Page 60 of Reticent

I sigh, pretending to be exasperated. He’s leaning in so closely that I think he might kiss me again.

“Not,” I say. But I do like it, and he has no idea how much.

“Just a heads-up,” Hunter says once we exit the car.

“What?” We stop at the curb, and I look up at him with a bit of trepidation at his hesitation.

“My mom can be a bit much.”

“Does she have a problem with me? Because I didn’t come here to be attacked.” I’m freaking out now. Emotionally, I can’t handle this not going well, especially with what’s going on between my dad and me. I thought Hunter knew that. My pregnancy hormones are out of control. At any second, I could burst into tears.

“Whoa. Hey.” He takes my face in his hands. “Do you think I’d ever let anyone disrespect you?”

I chew on my bottom lip as warmth fills me chest. “But she’s your mom.”

“I don’t give a fuck. No one will disrespect you on my watch. Do you hear me?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Good.” He drops his hands from my face and takes my hands in his. “All I meant is that she has no filter.”

I feel a little better but not much. “Is she super religious or conservative?”

He chuckles. “Nothing like that. Don’t let the Chanel suits fool you. She’s a real pistol and a real ballbuster to her sons. But she can’t wait to meet you.”

I try to picture the woman who gave birth to Hunter. “This is going to be interesting, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

* * *

Hunter leads me through the dining area of the clubhouse with his hand on the small of my back. I can feel eyes on us, though I never catch anyone staring directly. Like Hunter said—which I already knew from my own research—the Demalios are a big deal in this town. The youngest Demalio has been making a splash with his growing brand and speculation about his personal life since his high-profile divorce. Mr. Houston’s Most Eligible Bachelor is making a bold statement by bringing me here. And my pregnant belly leaves little room for speculation.

“Is this going to be in the blogs?” I ask quietly.

“Most likely.”

“I was kidding,” I mutter.

“There she is.” Hunter nods toward an elegant woman with perfectly coiffed obsidian hair and a growing smile as she spots us.

“You look just like her,” I say, marveling at the resemblance.

“I get that a lot.”

In the time it takes to walk to Priscilla’s table, her accessing eyes never leave me. And even with her cordial smile, I have no idea what she’s thinking.

“Mother.” Hunter leans down to kiss her cheek.

“Hi, honey,” she says with a sugary sweet southern accent.

“Yasmine Clark, allow me to introduce you to my mother, Priscilla Demalio. And this beautiful woman”—he rubs my back—“is finally giving you the grandson you’ve been nagging me about for years.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Demalio.” I extend my hand, but she stands and hugs me.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says, holding me close against her tall slender frame. “You are so darling.”

“Thank you.” I’m taken aback by her kindness and nurturing hug.