“Exactly. You know me well enough by now to know that I rarely do anything I don’t want to,” he says and kisses my hand again. “Have you been out here before?”
“No.” I shake my head and gaze out at the trees, the swamps. “It’s so different out here.”
“You grew up here and never took a trip out to the Bayou?”
“That’s right.” I wrinkle my nose. “Are there ‘gators out there?”
“Most likely,” he says. “I promise not to toss you in with the ‘gators.”
“Gee, thanks.”
We settle into a comfortable silence, listening to satellite radio. We sing along to songs we know, and Declan shares stories about some of the musicians he’s met.
“So you used to do studio work in Memphis?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nods. “Still do, sometimes.”
“That’s awesome, Declan.”
“I prefer to perform live.” He turns off the main road and points to his left. “There’s the inn.”
“Wow.” I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks like something out of a fairy tale. Huge oak trees form a line with a brick path between them toward a large, two-story mansion with a deep front porch and a welcoming red door. “You grew up here?”
“In the summers,” he confirms. “We stayed in the city during the school year. My youngest sister, Gabby, made it into an inn about four years ago.”
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur as he pulls in to the driveway leading to the house. There are other buildings on the property, and from what I can see, gardens bursting with a riot of color. But it’s the trees that have me transfixed. “These trees have to be hundreds of years old.” To say they’re massive is an understatement. They more than dwarf the house, and several of the long limbs are so heavy they rest on the ground.
“That they are,” he replies with a smile, parks next to a row of cars that I assume are guests of the inn, and turns me to face him. “If at any time you’re uncomfortable, or if you just want to leave, you say so and we’ll go.”
“Declan, it’s a couple of people who happen to be related to you. I’ll be fine.”
He frowns. “It might be more than a couple of people.”
“Let me guess, all of these cars don’t belong to people staying at the inn?”
He shakes his head. “Gabby doesn’t have guests on Sundays. You’ll be great. You’re used to dealing with strangers.”
Yeah, but I’m not fucking the strangers’ relative.
But rather than say anything, I smile and push out of Dec’s car. He takes my hand when he joins me and leads me around to the back of the house. “Kitchen’s back here,” he says with a smile.
The smells coming from the house are amazing. “Do they hire someone to cook?”
“Hell no. Mama and Gabby do the bulk of it, but the rest of us pitch in too.”
I didn’t know real family dinners like this existed. I thought it was made up by Hollywood and romance novelists.
I take a deep breath as Declan reaches for the door, and then suddenly I’m led into a large, beautiful kitchen that is near to bursting with people and a dog that is currently leaping, trying to get the piece of meat that a little boy is holding high for him.
“Samuel Beauregard, take Derek outside, or you’re grounded from the computer for a week!” a petite brunette yells.
“That’s Gabby,” Declan says. We still haven’t been spotted by the crowd of people. “She’s Sam’s mom. Her husband, Rhys, is the guy holding their daughter, Ailish.”
My gaze moves from the beautiful woman to her husband sitting at the breakfast bar with an adorable baby.
“You’re here!” Sam exclaims and hugs Declan around his waist. “And you brought a lady!”
The room hushes as everyone looks over at us. Declan ruffles Sam’s hair.
“I can’t get anything past you,” he says, then takes my hand and squeezes reassuringly. “I hope it’s okay that I brought a plus-one.”
“Of course it is,” Gabby says and smiles as she wipes her hands on a towel and walks over to us. “Welcome. I’m Gabby.”