“Okay,” I whispered, having heard all he said, but mostly the part about him caring about me was rattling around happily in my head.

That and all that stuff about supporting me.

“And eventually, my ass will be with you when you go and then you gotta let me do what I gotta do.”

Oh God.

The happy stuff stopped rattling.

“Axl—”

“And that would be, I am not witnessing that shit, Hattie. You can tough it out with him when you’re alone. But I’ll make it plain he does not do that shit in front of me.”

I wanted to see Axl tell Dad that he had to treat me right.

I really, really, reallyreallyreally wanted to see that.

“Well, uh … that time will be a ways off,” I noted.

“Fine,” he replied.

“And, you know, if your dad ever acts up, I’m your safe place too.”

“Well, batten down the hatches, baby, because that shit’s happening on Monday.”

My hand tightened on my wineglass so much I had to force it to relax before the glass shattered, and my voice was kind of squeaky when I asked, “What?”

“Part of my day.” He set his glass aside and went back to the carrot. “Mom called. She wants me over for dinner. I told her I’m seeing someone and it’s serious. So she wants you over for dinner too. You don’t dance Monday nights. We’re going over for dinner.”

Full-on squeaky with, “We’re what?”

He bent down, got a bowl from the cupboard (shiny black, big, nice lines, perfect for him and his home décor, because he was perfect, except when he was jumping the gun and setting up a Meet the Parents before we’d even been together a week, gah!), put it on the counter and reached for a bag of cleaned spinach.

“Dinner. Mom and Dad’s house. Monday night.”

“Axl, this is waaaaaaaaaaay early,” I pointed out, feeling I had not elongated the “way” nearly enough.

“Early for what?” he asked after dumping the spinach in the bowl.

“We’ve had one date,” I reminded him.

He turned again to me, put a hip to the counter, and said, “Theoretically, if not practically, you’ve been mine for what? Three months? Six? Ten years?”

I had to smile at the “ten years.”

But I said, “Okay, but—”

“And that means I’ve been yours that same time.”

Hmm.

Nice.

“Even when I was with Peyton.”

Hmm!

“So I think the time is right, don’t you?” he asked.

“Well, I think you think the time is right since you made a date with your parents without consulting me,” I replied.

“What would you have said if I consulted you?”

“Please, God, no.”

He burst out laughing and came to me so I again had to open my knees to let him in.

With him laughing like that, I didn’t mind.

He then bent to me, one hand on my thigh, one hand he wound up in my hair and held it to my neck.

In position to successfully scramble any thought process I might have, he said, “I knew you’d say that so I circumvented you saying that and I did it for two reasons. You down with hearing them?”

“Maybe.”

He grinned and kept talking.

“One, it’s gonna happen, and trust me, it’s better not to procrastinate. We get it out of the way and move on.”

Okay, well, his surety in the solidity of our togetherness didn’t suck.

However …

“And two, for future reference, we need to understand how huge a dick my dad is gonna be so we can plan how to handle that later. Or if I tell him to fuck off and arrange it so I see only my mother until Dad apologizes for whatever Dad is gonna do.”

“Wh-what,” I swallowed, “what’s your dad going to do?”

“That’s got a few parts too.”

Fantastic.

“Hit me,” I invited without a great deal of enthusiasm.

“First, you’re a dancer. Which he will look down on. But before, you were a stripper, which he’ll absolutely look down on.”

Really not feeling the love for his dad.

“And that would be about him being a snob,” he continued. “But you could be a lawyer, a doctor, have your art in the Guggenheim or work for fucking NASA, and he’d still find something about you that was not good enough for his son. And that would just be him being Sylas Pantera.”

Okay. Then, Sylas Pantera was an equal opportunity meanie.

Not better.

But at least I was forewarned.

“Second,” Axl carried on. “He’ll lay into me. It could be subtle, it could be overt. But it will happen.”

“Oh boy,” I mumbled.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“Just to say, my dad will charm you. He’ll be funny and interesting, and he’ll talk sports or current events and you’ll think, ‘This guy is not so bad.’ Then, when he gets comfortable around you, he’ll let things slip. He’s so good at it, the first half a dozen things will happen, and you won’t even notice them.”

“Wanna bet?”

I took in his expression.

Nope.

I did not want to bet.

What I knew from his expression, his actions, not just that night, but for a long time, was that he was serious about this.

About us.

And I was serious about us.

Absolutely.

And thus, he was right.

Get over the crappy stuff in order to move forward armed with the knowledge of how it would be so you could prepare for that.

I needed to focus on the good parts: we were together, that appeared to be solid, and the fact Axl was intent to move us forward.

We’d fought hard to get here. It’d be nice to have some time to glory in the spoils. And not just one fantastic date where Axl liked my dress, listened to everything I said, fed me amazing food and acted like he truly thought I was not only the most beautiful woman in the room, but the most interesting one in the city.

And, obviously, whatever he had on tap for that night, which at the very least smelled divine.

But it wouldn’t feel very glorious, having stuff hanging over our head that would spoil our spoils.

Anyway, it was Thursday. Monday was forever away.

And Monday came after Sunday, when the Revue was not operating. It was straight-up strippers at Smithie’s Sunday and Monday nights so the girls could have a rest.