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But it’s not even the fun kind.

With that thought, the harrowing sound of the doorbell rings like a gong in my skull.

My mother squeals, pulls her hands together, and whispers hurriedly, “Okay, remember everything I’ve told you, but it’s okay if it doesn’t work out. You just do your best.” Briefly, she cups my cheek, and I shiver at how cold her hands are, but I force a weak smile anyway.

Every step out of my room and down the stairs makes my stomach churn, but I keep my eyes lowered and my palms cupped against my skirt. The flowing fabric trails behind me like a shackle.

I wish I were like August, determined and insane. She takes her life in her hands and does whatever she wants. She’s free. No pressure. There are no requirements to maintain the love of the family she has.

I want to be a part of her family.

When do I decide that my parents’ love for me isn’t enough to cover their agenda?

When…do I give up on them?

“Excellent to meet you, sir,” a stranger says, and I lift my attention off the final few stairs before me to find a tall man in a suit shaking my father’s hand. Dark green hair spills across his forehead from a navy blue fade, and my lashes flutter at the sight.

He’s got tattoos.

A slim silhouette of trees circle his throat, and his smile is…sweet…when he sees me.

“You must be Devina,” he says, voice melodic, deep, and warm.

I echo, “You must be Forrest.”

Nervous, he chuckles, and he tosses a tattooed hand into his hair, combing through the dark green. “Yes, well. I sure am.”

My mother sends me a bright, suggestive look, and my chest squeezes, because this is a man I could be interested in—if I weren’t already in love with someone else. My parents tried. Really hard. And I can tell. I thought they didn’t know me at all, but maybe they’ve picked up on a comment here or there when I’ve rambled about my stories and the male leads I like. Maybe they’ve listened to me, at least a little bit, every now and again, in the slim moments when they’re actually home.

Why can’t they just be…horrible?

That would make some things so much easier right now.

Delighted, my mother announces, “Dinner’s been prepared, if we could take some time to get to know one another during it?”

Forrest’s vivid green eyes widen, and he drops his hand. “Ah…right. Yes.” He points a finger at me. “Actually. Could we talk? For just maybe three minutes? In private. Before…” His brilliant gaze dashes toward my parents. “…this gets formal?”

My father stiffens, and my parents share a look that is less delighted.

My mother jumps in. “Now, sir.” Her laughter trickles, musically. “I’m certain the last thing you want at a first meeting is a lack of formality.”

Forrest looks her dead in the eye, presses his lips together, then blurts, “Exactly what part of me screams wants formality?” He blinks. “Wait.” He drags his attention upward. “Did that sound rude?” His attention lowers, to me, and he repeats, “Was that rude?”

I relax. I smile. “Maybe. Just a little bit.”

“Ah—” He whispers a curse. “I didn’t mean for it to be.” His hand finds his hair again, then he takes steps beyond my parents to reach the foot of the stairs, where I’m still standing. Looking up at me, he says, “Would you be comfortable allowing me three minutes in private? We can set a timer and everything.”

“Devina…” My mother’s eyes cut through me, the slight shake of her head rife with concern.

“Three minutes?” I ask.

He presents his tattooed fingers. “Just three.”

“That…” I don’t know. It’s probably my curiosity getting the better of me. “…seems okay.”

Noticeable relief encompasses him while my mother clenches her hands and stares, worried.

My father steps forward. “Three minutes three feet apart, understood?”