17. Blaise

SEVENTEEN

"Would you relax?"Jordan says, half laughing, as we walk toward the restaurant and I straighten my shirt for the third time. "They're going to love you."

"Yeah, you keep saying that," I mutter. I'm not convinced. From what he's said about his dads, they're both the business type, execs, and his stepdad at least is into sports. That's not a demographic that usually appreciates my aesthetic as a costume designer.

On the other hand, they're Jordan's dads, and he's fucking awesome. Plus, his uncle adopted two kids and never let them feel unwanted, even when it cost him his first marriage. So… maybe I'm getting all worked up over nothing.

The restaurant they picked is a nice one, way nicer than anything I can afford, and I'm glad I called and checked the dress code. Jordan was less than helpful when I asked him—just shrugged and said he was planning to wear jeans.

He is not wearing jeans. I put a stop to that plan.

We pause outside the double glass doors, and I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders. "I might need a minute."

Jordan looks at his smartwatch. "Okay, but we're already running a tiny bit late, so?—"

I push open the door and march inside before he can finish. There's no way I want to keep his dads waiting. He was delayed getting cleaned up after the game, because he played so fucking amazingly that the college and local sports media wanted to interview him on the field. Then apparently a scout was at the game and wanted to talk to Polly, so half the team waited around to see how it went. Don't get me wrong—I'm bursting with pride over how Jordan's playing, and nobody screamed louder than me when he hit the homer today (though Calla and Xera gave me a run for my money). I never thought I'd love a sport, but being with Jordan is converting me to the church of baseball.

Or maybe it's just Jordan's altar I worship at.

The host smiles at me. "Good evening. Do you have a reservation?"

"Yeah. We're meeting some people…" Shit. Is Jordan's uncle's surname the same as his? And what if it's under Grant's name?

Luckily, Jordan steps up to my side and says, "I can see them over there."

The host glances in that direction. "Oh, they said they were waiting for two more. Come right this way."

As we get closer, it's easy to see where we're going. There's only one table with two men sitting at it in this part of the room. I study them while I have the chance—both appear to be tall, both dark-haired, both dressed similarly to us in dress pants and shirts open at the collar. If I had to guess ages from here, I'd say late forties, which is younger than I expected. They're both fit-looking and wear their clothes well.

And they're both fucking hot. Like… seriously. If I was into older guys, this would be when my brain started with the sugar daddy fantasies.

We reach the table, and they both look up, then stand with big smiles. Their expressions are curious but friendly, and that makes me feel a bit better.

"Your server will be with you in a moment," the host informs us, then leaves.

"This is Blaise," Jordan announces. "And these are my dads."

Helpful, Jordan. Very helpful.

The slightly shorter of the two huffs and rolls his eyes. "If I hadn't raised him myself, I'd say wolves did it." He extends a hand to me. "I'm Jordan's uncle, Luke Durrant. This is my husband, Grant Davis."

"Blaise Warner," I offer, shaking first his hand, then Grant's. "It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Durrant. Jordan talks about you both all the time."

"Please call me Luke. And if he was complaining about the Pop-Tarts, I don't feel any guilt about it whatsoever."

I laugh as we all sit, my tension draining away. "That might have come up. Plus, I've seen how many he eats, and I don't blame you. He's not allowed to bring them to my place anymore."

"Wow," Jordan says to nobody, "bonding over your mutual betrayal of me."

"Looking after your health isn't betrayal, kid," Grant tells him. "Great game today, by the way."

"Yes, congratulations," Luke adds. "You made it worth our effort to come." He grins in a way that tells me he'd have thought it was worth the effort even if they'd lost miserably and it was all Jordan's fault.

"I'm having a good season," Jordan concedes modestly, then with a wicked sideways glance at me, "Blaise is giving me incentive. For every game we win, he's made some very attractive promises to me."

My face gets hot, and I sputter. "Oh my god, don't make it sound like that!"

His dads are laughing, though. "You're such a shit," Grant says affectionately before turning to me. "What is it? Are you letting him have Pop-Tarts?"

I snort. "No. He has enough already. I don't know how all his teeth haven't fallen out from the sugar overload." Part of me can't believe I'm saying that, being so casual so soon after meeting them, but it just feels… natural? It's an odd sensation to me. I'm not used to having father-figure men I'm so comfortable with. "I said I'd buy him a new pair of earrings for every win."

Luke laughs so hard, I worry he might hurt himself. "Oh my god, he's going to ask for bigger ones. They'll be able to see him from space."

"That's the dream," Jordan agrees cheerfully, winking at me.

Our server comes to take our drink order and give us the specials, and I turn my attention to the menu. Everything looks amazing, but the prices make me a little dizzy. What's the etiquette for ordering when your boyfriend's dads, who you just met, are paying for dinner? I mean, I could offer to pay my own, but that would be a little awkward, and I can't offer to pay the whole check—the hit to my savings would be too hard. Should I just order the cheapest thing on the menu?

Or would that be insulting? Like saying I think they can't afford more?

I wish I'd talked to Jordan about this before we arrived… though he probably wouldn't be much help. I don't think he even thinks about budgets and where his money comes from.

Better to play it safe and order light. I can always say I had a hot dog at the game, or something.

"The roasted Mediterranean veggie salad looks so good," I muse. It's not the cheapest of the salads, but I don't want to be obvious. "I wonder if they'll do that in an entrée size?"

"It does look good," Grant agrees. "I think I'll have that to start, and then the prime rib." He grins at me over his menu. "That and dessert should cover most of the food groups."

I grin back, but my stomach sinks a little. Will anyone believe that a salad has made me too full for dessert? Jordan won't—he's seen me eat.

Luke catches my eye. "Are you a vegetarian?" he asks, and Jordan snorts but doesn't look up from his menu.

"If you'd seen him fight me over Korean barbecue, you wouldn't be asking that."

"It's not my fault you eat like a vacuum cleaner," I argue. "I have to defend my territory, or I won't have anything to eat." Too late, I realize that's not going to help my story of a hot dog a few hours ago making me so full I can only manage a salad. Maybe I can say I had chili cheese fries too?

"He's always been like that," Luke says fondly. "Like that kids' book about the caterpillar."

"We're still waiting for him to become a butterfly," Grant adds.

"Wow, so much hate tonight." Jordan pretends to wipe away a tear. "Just for that, I'm ordering the lobster salad, the prime rib, two sides, and two desserts." He purses his lips. "Maybe I'll get another entrée too, ask them to box it up for me to take home for lunch tomorrow."

Luke laughs. "Meet us for brunch like we planned, and we'll make sure you're sufficiently full. You too, Blaise, if you're free."

My smile this time is completely natural. "That's so nice of you, but I'm working tomorrow. I swapped with a coworker to have Saturdays off when Jordan's playing at home, but that means I'm basically working every Sunday until the end of time." It also means a hit to my commission, since Saturday is one of our busy days, but even before we made it official, it was something I wanted to do. My goals are still on track—and what's the point of working so hard for something if you don't enjoy life along the way?

Jordan puts down his menu and looks at me. "You did? Really?"

"You didn't notice?" Grant asks dryly.

"We're only a few weeks into the season," Jordan defends. "And he doesn't work every weekend. That's so cool, though." The look he gives me is so happy and sweet that my heart melts.

"Someone's gotta cheer you on." It's awkward, but I don't know what else to say. He bumps my shoulder with his, the closest we'll get to PDA in public, but under the table, his foot twines around my ankle.

"Well, if you can't join us for brunch, I insist on feeding you up tonight," Luke announces. "I remember what dining hall food is like. Feel free to borrow Jordan's plan and order multiples of everything to take home with you." His eyes lock with mine, and I don't know what Jordan told him about me, but I get the feeling he knows I don't have a lot of money and wants to treat me.

Normally, that would make me feel awkward, maybe a little offended. But just like my earlier feeling of comfort and ease, this gives me a good vibe too. It's nice to have someone care the way my mom would—the way my dad should. Still…

"I actually graduated last year," I offer. "But since Ramen doesn't give me the same joy as just looking at this menu does, I might have to eat enough tonight to get me through the rest of the weekend."

They laugh, and I relax a little more. I don't know why I was so nervous. Jordan was right—his dads are great.

The server comes back with our drinks and to take our order, and I get the salad to start and the chicken special, plus I agree to share one of Jordan's sides with him (because he does, in fact, order two).

Then I sip my soda—no way was I ordering alcohol my first dinner with Jordan's parents—and congratulate myself on navigating what could have been a sticky situation.

"So, Blaise, you graduated last year? And you're working at the menswear store now, right?" Grant asks. His tone is curious and friendly, but the question still makes my gut freeze. Is this when the judging begins?

"Yes—temporarily, anyway. There's an internship I want to apply for, but it's unpaid and…" I shrug. "The cost of living in LA isn't something I could cover with a weekend job alone." Not to mention I don't know exactly what demands on my time the internship will have. What if the occasional weekend is required? Sure, I plan to keep costs down by finding somewhere cheap with a whole lot of roommates, but they're not going to let me stay if I can't cover my share of the rent because I had to skip some paying shifts unexpectedly.

"That's right," Luke says. "Jordan mentioned a while back that he had a friend saving for an internship. You're the costume designer."