Whipped (Hitched, #2)

You've opened yourself to something truly great. You've freed yourself from a toxic relationship that was hurting you. Call Tate. He's great with breakups, and he'll bring Ben & Jerry's best friend Jack Daniels. You can all party together.



Great idea. Calling now. Sorry to interrupt your trip. Have fun with the parents.



You aren't interrupting anything. Hang in there, kid. You'll get through this and be stronger for it.



I put the phone down and look up at Lachlan, who's standing by the door looking so fucking sexy, and I realize we're sort of in the middle of nowhere and there's no one else around and this man is a god with his body and I'm a seriously lucky woman. "About that car sex…"



After the mind-blowing part, I pull up my panties and he tosses the condom and we would probably smoke a cigarette if we were living in an 80s television series. He holds me on his lap in the front seat and smiles. "You guessed the 20 questions."

"What?" I stroke his face, still lost in our lovemaking.

"Happyland," he says, his grin spreading. "That was the answer." He squeezes my ass. "This was the answer."

"But you said it's someplace you hadn't been," I object. Because we've clearly been here before. Many, many times.

He shakes his head. "Not in a car. That was the point. Happyland in the car. With you."

I laugh with him and kiss him again, because damn this man is amazing.





CHAPTER 20





LACH


I've never met a girl's parents before. I expect a stubborn father who is determined I'm not good enough for his girl and a perfectionist mother who needs every detail of my life. I know I'm stereotyping.

It doesn't go as I expect.

When I knock on the door a woman yells, "Come in!" We do. The hallway is white, and a modern painting of a blue sphere hangs on the wall. Vi told me her mother's a painter. I wonder if this is one of her pieces.

Someone giggles.

A petite woman in khaki shorts and a tank top is playing Twister on the living room floor. Tangled with her limbs is a man, his arms thick, his orange shirt half unbuttoned. Two glasses of wine stand half full on the side. They notice us and wave. "Hi, honey. Just give us a second." The woman tries to move her foot to a red circle. She slips and falls and laughs. The man wraps his arm around her. They stand.

Vi gives each of them a hug. "So good to see you!" She motions at me. "This is Lachlan. Lach, these are my parents. Angela and Marvin."

I offer a handshake, but both of them embrace me instead. Angela smiles at her daughter. "He's tall."

Marvin, who reaches only my shoulder, shrugs. A streak of gray runs the side of his black hair. "Height's not that important."

Angela kisses his cheek. She has freckles and a dimple. Her hair is red. "It’s okay, baby. I still love you." And then, to me, "Forgive him, he's drunk." Her face scrunches up, and she burps. "Sorry. We're both drunk."

Vi shakes her head.

I should say something witty, but nothing comes to mind. Alcohol should help. "Any more of that wine?"

Angela grabs a leopard purse off a hanger. "Not for you. You're driving."

Vi frowns. "I thought we were staying in for dinner."

"We were, until you told me Lachlan's a dancer, so…"

"So, we decided to go to a club," finishes Marvin, throwing on a leather jacket. I notice a tribal tattoo around his wrist.

"Nice tat," I say. When I imagined Vi's parents, I imagined an old couple that spends their days on the sofa, yelling at each other to pass the remote and ordering cheap takeout food for dinner. But Marvin and Angela seem like… well, they seem like Vi and me. They seem fun.

"Thanks," says Marvin. "Got it a year ago with my brother. How about you? Any tattoos?"

"Yeah, actually—"

"Okay, boys," says Angela. "You can compare tattoos later. Right now, Mama needs to party." She opens the door and Marvin follows her out.

Vi has a hand on her face, her cheeks red. "So, that's my parents."

I wrap my arms around her waist. "I like them. It's me I'm worried about."

"Just do some fancy dance moves. They'll love you."

"I hope so." I turn to go.

She grabs my hand. "You're really nervous about this, aren't you?"

"A bit."

"Really? Just a bit? Then why is your hand sweating?"

I pull my hand away and wipe it on my jeans. "Okay. A lot. I never impressed my parents."

"Your parents were assholes."

"And yours aren't."

She raises her eyebrow. "I see. So you really want to impress them. Okay. Here's the game plan." She takes my arm and walks with me outside. "For my mom, impress her with your dance moves. Also, if you could do something extremely physical, like maybe pushups while I'm sitting on you, that would help."

"Really?"

She grins. "Okay, fine. The pushups would mostly be for me." We pause outside the car. "For my dad, just talk about mixed martial arts fighting—you know, MMA. He loves it."

I grit my teeth. "I don't know anything about MMA."

She shrugs. "Then just buy him cocktails and listen. It works for me."