He stops what he's doing and looks across the room at me. "First of all, I always feel free to say no. Second, my goal in life is to never say no to you." I grin, feeling all b.u.t.terfly-ey. "Third, yes. I will go to brunch at your parent's place this weekend. In fact, I'd love to."

"Really?" He nods. I jump up and run toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck and covering his face with kisses as he laughs. "Thank you! They're going to love you, I know it."

We don't talk about what this means for our relationship. These things still go unsaid. It's fine, I tell myself. Even though we don't say the words, I know that Jackson feels the same way about me as I do about him. I can feel it in the way he looks at me, how he touches me with both pa.s.sion and warmth. And now, by the fact that he wants to meet my family. This may be my first relationship, but I know what that means.

It means things are serious. And I am seriously excited about the future.

Jackson

I've met other women's parents before, but usually at a wedding or some sort of reception or other work-related event. Normally when I meet the parents it's because our families are already connected in some way through business. In many ways, meeting the parents is just another business connection to make.

Meeting Emily's parent's is none of those things. It's something I truly want to do. I want to know more about her family.

Emily has big plans for the weekend. She doesn't just want to get in the car Sunday morning and drive out to Lexington. "Let's go out Sat.u.r.day night," she says, "and I get to choose the place. And I get to pay!"

I laugh. She's sitting on my lap in my office, having just asked if I would go to the brunch this weekend. "You can choose the place," I tell her. "But I can't let you pay."

"Jackson, I have a job," she tells me.

"Part time," I clarify.

"I still have money," she says. "I'm not dest.i.tute. I can afford to take you out for pizza."

"So we're going for pizza?"

"I've said too much!" she says, and she's just so d.a.m.n cute. Her excitement is contagious, and the weekend can't get here fast enough.

On Sat.u.r.day, Emily insists on meeting me at my house but says I will still have the chance to be a gentleman by taking her home later.

"Now you've got me thinking about getting you home," I tell her as I kiss her neck in the cool night air. She laughs and squirms away from me.

Emily directs the cab driver to a place in the South End. A pizza place.

"Just wait," she tells me, her eyes sparkling as she takes my hand and leads me inside. "This is the best pizza you'll ever have in your life."

"I have to tell you," I say, "that I have had pizza in Naples."

She slaps my chest. "Don't ruin it before it begins!"

I take her hand and kiss her fingers.

The place is small with distressed wooden booths and little round tables. The walls are red and look like they've been painted over a hundred times. It's slightly dark and Italian folk music is playing on the overhead speakers. The small s.p.a.ce is warmed up from the brick oven behind the counter.

"It certainly smells good," I say, because it does. I can tell already that good fresh ingredients are used.

We take a small table near the back-the more I can get Emily alone, even in public, the better. Although the table is so small I don't know how a pizza pie will ever fit on it. We're so crammed into our seats that I can keep hold of her hands in mine under the table. Bonus? Despite the feel of fall outside, Emily is wearing a skirt, some fluttering thing that I can scoot up higher on her thigh beneath the table, if I so choose. Which I will. Soon enough.

"Okay, so I don't know much about wines and I really don't want to know about the vineyards in California you might own," she begins, "but I do have a recommendation on which pizza we should get if you don't mind. It might sound boring but it's amazing, I promise."

"Whatever you want," I say. "This is your deal."

When the waitress comes over Emily order the pizza margherita. She explains to me that it's really simple but they use great ingredients so everything really shines. I kiss her check when she finishes her explanation because, oh, sweet Emily. I don't want to spoil her fun by telling her that I have had this very kind of pizza in Naples, that they invented it, and that nothing is better than the local Napoli ingredients. But I'm sure the pizza-and the Chianti she orders with it-will be great. One thing is for sure-nothing can beat the company.

"What else do you have planned for tonight?" I ask. We haven't stopped touching her under the table. I keep nudging her skirt a little higher on her thigh, and she lets me.

"It's not as big of a surprise as a private pool," she says. "But I when I was an undergrad I used to go to this place a lot for drinks and music. It's really cool and I can't wait to see how you look in there with your slim pants and highly polished dress shoes."

"What's wrong with how I'm dressed?" I asked, not that I care.

"Absolutely nothing," she says, and kisses me. She puts her hand on mine, and I swear she nudges me even higher up on her thigh. Her tongue slips past my lips, and for a moment I forget we're in public.

"Pizza margherita," the waitress announces, and we quickly pull apart.

The pie is set precariously on the table along with our wine. Emily picks up her gla.s.s and makes a toast. "To Jackson Croft, slumming it in the South End."

I roll my eyes but clink her gla.s.s. "So what do I need to prepare for tomorrow?" I ask her as I put a slice on her plate, then mine. "Is your father going to ask me what are my intentions with you?"

"No," she says. "My parents are super casual, easy going. They're going to love you. Although Sabrina might ask that question."

"Younger sister, right," I say, remembering. She told me about her family one night when we were curled up in my bed. She spoke about them with a love and enthusiasm that was hard for me to fathom. She clearly not only loves her family but likes being with them. "How old is she again?"

"Twenty-one," Emily says.

"Oh my G.o.d," I say, having just taken the first bite of the pizza. "This is extraordinary."

"What'd I tell you?" she says, clearly pleased.

"I was keeping my expectations low but this is pretty much as good as what I've had in Naples."

"Slumming tastes pretty good, huh?"

"Stop," I say. "I'm not slumming and I don't think I'm slumming. Now tell me about Sabrina. And Dax. And your parents."

"Sabrina is opinionated, so I'm really excited to see what happens between the two of you."

"Great," I mutter. "Nothing like being set up."

"Dax is more thoughtful," she says.

"So he'll judge me silently. Got it."

"He works in development for a non-profit in Framingham. One of those big national one," she says. "And then my parents..."

"Yes, please do tell," I say. I take another sip of the Chianti and realize that everything balances out perfectly-this meal is d.a.m.n good, including the wine. I had come in with a sn.o.b att.i.tude but look at me now, ready to come back any time.

"I'll let you figure them out on your own," she says.

"Great," I tell her.

"You know," she says, wiping her hands on her napkin, "you never talk about your family."

She's right. We've only skimmed over the topic, and I've done a good job at dodging and weaving even then.

"All I know is that your father pa.s.sed away, you have brothers in New York and Los Angeles, and your mom is-where is she again?"

"Monaco. Now you know everything you need to know." That's me, weaving away.

"Your brothers are in the family business, right? Are you guys close?"

I try to stifle the laugh but it only makes me cough. Once I've recovered I say, "No, we do not get along. We speak as little as necessary."

"Why? Did something happen? I'd think that with your dad gone and your mother living overseas that you'd want to be close to them."

"Well I don't." It comes out more harshly than I meant so I feel the need to explain. Since I'm meeting her family tomorrow, she deserves to know more about mine. "My father was an a.s.shole. Simple as that. It's why my mother moved so far away-she couldn't take him and his harsh rules. And there was one rule in our house: fall in line with whatever Edward Croft said. If you didn't, you were punished."

She lowers her voice when she asks, "Did he beat you?"

"No, nothing like that," I say. "In fact, I can't remember any time at all that my father laid a finger on me. Not in punishment and not in love. The most important thing to my father was success. Success at any cost. My brothers and I had to be winners, even when we were competing against each other."

"How could you all be winners if you were all competing against each other?" Emily asks.

"Exactly," I say. "We couldn't. Two out of three would always be punished. And my mother had no control. She's not a strong person anyway, but no one could stand up to Edward Croft. He was just way too formidable. So she left."

"She divorced him?"

"No," I say. "Father would never allow that. Bad for the image, he said. Are you ready for the most ironic part? Looking like the good family man was one of his keys to success. He drilled into us the importance of choosing the right partner."

"If you don't mind my saying," Emily says, "it doesn't sound like your father was exactly the definition of family man."

"I said looking like a good family man was key," I say. "When you tell your three sons whoever builds the tallest, strongest Lego building will be his favorite child for the evening, you pretty much lose out on any father-of-the-year award."

"I'm so sorry, Jackson," Emily says, resting her hand on my thigh.

"Don't be," I say. "Honestly. It's all in the past."

"But your brothers," she says.

This is definitely going on too long than I'd ever want talk of my family to go.

"Let's just enjoy the rest of the evening. What do you have planned for us next?"

It turns out that what's next is a place somehow smaller than the pizza joint. It's a tiny club that is dark and crammed by the time we arrive. There's a jazz band blowing it up on stage, and although I'm not a huge fan, the energy is pretty cool.

Emily says something as I hand her the drink I just got at the bar.

"What?" I say.

"I said," she says, her voice almost a yell in the noisy club, "they play different kinds of music on the weekends. Sometimes funk, blues, even country. I wasn't sure what kind..."

"This is perfect," I say back.

I find a s.p.a.ce along the wall that I lean back against and hold Emily in front of me. After another drink I've got her pressed up against the wall and am doing everything in my power to not get arrested for lewd conduct in public while still feeling every inch of her. By the time I suggest we head out, my lips are bruised and Emily has destroyed my hair.

"Can we go to my place?" she asks as step outside.

"But there are still rooms at my house you haven't found yet," I say. "We can go exploring."

"We always go to your place," she says. "You haven't seen inside mine yet. Come on, Jackson. Come see where I live."

I do want to know everything about Emily that I can possibly learn, even if I'm not thrilled about spending the night in a studio apartment in Allston. But for Emily, I'd spend the night at the bus station.

Emily

I'm nervous for him to see my place. It's nothing to be ashamed of-I'm one person, I don't need a lot of s.p.a.ce. And the neighborhood is good, mostly BU students. Jackson is so used to opulence and grandeur, so I'm not sure how he'll react, but he is going to meet my family tomorrow so he should see where I live.

I guide him around to the back of the house where the entrance is. As I put the key in the lock, he nuzzles my neck, his hands around my waist. How is it that I can never satiate my appet.i.te with him?

"Here we are," I say, opening the door and turning on the lights. I have a small kitchen to the left, and straight ahead is my living room/bedroom combo, a couch and TV on the right and my bed on the left.

Jackson looks around, sticks his head in the kitchen, looks at the desk by the door where I do my work and sometimes each meals.

"It's...charming," he says.

"It's small, I know," I say, because that's what he means.

"Don't you go stir crazy in here?"

"I try not to spend long stretches of time here," I say. "I go out to study a lot." The way his eyes drift over everything, I'm starting to feel self-conscious about my place. "We can go to your place if you'd rather."

He looks at me. "No. I want to stay. I want to be here with you." Which melts my heart a little. "Are these your siblings?" he asks, pointing to a photo hanging crooked on my wall. Jackson levels it.

"Yeah," I say, stepping closer. "That was a few years ago. Before Dax went to school the three of us decided to go to Six Flags. Sometimes hanging out with them is more fun than hanging out with my closest friends. We laughed so much that day."