Just Say Yes (16 page)

Stew

Pulling off the quiet tree-lined street onto the circular driveway, Tim scanned the expansive property. The three-story brick Colonial sat upon no less than two acres of land, and the open doors to the separate three-car garage off to the side gave Tim a perfect view of what was inside. He'd recognize that car anywhere. It was one every guy dreamed of driving: a 1969 Camaro. “Jesus,” Tim whispered as he pulled in front of the Sawyer home and took the keys out of the ignition.

Quinn looked over the hood of Tim's truck as she shut her door. “What?”

“Huh?”

“You just said ‘Jesus,' and I know you aren't religious.” Quinn tossed her hair in front of one of her shoulders and gave him a sweet smile.

“Oh yeah, sorry.” Tim glanced over his shoulder at the garage one last time as he made his way up the stone walkway. “I think I'm in love.”

“Isn't that sweet?” said a voice that was much too deep to be Quinn's.

With a quick whip of his head, Tim locked eyes with Mr. Sawyer. Tim wasn't sure just how much of a sense of humor Mr. Sawyer had, but from the looks of him, it wasn't much of one. The man stood at the front door, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he seemed to appraise Tim. Quinn's father was about the same height as Tim, with dark hair that had clearly been turning gray for some time. Tim suddenly felt the need to hurry up the path, his hand outstretched as his long legs covered the distance between them. “Tim Jacobs, sir. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. And I was talking about the Camaro. Not your daughter.”
Real smooth, asshole.
He hesitated, unsure of what to say, as he took a cursory glance at Quinn out of the corner of his eye. Her expression confirmed everything he already knew. He hadn't even formally met Quinn's parents and already he was blowing it. He
did
love Quinn, and he hoped she knew that. He just hadn't said it in so many words yet. And confessing his true feelings for her was better done anywhere else than on this man's front lawn.

“Well, that's
one
way to introduce yourself. Glad to hear you love the car,” Mr. Sawyer said before hesitating just as Tim had. “And
not
my daughter.” The thin line of Mr. Sawyer's expression revealed nothing of his thoughts. “Please call me Peter,” he added, calming Tim's nerves a bit. “And this is Quinn's mother, Julia.”

Tim saw the resemblance between the two women immediately. Julia had the same red hair he'd always loved on Quinn, but her mother's was cut much shorter, just above her shoulders, and styled to perfection. He had no doubt that Julia had looked nearly identical to her daughter when she was her age. “Nice to meet you,” Tim said, taking Julia's hand in his and giving it a gentle shake. “Now I see where Quinn gets her good looks.”

Quinn quirked an eyebrow up at Tim. “Hitting on my dad's car
and
my mom. Should I be jealous?”

Tim opened his mouth to speak but shut it just as fast. He'd already done enough talking. Quinn had clearly been joking, but it only added to Tim's rising insecurities.

Julia's mouth turned up into a warm smile—one Tim was sure she'd formed intentionally to make him feel more at ease. “We're happy you could come for dinner,” Julia said before turning toward Quinn to wrap her daughter in a warm embrace.

The Sawyers led Tim and Quinn inside, thankfully ending the awkward greeting. As he made his way through their foyer and back to the kitchen, Tim let Quinn's parents carry the majority of the conversation. Other than commenting on what a lovely home they had and asking what he hoped were a few innocuous questions about some of the photos they had displayed from various family vacations, Tim stayed relatively quiet.

“What would you like to drink, Tim?” Julia asked as she set the shrimp cocktail down on the breakfast bar where Tim and Quinn were seated. “I know Quinn will have some Moscato,” she said as she got a wineglass down and began to pour. “We have beer, wine, iced tea, soda . . .”

“Just water'd be great. Thanks.”

Mrs. Sawyer handed Quinn the glass of wine and gave Tim a bottle of water out of the fridge. “Is sparkling okay?”

“Perfect. Thank you.” Tim opened the bottle and took a long drink, feeling the need to do something with his mouth other than talk. Instead, he was content to listen to the family discuss Quinn's job and the vacation her parents had just taken to their home in the Keys. He managed to make it through the next twenty minutes or so without saying much of anything until Quinn's parents finally ushered them into the formal dining room for the main course: mahimahi with a spicy mango salsa.

“Why don't you sit here, Tim?” Julia said, gesturing to the seat opposite her husband at the other head of the table.

Tim sat, putting his drink down in front of him and scooting in his chair gently, almost as if he were afraid that his presence alone would disrupt the perfection surrounding him. The long cherry table sat beneath a crystal chandelier, and the high-backed chairs made Tim feel smaller than he would have liked. Julia sat on his right side and Quinn on the left. Peter sat at one end of the table, with Tim at the other. Tim couldn't ignore the irony of feeling vulnerable while sitting in a place of power.

The last time he'd sat opposite the man of the house in such a formal setting had been more than twenty-five years ago. He had just turned ten, earning him a seat at the head of the table for Christmas dinner. He was “second in command,” as his father had put it, since he was in the double digits. His mother had sat on one of the sides, opposite Scott, as she watched with pride as her older son began to grow up. And Tim had taken the knife his father had and helped carve the turkey as well as any child could. Because that's what he was: a child.

But that was the last time he'd felt like one. The last time his mother would give up her place so Tim could take it. The following year he'd unknowingly thrown a wrench into the proverbial spokes of his parents' marriage. And nothing had felt the same since.

“So, Tim,” Peter said, pulling Tim from his memories, “Quinn tells us you're a chef.”

Tim swallowed the sip of water he'd just taken and threw his gaze to Quinn for a moment before speaking. “That's right.”

Quinn reached a hand over to squeeze his forearm. “I told you he was the
executive
chef. At The Black Lantern.”

Tim nodded as he put a Red Bliss potato in his mouth and chewed it slowly. He knew the reason for Quinn's correction. She didn't want her parents thinking he was just some short-order cook at a local diner. They would know how expensive The Black Lantern was even if they had never eaten there. And the place had already been recognized in a few local newspapers and magazines. “Right.
Executive
chef.”

“I was nervous to cook for you once Quinn told us what you did for a living,” Julia said. “I hope my meal stacks up.” Julia's smile was warm and kind.

“You have no reason to be worried,” Tim replied, giving Julia a sincere smile. “It's delicious. Really.”

Peter raised his eyebrows from across the table. “An executive chef at one of D.C.'s new restaurants. That's no small feat. You must have had some impressive experience prior to your current position.” He dabbed his cloth napkin on his short mustache before returning it gently to his lap. “Did you go to college for hotel and restaurant management first, or did you go to culinary school right out of high school and then study abroad? Our friends' son is in Italy right now doing that exact thing.”

Tim cleared his throat, unsure of exactly how to answer. So he took another bite of his fish to give himself a moment to choose his words carefully. “No. I took some time off. I didn't go to culinary school until about six years ago, actually.” He put his fork down on his plate, feeling as though he needed to release all of the extra weight he could. “I wasn't really sure what I wanted to do with my life after high school.” He could feel Quinn's eyes on him, swore he could hear the beating of her heart increase as she worried whether he would tell her father exactly
why
he'd taken so much time off. “The owner of The Black Lantern is a friend of a friend.” He gave Quinn a small smile. “It's all who you know, right?”

Quinn's father gave a slight smile and then took a drink of his red wine. “It's nice when things work out in our favor like that, isn't it?”

Tim locked eyes with Quinn only briefly, but it was long enough to read her. Over the past month and a half he'd gotten so good at recognizing her tells. She was letting him know it was okay. “Yes, it is. I'm pretty lucky,” he replied. “So Quinn tells me the two of you own a few businesses yourselves,” he added, eager to move the topic of conversation away from himself.

Julia swallowed the food in her mouth and then straightened in her seat, clearly preparing to elaborate. It was exactly what Tim had hoped would happen. She told him about how her own mother had been a florist and she had worked with her as a teenager. “When I met Peter, he was just finishing his business degree and was looking for a solid investment.”

“Julia knew the business, and I had some money saved, so I could provide the financial backing. As far as investments go, opening up a flower shop seemed like a safe bet.”

Tim didn't have to look at Quinn to know she was probably smirking at the mention of playing things safe.

“Now we have a few shops in the D.C. area and provide arrangements for a lot of corporate events and political affairs. The business has really expanded.”

Julia's eyes widened. “We even got to meet the president last year.”

“That's incredible,” Tim said. “It must be a great feeling to start something from scratch like that and have it grow to be such a success.”

“It is,” Mr. Sawyer replied. “Nothing quite like it really. But I have no interest in hanging around a flower shop all day. So I find hobbies to keep me busy.” He put his fork down and then took a drink. “I think you saw one of those hobbies in the garage. Maybe after dinner I can take you out there and you can see her up close.”

Tim could feel his eyes light up with excitement. “Absolutely!” Despite his initial fears, things seemed to be going well with Quinn's parents.

Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, Tim did his best not to appear as though his only thought was getting out to the garage. But as he shoveled food into his mouth at a speed that would rival the car itself, he was fairly certain his efforts were futile.

Finally Mrs. Sawyer spoke. “Why don't you boys go out to the garage while Quinn and I get dessert ready?”

“Are you sure you don't need some help with the dishes?” both men asked nearly in unison. Tim hoped the answer would be no, but his offer was sincere. These people had cooked a delicious meal for him. The least he could do was help clean up.

Julia stood up, stacking a few plates on to one another silently while Tim waited for her response. She took a few steps toward the kitchen before turning around and smiling in a way that told Tim the suspense she'd caused was intentional. “Nope. We got it. I'll come get you when dessert's ready.”

“You heard the woman, Tim. Let's get out of here before she changes her mind.”

•   •   •

Tim ducked under the hood again as if he hadn't spent the last fifteen minutes examining the Camaro inside and out. He'd walked around the exterior, admiring the sparkling bloodred paint before Peter had popped the hood to show him the modifications he'd made to the car's performance. “This thing's even better up close. I'd love to work on something like this eventually.”

“Yeah, this garage is my hideout. Anytime I want a little fresh air or just to relax for a while, I come out here to work on her.” He strolled over to where a brown leather couch—which looked much too clean to be in someone's garage—sat against the wall and reached into the fridge next to it. “Plus,” he said as he extended a bottle toward Tim with a small laugh, “there's beer out here.”

“I'm fine. Thanks,” Tim said as casually as he could.

Mr. Sawyer put the beer back without a word, and the next few minutes followed much the same way.

Tim tried to busy himself with the car, finally sitting in the driver's seat and running his hand softly over the dash.

“So I gotta know,” Peter said, finally breaking the silence that had hung in the air like a thick fog between them, “what's your story?”

Well, that didn't take long.
Tim had been wondering how long it would take for Peter to make up his mind about him. Turns out, it took about two hours. “My story?”

“Yeah, I mean you aren't exactly who I pictured when my daughter said she was bringing her new boyfriend to meet us.”

Tim exited the car slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might disrupt the fragility of their conversation. “Who
did
you picture?”

Mr. Sawyer let out a sharp laugh. “You know, I'm not sure really. I guess I just expected someone more like . . . Quinn.”

Tim's first instinct was to defend himself, to defend what he had with Quinn and tell Mr. Sawyer that if he thought Tim was nothing like Quinn, then he clearly didn't know his own daughter. But he kept his mouth closed, knowing that his own insecurities would start to show, making him afraid of what might escape if he spoke.

“But she shows up here with this tattooed . . .
man
,” he said as if the word left a bitter taste on his tongue. “And I'm guessing you had something to do with the new jewelry on my daughter's nose?”

“It was something she wanted to—”

“It wasn't something she wanted to do before she met
you
.” Mr. Sawyer let out a long sigh. “I know my daughter's an adult. But she's still my daughter.” Quinn's father set his beer down on a metal shelf and crossed his arms, his stare meeting Tim's with an unmistakable intensity. “I don't know just how serious you are about this relationship. But I do know Quinn. And she clearly likes you.” Mr. Sawyer dropped his eyes to the ground and rubbed his shoe on a stained patch of concrete before returning his gaze to Tim. “Look, you seem like a nice enough guy. You're charming, well-spoken, but I don't
know
you.”