Check Her Out (His Curvy Librarian Book 2), Frankie Love [feel good books .TXT] 📗

meet your parents…” I can tell there’s more she wants to say, so I just stay silent and she takes a deep breath. “I want to tell you something, to explain why I’m so jittery tonight.”

“You can tell me anything.”

Another deep breath. And then, “Remember at the outreach center, when I said I loved books because they let me escape growing up poor?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that was only half the story,” she says, and I can hear the struggle in her voice.

This is clearly something she hasn’t shared with a lot of people, and if I wasn’t driving, I’d pull her into a bear hug right here and now.

“My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen. Drunk driver,” she forces the words out.

“Oh, Brooklyn, I’m so sorry.”

“That house you just picked me up from, that’s where I lived after,” she goes on. “My best friends’ parents took me in and they’ve been like a second mom and dad to me… I told them about you while we were baking and they were so excited for me.”

I smile. “I’m glad you have them.”

“I was lucky,” she agrees. “But the point is, my whole life I feel like I’ve been bracing for something else bad to happen, for the other shoe to drop, you know? And I really like you, Prescott… but I’m afraid this is all some beautiful dream and doing something as serious as meeting your parents is gonna wake me up, drag me back to reality.”

I lift her hand to my lips, kiss her knuckles and wish I could do more. “This is reality, Brooklyn. I like you too—I’m falling hard—and I promise I will never let anything bad happen to you again as long as it’s in my power.”

She smiles, I kiss her while we’re at a traffic light, and then I add, “Seriously, though, if you want to get takeout and go back to my place, we can blow off this whole dinner.”

“Thank you,” she says, “but I made these scones and darn it, we’re delivering them.”

I chuckle, then turn the car onto the winding road my parents live on. I can see Brooklyn’s eyes widening as she realizes where we are—the part of Golden Creek that widens to a small lake, with million-dollar homes arranged around it.

“I have a confession to make as well,” I say. This is the part of the evening that I’ve been dreading.

“Yeah?”

I let out a sigh, then nod toward the largest house on the lake, a sprawling Tudor-style estate. “That’s my parents’ place.”

Brooklyn’s eyebrows rise. “The Beaufont Mansion?”

I cringe at the word mansion. Hell, it’s hard not to cringe at Beaufont too.

She continues, “Prescott, are you a Beaufont?”

“Yes,” I admit. I used to wear that identity like a badge of honor. I used to throw money around like it was confetti, and even though I’m not that person anymore, I feel guilty by association as I pull into the driveway, with its meticulously pruned topiaries lining each side. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Umm, yes it is,” she says, looking down at the daisy-printed sundress she’s wearing. “Look at me—I can’t go in there in this!”

“You look beautiful,” I say, then point out the fact that I’m in jeans and a V-neck T-shirt, my standard work uniform.

“That’s different,” she starts to sputter, and I worry that I made another mistake in not warning her further in advance. But I thought it’d be easier if she didn’t see all this sickening opulence coming.

Fortunately, at least one part of my plan works out, and my mother is coming out of the house to greet us as soon as I pull up to the front door. There’s no time to worry any more, and no time to dwell on the whole Beaufont thing.

I lean over and kiss Brooklyn, whispering, “You’ll be great. I’m right by your side.”

Then we go meet my mom on the steps.

When I told her I was bringing a woman to dinner, her curiosity was more than a little piqued, and she never turns down an opportunity to feed people. Cooking is the one thing she actually still does for herself, and takes great pride in, so I figured Friday night dinner was the perfect time to introduce Brooklyn.

She takes the scones, making a comment about the fact that she’d already made chocolate soufflés for dessert. We go inside and I give Brooklyn a brief tour, and we find my father in the formal dining room. That introduction goes a little better, and he stands to pull out Brooklyn’s chair for her.

We all sit and Mom rings the ridiculous little silver bell she uses to tell the staff she’s ready for them to bring in the first course. I can see Brooklyn struggling not to look shocked, and I squeeze her hand beneath the table. Why the hell did I think this was a good second date?

“So, Brooklyn,” my dad says once the salad course is under way, “tell us about yourself. Did you grow up in Golden Creek?”

“Yes,” she says, “born and raised.”

“What neighborhood?” my mother asks, and Brooklyn’s cheeks color.

“Umm, the Westend Trailer Park, actually,” she says. “My dad worked in logging, and my mom was a substitute teacher.”

“Past tense?” my mother says. “Are they unemployed now?”

I choke on my arugula, but Brooklyn holds her own. “No, actually, they passed when I was fifteen,” she says. “But they were both really hard workers and they did everything they could to provide for me.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” my dad says.

“Yes,” Mom agrees. “A trailer park, can you imagine?”

Now my face is burning. I have to admit I haven’t brought a woman home in a while, and the ones I used to bring around tended to be from the other large houses around the lake… but I never expected my mom to treat Brooklyn like this, or I definitely wouldn’t have brought her here.

“Mom, Brooklyn is the teen librarian at Golden Creek Library,” I say, trying to salvage this conversation. “That’s how