But instead of heading to the dock in Sprightly, the little town on the other end of the island, for the sailing excursion I booked with a gnarled old sailor guy who promised he wouldn’t let me drown, Marshmallow and I have snuck into town early for a lot more grocery shopping than my credit card would prefer, and probably more than I should carry back on the bike I used to get across the island.
I have a fake boyfriend’s family to charm.
And there is absolutely no better way to do that than with down-home cooking.
Unfortunately for all of us, I’m not much of a chef, but considering it doesn’t take a genius to figure out Hayes wants to be alone, this will probably work to his advantage, and then I’ll be rewarded with more free time to explore the island and get in that sailing adventure later.
I’m pushing the bike down the dirt path along the rocky shoreline while Marshmallow dances in and out of the waves when a golf cart approaches. I start to move to the side of the path, then realize who’s in the cart, and my heart does a slow somersault.
The past twenty-four hours have been so unexpected and strange that if I hadn’t snuck out of the bedroom where Hayes was sleeping early this morning, I wouldn’t believe it’s all real.
Yet here he is, driving a golf cart with Amelia Shawcross seated in the passenger seat, her thick black hair billowing in the breeze and her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a second golf cart with three of Giovanna’s bodyguards following them closely.
Hayes is scowling as he pulls the cart to a stop in front of me. “Darling, I told you not to leave the estate without security.”
The last thing Hayes said to me last night before passing out cold was Bubbles melt in the mermaid boat, and he didn’t mention security once before that.
But I smile at him, and it’s not actually hard to find that smile.
Even scowling, he looks less grumpy than he did yesterday. Or maybe I’m projecting a belief that he needed more sleep, or maybe it’s that he came to get me himself instead of just sending security, or maybe it’s that the dark scruff growing out on his chin and cheeks, coupled with the black jeans and Henley, make him look more rugged than fancy, and a scowl on a rugged man is from a way different place than a scowl on a billionaire finding an unexpected nearly-naked guest in his bathroom.
And now I’m thinking about how he wasn’t wearing a shirt when I made him let me into his bed last night, and wondering how naked he was, and once again debating with myself if I can use this change in my own plans to ask a favor of him as well.
“We were out of food.” I gesture to the bike handles, laden with canvas bags of groceries, hoping I don’t look like I’m mentally stripping him, because I’m not.
My favor has nothing to do with finding him attractive. It’s just a thing. That’s it. “No strawberries. But I did get more cheesecake.”
“This is what Charlotte is for,” Amelia tells me.
“Oh, but I love the market. It’s so quaint and charming, and they have a nut butter maker, and I got a sample of the most delicious fresh almond butter that I’ve ever had in my life. Don’t worry—I got a jar to share, because you have to taste this. It’s so good. And the market also let Marshmallow in with me, and no one minded when he carried my mangos around the store for me.”
Hayes makes a noise that might be a simple hiccup or might be regrets laced with dear god, don’t ever speak of your mangos again as he slides out of the golf cart. “Come, Begonia. Sit. I’ll load up the bike—”
“No, no, I’ll ride it back, if you’ll take the groceries. And I’ll start brunch when I get home.”
Amelia doesn’t say anything else out loud, but I’m pretty sure she’s once again thinking that’s what Charlotte is for.
Poor Charlotte.
She’s clearly in love with Hayes, and he has no idea.
Or maybe he does, and he’s very, very good at playing obtuse.
And maybe she’s not actually in love with him, because maybe she has better taste than that, but has great admiration for him because he’s…good…at something she admires.
Whatever that is.
Feel sorry for the man for clearly having a rough few days? Yes.
Admit he’s attractive in a rugged, grumpy way, and possibly not the horrifying bear I thought he was yesterday? Maybe.
Want to fall in love with him?
Absolutely not. Love and I are on a break, and when we decide to give it a try again, it won’t be with a man who makes me sign a contract agreeing to be his fake girlfriend.