“Ohmysweetgoodness!” She snatches her backpack from the seat and marches around her car to the driver’s side. Before she can get the door unlocked, he plucks the key from her fingers and tucks it into his jeans’ pocket. She moves to retrieve it, but stops when she realizes where she’s about to go fishing.

He’s never seen her this red. He laughs. “Calm down, Emma. I’m just kidding. Don’t leave.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not funny. You should have seen her this morning. She almost cried. My mom doesn’t cry.” She crosses her arms again but relaxes against her door.

“She cried ? That’s pretty insulting.”

She cracks a tiny grin. “Yeah, it’s an insult to me. She thinks I would … would…”

“More than date me?”

She nods.

He steps toward her and puts his hand beside her on the car, leaning in. A live current seems to shimmy up his spine. What are you doing? “But she should know that you don’t even think of me like that. That it would never even cross your mind,” he murmurs. She looks away, satisfying his unspoken question—it has crossed her mind. The same way it crosses his. How often? Does she feel the voltage between them, too? Who cares, idiot? She belongs to Grom. Or are you going to let a few sparks keep you from uniting the kingdoms?

He pulls back, clenching his teeth. His pockets are the only safe place for his hands at the moment. “Why don’t I meet her then? You think that would make her feel better?”

“Um.” She swipes her hair to the other side of her face. Her expression falls somewhere between shock and expectation. And she had every right to expect it—he’s been entertaining the idea of kissing her for over two weeks now. She fidgets the door handle. “Yeah, it might. She won’t let me go anywhere—especially with you—if she doesn’t meet you first.”

“Should I be afraid?”

She sighs. “Normally I would say no. But after this morning…” She shrugs.

“How about I follow you to your house so you can drop off your car? Then she can interrogate me. When she sees how charming I am, she’ll let you ride to the beach with me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Just don’t be too charming. If you’re too smooth, she’ll never believe—just don’t overdo it, okay?”

“This is getting complicated,” he says, unlocking her car.

“Just remember, this is your idea and your fault. Now would be the time to back out.”

He chuckles and opens the door for her. “Don’t lose me on the road.”

*   *   *

Emma tosses her backpack on the counter and pokes her head up the stairwell. “Mom, could you come down a sec? We’ve got company.”

“Sure, sweetie. Be right down. They just called me in, so I’m in a hurry though,” is the answer from above.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. Why am I nervous? It’s just one more human to fool. But everything hinges on this human liking him, accepting him. Winning over Emma’s mother is just as important as winning over Emma. Her mother could make his task more difficult, cost him more time if she disapproves.

Self-doubt settles in. If he hadn’t practiced with Rachel for those two weeks before school, he wouldn’t even be trying this. But Rachel was thorough. She ran through what to expect in school and how to act, what certain phrases meant, what he should wear and when he should wear it. They brushed up on his driving skills. She even anticipated him meeting Emma’s parents—just not under interrogation circumstances. Now he wishes he’d called her on the way here.

As he again contemplates kidnapping Emma, he glances around the room. From his vantage point in the kitchen, he can see the entire first floor. The only consistency in the decor is the theme of mismatching—mismatch appliances, furniture, paint. All the rooms open into each other without doors, as if in welcome. Beyond the living room, sand dunes tufted with grass peer into the huge window like they’re eavesdropping.

All of this is already enough to make him covet this house—it makes the one Rachel bought seem cold, distant, impersonal. But what makes him downright jealous are the pictures smothering every wall of every room. Pictures of Emma. Her entire life hangs on these walls—and if he doesn’t find a way to convince her mother of his good intentions, he might not ever get the chance to look at them.

Muffled footsteps plod down the stairs. Emma’s mother emerges, clipping something to her shirt. When she sees Galen, she stops. “Oh.”

Galen knows the shock on her face is mirrored in his own expression. Is she Syrena? All her features—dark hair and skin and lean muscular build—scream yes. Except those blue eyes. Blue eyes that rake over him with a familiarity, as if she knows who he is, knows why he’s here. Then, with the next blink, those blue eyes change from guardian to hostess.

Emma transitions with grace. “Mom, this is my company. This is Galen Forza.”

He smiles and holds out his hand to greet her, just as Rachel instructed him. “Hi, Mrs. McIntosh. It’s nice to meet you.”

She meets him halfway and accepts his hand. Her grip is confident but not overbearing, and without the slightest tingle. Not that he really expected electricity, but she is Emma’s mother. Up close, he notices thin slithers of gray weaving through her hair. Signs of aging; a human trait. Her tone is the epitome of politeness, but her eyes—blue without contacts, as far as he can tell—are wide and her mouth never quite shuts. “Oh. Galen.” She turns to Emma. “This is Galen?”