"When you fell in love with her. She fucked up by keeping it from you. I'm not denying that. But she deserves a chance to explain why. She's not an idiot and she loves you."

"And we all self-sabotage," I say

"Peyton isn't trying to get out of this. If she was, she wouldn't have moved in and built a shrine to your relationship. She's in this. So let her explain why the fuck she's hiding her parents. We aren't the only ones who came into this with baggage.

He rises and I glance at him. "You don't have a session today."

"I'm not here for me," he says, staring back at me.

I swallow the snappy comeback, and nod once. Turn back to the sketch.

It's a koi, a bright red fish with blue scales gleaming almost iridescently along its sides, twisted on its own tail. It's all soft and sweet and I know it's for her.

Staci come up beside me, and peers at it. "Good work. You adding it to your portfolio? "

"I don't know," I say. She glances at me, her gaze assessing and sharp.

It's vaguely disconcerting, and I know why. Staci took a chance on me. I wasn't going to take her up on her offer. But I love the shop. I love the sound of the tattoo machine, and the stories behind the art, even the stupid as fuck pieces that kill my soul a little. I like getting to know the clients, and seeing the excitement in their eyes when they see my sketches.

I even like that it hurts. Peyton laughs and calls me a sadistic masochist. She might be on to something.

Staci taking a chance on me gave me the choice to be good at something. Something that allowed me to still be creative. And I didn't want to let her down.

"You need to be focused," she says quietly. "This shit we do—it's for real. It lasts forever. So we give the client every bit of our attention while we're here. I don't know what happened with Peyton, but you need to leave it at the door."

I nod, and tuck the sketch of the koi aside. Force a smile for my boss and straighten. "I'll have it done in a few hours."

I get lost in the art, my mind racing as I sketch, and despite Staci's admonition, I'm struggling to figure out how the hell this happened. What she thought could be gained by hiding her parents coming to town.

Peyton and her folks don't get along. They haven't since her last stint in rehab for the anorexia. I know that. I've read her own words, seen the pictures. I know she was miserable being forced into the political daughter mold.

But I also know she's here on their dime. She goes to school, pays rent and her bills, buys food—all with money they provide. She might hate the hold they have on her, and she might not go home to dance to their tune, but she depends on them.

Is that why she's hiding me?

I huff out a sigh, and shove the thoughts aside, focusing on the design. She can explain it. I owe her that much—and we live together. It's not like I can avoid her forever.

***

Lindsay is home when I get in from the shop, and she gives me that knowing smirk she does so well that annoys the fuck out of me. I like the girl—I really do, and not just because she’s Peyton’s best friend and Scott’s girlfriend; I like her for her own merits—but she’s got a cocky attitude about shit, especially when she thinks I’m wrong about something.

Which is often.

I grit my teeth. “Is she here?”

“Shower. You sure you’re ready for this, Rike? Her parents are no joke.”

I ignore that. Lindsay is the only one who has a normal family. People who support and love without conditions. People who stuck around.

Sometimes I wonder if she’s with us just out of curiosity, and then I remind myself that thinking that is fucking shitty, and that she really cares about Scott.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

The bathroom door is closed, and I eye it briefly. The bed is still unmade, and I wonder if we’ll get back to where we were last night.

We will. This is a hiccup, but we’ve had those before. We’ll be fine, because we have to be fine.

The shower turns off, and I hear music blaring for a moment before she cuts it off and emerges, wrapped in a towel and steam and water droplets still clinging to her shoulders.

She eyes me briefly, and ruffles her wet hair. “You need to change.”

“Why?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

“Because we’re meeting my parents,” she says. “Dinner at Ruth’s Chris.”

I cross my arms, and study her coldly. “Is there a dress code for this shit?”

“Something you didn’t just pull a shift in,” she says, still buried in her closet, and I huff. It finally sinks in that I’m pissed, because she emerges from her closet and frowns at me. “What the hell is wrong now?”

“You suddenly want me to meet your parents.”

“I never didn’t want you to meet them, asshole. I didn’t want you to have to deal with their shit. But it’s a big deal to you, and I get it. So we’ll go.”

She tosses a dress on the bed and glares at me. “I wasn’t going to go. I didn’t keep it from you because I was planning to see them without you. I kept it from you because it doesn’t matter. Like not telling you I put gas in the truck and bought a candy bar on the way home. So fucking irrelevant.”

I stare at her and it’s hard as fuck to swallow my irritation and all the protests. I shake my head and strip out of the grungy shirt I’m wearing, stalking into the bathroom and turning on the shower.

We don’t fight. Maybe that’s why I’m struggling with this so hard. Scott and Lindsay fight constantly—it’s their form of foreplay. But we don’t. We never have. Being with Peyton is easy. Even when one of us is being a moody artist, it’s easy.

When I step out of the shower, she’s in the bathroom, leaning into the mirror as she does her makeup. She’s barely dressed, only a strapless white bra with black lace details and a matching thong. Her gaze meets mine in the mirror, and I see apology flickering there before she refocuses.

We’re going to do it that way then.

I slip past her silently and we’re both quiet as we dress.

***

We take the truck, and Peyton sits on her side of the cab in tense silence. She looks fucking amazing, in a tiny dark red shirt with a skull on it and a tight little leather skirt. The neckline wraps around her neck, leaving her shoulders bare, and the skirt ends mid-thigh, exposing a mouthwatering length of leg. I’m itching to run my hand up the smooth skin, under that flirty skirt to the tiny panties I know she’s wearing.

We didn’t fool around when getting ready. We barely spoke.

“I didn’t have a family, Peyton,” I say abruptly. “I didn’t do family shit, and I don’t have family for you to meet. The only family I have is Scott, and I’ve never tried to keep him from you.”

“Because Scott is someone you want to have in your life. Because Scott isn’t an asshat.” I arch an eyebrow and she snorts. “Ok, but he’s your asshat.”

“And these are yours,” I say softly.

She shakes her head. “You and Scott and Linds are my family. Not them. But. You’ll see.”

I reach for her hand and squeeze it gently in my own. “I just want to know where you come from, Fish.”

She make a choked little noise that worries me, but we’re pulling up to the steakhouse.  She takes a deep breath as the valet approaches, and I glance at her.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get it over with.”

She shoves the door open and slides down without waiting for me, and I follow suit, taking the valet ticket and slipping it into my pocket while following her inside.

“Party for Senator Collins,” she says to the hostess. The girl nods, snapping to attention as she leads us deeper into the restaurant.

They’re sitting at a table in a back corner, surrounded by other empty tables. A man in a black suit eyes me as we approach, but doesn’t try to stop us.