Giovanna Rutherford is good.
When Hayes and I get back to the house, me feeling like an open book with one cover flap caught in a shredder, him quiet and grumpy and probably about to throw me out of the house, his mother is in the kitchen, wearing an apron that makes her look like Donna Reed, chopping vegetables with a gorgeous hand-thrown pottery mug sitting beside the thick wood cutting board.
Whether it’s my coffee or something stronger inside that mug is anyone’s guess.
“Good morning, dear.” She sets the knife aside to go up on her tiptoes and peck Hayes on the cheek, then greets me with a cheek peck too, like we’re not swimming in this aura of oh my god, I asked him to have sex with me and call me another woman’s name horror.
Which she doesn’t know, of course, but she probably has ten billion reasons of her own to not like me, which makes her warm greeting suspicious in a way I wish it didn’t have to be.
“Begonia,” she says pleasantly, just like Donna Reed all over again. “You’re looking fresh and lovely this morning.”
I dig deep, deep, deep into my joy well and find a smile that almost feels genuine. “Thank you, Mrs. Rutherford. You look like you belong in a movie.”
And then I cringe to myself. Is that like calling my pretend boyfriend’s mother a total faker?
“She’s had a lot of practice,” Hayes says, earning himself an eye roll.
It’s a patient, amused eye roll, and once again, I don’t know if it’s real, or if I should look around for cameras. I hope Hayes and I were pictured together out in town, because I want to talk to Hyacinth, and I don’t know if I should or shouldn’t until it’s public knowledge that we’re dating.
The point is for this to be public knowledge though, right?
Unless we’re done dating, because I’m that level of awkward and embarrassing and disappointing as a fake girlfriend.
But if we were photographed together and we make the news, then the only thing I can’t tell Hyacinth is that it’s fake. If her twinstinct is working at all, she’s probably trying to call or email me right now. And since downloading my email again yesterday to show Hayes my contract for the house meant seeing three new emails from my mother with You should get back together with Chad as the effective subject line of each, I’m avoiding email.
Again.
Even though one simple message—Mom, I’m dating a billionaire now—would solve almost all of my issues with my mom.
Probably.
There’s still a large part of me that knows she’ll start telling me how to keep him, even though telling my mom that I’ve moved up in the world of dating was no small part of the appeal of agreeing to this plan.
I really need to talk to Hyacinth.
At the same time, I hope she’s too busy with the kids and hasn’t picked up on my disastrous morning.
I like that twinstinct means I know when she needs me, but I hate that twinstinct also means she knows when I need her.
I need her to not know that I need her. For her sake.
Marshmallow shoves into the middle of the circle of the three of us, licks Giovanna’s hand, then continues on into the kitchen, where he noses open the silverware drawer and a random cabinet.
“Close it,” Hayes orders him.
If Marshmallow were a child instead of a dog, that soft whine would mean but I don’t want to.
“I’ll get it.” I move toward the kitchen, but Hayes grabs my hand and repeats his order to my dog.
Marshmallow goes all the way down to the floor, settles his chin between his paws, and gives Hayes the but I’m such a cute puppy and I did my best trick for you puppy dog eyes.
“What a sweet dog.” Giovanna pats Hayes on the arm. “Go take your Benadryl and stop tormenting the poor thing.”
This is not the same woman who gasped and recoiled in horror at the sight of me rubbing her son’s temples last night. And I’m pretty sure I didn’t have any nipple showing, and I was wearing underwear, which she also couldn’t see, because Hayes’s head was in the way.
Maybe she really thought we were faking and that was proof positive that we aren’t.
Or maybe all of us are better on a good night’s sleep.
Except me and my glorious awkwardness.
But then, I wouldn’t call what I did last night getting a good night’s sleep.
If I had, I never would’ve made that outrageous suggestion.
Have sex with me, fake billionaire boyfriend. I’m sure no one has ever suggested using you for sex before, so surely you’ll be fine with me doing it.