—I know you can’t help yourself, but really, keep it in your pants. I’ll satisfy you later. Now, let’s get in there and feed me.”

I burst into laughter. “Oh my God!” I swat at him, and he turns away, laughing and trying to protect the flowers.

Just then the door opens. My mother is standing there. “Claire! What are you doing?” Her face is tight.

We straighten up, but can’t stop giggling. “Oh! Hi, Mom.”

She seems to relax a bit, but her lips remain pursed. “I heard loud laughing and didn’t know who it could be out here.”
Not surprising.

“These are for you, Mrs. Parelli. Thank you for having me, and Happy Thanksgiving.”

Kiss ass.

We enter and say hello to everyone with hugs, kisses, and handshakes—but no threats of violence—yet, anyway—although I give my brothers the evil eye just in case. Soon enough it’s time to sit down to the massive spread my mom prefers to whip up on her own. We’re all asked to “just come with an appetite.”

Once again, Dan and I are seated near my parents, which naturally makes it easier for my mom to be obnoxious to him. Good thing the wine’s smooth.

Grace is said, and my mouth waters as we pass platters of warm, juicy turkey, bowls of gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, stuffing, mashed potatoes, roasted veggies, and bread. I glance at Dan, whose eyes are wide and wild, his plate hardly able to contain the mini-mountains of each item. If the house went up in flames, he’d probably go right on eating.

It’s quiet as we all dig in, but soon enough, conversations pop up around the table. As expected, my mom strikes one up with Dan, who’s busy chewing.

“So, Dan, what kind of . . . acting job do you have now?” She resumes the same posture and expression she had the last time—light on the interest, heavy on the distaste.

“Well, I’ve just finished some reshoots for the upcoming Sushman movie—”

“Sushman?” my brother John asks. “He’s an incredible filmmaker.”

Dan smiles and seems a little relieved in a way. “Yes, he really is—a little crazy, too—but really good at what he does.”

“I’ve heard he can be really demanding,” John says before taking a bite of turkey.

“How do you know about Sushman, John?” I ask.

“What? I’ve gotten more interested in movies the past couple of years.”

I’m surprised to say the least. “I had no idea,” I say.

“Anyway, Sushman is one of those enigmatic directors who doesn’t give interviews, and only films a select few movies here and there. It’s pretty impressive that you’re working with him. He’s really quirky, right?”

“Thank you. It was an honor—and yes, he is quirky. Lots of rules and parameters around what we do on set,” Dan says.

I shake my head at John’s wife, Shannon, who seems as perplexed as I am.

“When does it come out?” John asks.

“Not sure, but probably whenever Sushman wants it to—he’s got a ton of pull.”

John nods like he knows this stuff.

“What about the one with that beautiful Sophie Miller?” my mom asks.

I can’t help but roll my eyes.
Must you bring up Sophie every time?
I gulp down my wine.

“I’m starting promo for that one in the next week or so.”

My mother nods. “What is it that you do for promotion?” she asks.
Finally! A normal question.
I set the wine down.

“More or less the main cast tours different cities to let people know about the movie. We try to build excitement to see it.”

“Like a telemarketer.” A smug grin flashes on her face before she says, “I always wonder if they believe in anything they’re selling.”

“Mom—” I begin.

“I wonder the same thing, Mrs. Parelli. It’s a good thing I only get involved in projects I believe in.” Dan smiles at her.
Killing her with kindness again.

“So you believe in the movie you’re promoting?”

He nods. “Definitely. I wouldn’t have taken the part otherwise. I’m looking forward to seeing it at the premiere.”

“You haven’t seen it, and yet you’re going to promote it?”

“I’ve seen almost all of it, just not the finished product all the way through. I’ll see it at the New York premiere . . . with Claire, if she’d like to come.” He turns to me with a grin, waiting for an answer.

Caught off-guard, I blink, speechless for a fraction of a second. “Oh . . . I’d love to.” No doubt there’s a swoony grin on my face.

He winks at me. “Good.”

“Will you miss Christmas with your family because you’ll be promoting, Dan? What kind of job asks a person to work on Christmas?” my mom asks, scoffing.

“Actually, no. I’ll be done with promotion just before Christmas, so I’ll be able to fly home, which reminds me—Claire, I was wondering if you’d like to join me in London for Christmas. Meet my family.”

Silverware clanks onto plates, and the table falls silent, as does my heart, which has stopped mid-beat.
Meet his family? In London?
I hear my sisters-in-law giggle, and when I peek down the table, all eyes are on me. 

I shake my head to clear it. “I . . . I’m . . .” I look at him. That face. Those eyes. That smile. We’re in our bubble again. “I’d love to come to London for Christmas.”

“You’re not going to be with your own family on Christmas, Claire?” my mother asks, short and snippy. Pop goes the bubble.

I look back at my mother whose anger simmers just under the surface. “I guess not this year.” My head spins.
Visiting London and meeting his family for Christmas! Whoa.

Dan looks at my mom. “My mum is very excited to meet her.”

“You told your mother about Claire?”

“Of course.”

My mother examines me, examines Dan, and then asks, “Then I have to wonder why Claire doesn’t talk about you, Dan.”

“Mom,” I say, scolding.

“It’s true. He tells his mother about you, but why do I only find out about your life through magazines, Claire? And now you’re headed off to a foreign country with him, and I know so little about him.”

“What would you like to know about me, Mrs. Parelli?” Dan asks, and I want to shove those words all the way back into his mouth.

Placing her fork down, she dabs her lips with the napkin. “I’d like to know why she changed her whole life for you.” She sits back, waiting.

The only sounds come from the kids’ table in the kitchen—giggling and a little bickering, but the “grown-up” table, which hardly seems grown-up right now, is silent.

“I didn’t change my life for him, Mom. I changed it for me.”

“For you,” she says, repeating me. “Are you sure about that? You always loved teaching until you met him—then you gave it up.”

I stare at her a moment, gathering my thoughts and words and trying not to throw up. This has reached a whole new level of uncomfortable—it’s unbearable.
Yes, Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
Of course, my brothers haven’t stopped chomping and shoveling food in their gobs. Dad’s doing the same. “I started teaching for you and stopped when I started living for me. I’m happy with my new job. I’m happy dating Dan. I’m happy living in New York. I’m just happy, Mom, and I’m happy to spend Christmas in London, meeting Dan’s family.”

She shifts, picks up her fork, but keeps her eyes on me.

Dan interrupts the showdown. “Your cooking is just as delicious as my mum’s, Mrs. Parelli.” He shoves a forkful of turkey into his mouth.

“Yes, everything’s delicious, dear,” my father says. There are mumbles of agreement around the table as the awkwardness slowly dissipates and smaller conversations crop up again. I breathe deeply and try to eat.
God, she gets under my skin so easily.

Later, I’m at the sink washing platters and pans when my mother slides up next to me. I brace myself.

She grabs a dishtowel and begins drying. “I’m glad you’re happy, Claire . . . but what’s wrong with him?”

I stop and look at her. She’s perfectly serious. “What?”

“What are his flaws, Claire? He’s handsome, accomplished in his field . . .” She pauses to roll her eyes. “. . . and he seems nice and thoughtful. So what’s wrong with him?”

“Why does something have to be wrong with him?”

“Because everyone has flaws . . . except Dan Chase? He’s the perfect man? You know what they say—if it’s too good to be true then it probably is.” She stops, watching me for a moment, until she leans in and kisses my cheek. “Thank you for washing those.” She walks away. I sigh in relief, but the gnawing begins.

Flaws.

***

We arrive back at my apartment at the end of Thanksgiving Day, and no one’s home. Camille and Bridget are sleeping over their respective families’ houses. I wasn’t about to do the same.

I’m at my dresser, taking off my earrings when Dan slides his hands around my waist and presses our hips together. He leans his chin on my shoulder and watches me through the mirror. Turning his head toward my neck, he breathes hard on purpose to tickle me. I giggle a little. “No one threatened me tonight, so that’s a step in the right direction, I think,” he says with a laugh. “Dinner was amazing. I know where you get your cooking skills from.” He spins me around, keeping his hands on my waist. “What’s wrong? You’ve been quiet since we left your parents’ house.”

I shrug and mindlessly toy with his shirt buttons. I’m not sure I can identify one thing since it feels like a million things are occupying my headspace.

“Are you still upset about what your mum said at dinner?”

I meet his eyes. “I’m really sorry about that. She is the Queen of Discomfort. Let’s make everyone squirm while I roast Claire and Dan in front of everyone on a fucking holiday.”

He strokes my face. “You handled it very well.”

I shrug again. “But she said other things later on, and I can’t shake them. I’ve gotten better about letting her comments go, but this . . .”

“What’d she say?”

I sigh. “She asked if you had any flaws.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“No. She thinks you’re too good to be true—a fake.”

He laughs.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because of course I have flaws. A lot of them. You know I do.”

I raise an eyebrow at him.

“A lot of them, Claire. I was not always this rocking Adonis you see before you.” He wiggles his eyebrows and tickles my waist a little. I shake my head and give in to a smile. Dan strokes my cheek and presses his lips to mine before slowly kissing his way to my neck. His hands draw a leisurely line down my spine to my hips, resting his hands there. In my ear he whispers, “Not so long ago I was infinitely more awkward than dinner was tonight.”

The idea of him ever being awkward makes me snicker.

He continues stroking and nibbling along my neck. “When my grown-up teeth came in, they were enormous—like those mini-marshmallows. And when I smiled, I looked like I could eat a village. Children shrieked in horror as I passed.”

I pull back to look at him, laughing at the image. “Really?”

He snickers and shakes his head. “No. I mean, yes to the teeth, but no to the children shrieking, although I wouldn’t have been surprised.” Leaning in again, he presses his lips to my cheek then up to my ear where he nibbles on my ear lobe for a moment.

Chills prickle down my arms, and I’m suddenly aware at how tense my shoulders have been. He stops again and pulls back to look at me. “And my hair had mad cowlicks, so it went in every direction. My mum thought I looked adorable though, so there was no cutting it off.” He takes my hand, leading me to the bed, where he sits at an angle on the edge and pats the spot next to him. “Sit. Give me your back.”

I sit, as instructed, with my back toward him and one leg on the floor, the other folded under me. He begins massaging my neck and shoulders. I exhale, a calm emanating from his fingers. “And then I started growing taller, like a lanky beanstalk, and I was really self-conscious about it, so I hunched over when I walked around.” He grabs my shoulders and leans around me to meet my eyes. “I was not attractive in the very least.”

He sits back and continues to rub my neck and shoulders. I can feel the tension leaving my body bit by bit. “So on top of those raging good looks . . .” He snorts. “I was also sensitive—I cried at everything. My sisters like to remind me of that. Anyway, I’ve always been able to empathize with people, so when others were upset, so was I. It was awful not to have control over my feelings when I was younger. I absolutely thought I was defective. Look at me, Claire.”

I twist around to look at him.

“I was a big-toothed, bushy-haired, gangly, sensitive kid. And the best part? I had a hard time learning to read, so add feeling stupid to the list, and you have the start of my flaws. “Turn around.”

I turn my back to him and his fingers weave into my hair, massaging my head with tiny swirls that unwind my mind.

“It took a long while for me to accept myself—and figure out hair gel.” He chuckles. “I have great parents who really encouraged me, and helped me learn to read. My face grew, too, so the teeth started looking less like they belonged to a horse, and I somehow figured out a way to make a pretty lucrative living out of being sensitive—and love what I do. Frankly, I never expected to be known for acting or my looks, or that I’d be able to land any girl, much less a girl like you.”

“Now you’re just being silly.”

“No, I’m not. I’m serious.”

“But everyone has awkward stages. Those aren’t really flaws.”

“Look at me.”

I turn again to face him.

“I can be selfish, stubborn, and a dickhead on occasion.”

“Okay, but again, that’s normal—everyone can be those things.”

“Which is my point exactly. I’m a normal person with normal flaws . . . except . . .” He stops as if he’s unsure of the next words. “There might come a day when you discover some flaw of mine that will make you wonder if it’s worth it, if I’m worth it.”

I’m taken aback, and it takes me several moments to respond. “I can’t imagine there ever being something that would make me wonder if being with you is worth it.”

“Why’s that so strange? It happened before.” He’s tense—his face, his posture. “You left me because of it.”

“I left because of
my
faults, Dan, and anyway, I have a mountain of flaws next to you.” I shake my head and look down at my hands.

“Like what? Name them. Because from where I’m sitting your only flaws are that you’re equally as sensitive as I am and you’re scared—you’ve been scared for too long to listen to your heart. You hate people not approving of your decisions, think you’re hurting them by doing something unexpected, so you’d rather hurt yourself and not make waves, right? Dinner tonight made it very clear why you’d rather not make waves.”