“Someone who knows you love her mother’s sponge cake is clearly a friend, so what’s the big—” She cuts herself off, glancing at the small monitor showing Kristine standing at the gate, shifting back and forth on her feet, smiling hopefully. “You dated her, didn’t you? You seriously dated her.”
“Do not confirm for anyone that I’m here. Have I made myself clear?”
She nods, but there’s entirely too much going on in her expression. I’ve known a woman or two in my lifetime who’ve thought loudly.
Begonia doesn’t merely think loudly.
She uses a bullhorn.
And right now she’s broadcasting that she’d very much like a jumbo carton of popcorn to go with the tea I’m denying her.
I glower at her.
She visibly gulps and pulls her hands away. “There are fresh sheets in the laundry room. I’ll go fix up the bed. Do you know when your mother’s getting here? I’m great with parents, so if you wanted to go to sleep, you’re welcome to, and you can trust me to charm the pants off your mother. Which guest room does she like? I’ll get that fixed up too, and take the one in the basement for me and Marshmallow.”
“Your dog can sleep in the basement. You’ll be in my room.”
“I—”
“For the farce to work, Ms. Fairchild, you’ll be in my room.”
She looks at the video monitor once more, where Kristine keeps reaching out like she wants to hit the buzzer again, but keeps having second thoughts. “Can I at least tell the mayor I’ll let her know if I need anything?”
“No.”
“You’re incredibly unreasonable.”
I’m incredibly tired of people who have no right to make demands of me thinking they’re entitled to my time. “It’s a perk of being me.”
She doesn’t answer.
Even her face gets quiet.
And that’s possibly more disconcerting than anything else about this entire situation.
8
Begonia
Note to self: Fake dating a billionaire may not be bucket list-worthy.
So long as I don’t end up in prison, accidentally do something that would get me fired from my teaching job, or get murdered, I’m sure I’ll still find something positive out of the experience, but right now, I’m sincerely doubting I’ll have anything good to say about Hayes Rutherford when this is over.
Case in point?
Fifteen seconds ago, when a perfunctory knock sounded on the door, he sighed heavily, put away the phone he’s been staring at non-stop while I’ve been needling him for information so we could pull this off, looked at me, and said, “I hope you’re half as good with parents as you are at annoying me,” then walked to the foyer, swung the door open, and said, “Mother. What a surprise,” in that way that says it wasn’t at all a surprise to see her.
And now, I’m staring wide-eyed at three of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen in person in my entire life.
Giovanna Rutherford leads the pack. Hayes’s mother is one of those women who reminds me of a bird. If I wanted to stay as skinny as she is, I’d have to live on a daily diet of three chickpeas, a shot of vodka, and four hours of being yelled at by a personal trainer named Guy, then two hours of therapy to get over the four hours of being yelled at. She has fewer crow’s-feet in her seventies than I do in my early thirties—and don’t ask about how flawless her white skin is, without even a hint of a single sun spot—her pantsuit looks like it was woven by angels and fitted by Tim Gunn or the Queer Eye guys, and her chin-length hair is such a lovely shade of silver that it could be braided into a chain and used as a necklace.
Or possibly I’m having an irrational girl-crush reaction to being within inches of Jonas Rutherford’s mother.
I wonder if Hyacinth is picking up on my freak-out over our twin radar.
Not that I have time to worry about that. The two women behind Giovanna are giving off major diva vibes.
The first is a stunning dark-haired, brown-skinned woman with more curves than a mountain road and more poshness in her pinky nail than I have in my entire body. The second is a striking alabaster-skinned redhead—and I mean a natural shade of red, unlike mine—who has lust written all over her expression when her brown eyes shift to Hayes.
Giovanna gives me a once-over, then hands me her gloves as she plucks them off her hands.
My fake boyfriend’s mother has traveling gloves, while I’m standing here dripping in sweat from running around picking up and changing sheets, my hair glowing fuchsia, and with a streak of what I hope is dirt and not paint from an undetermined source swiped across my left boob.