“All set?” He slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder and wheeled my suitcase behind him, again without asking, leaving me to trail after him with my purse and smaller tote. It was weird not schlepping my stuff. Women who had partners in their lives probably had help like this all the time, but I couldn’t fathom it. I always carried my own stuff, and at least half of Caitlin’s.
“What’s in there, anyway?” Mitch nodded at the insulated tote I carried, and I glanced down at it.
“Guacamole supplies. Tonight’s the guac-off, right?”
His eyes lit up. “Oh, definitely! I didn’t want to put pressure on you, though.” The keycard beeped and the light turned green as he unlocked the door to the room.
“No pressure,” I said as I followed him into the room. “I emailed my college roommate, Hope, this week. She’s from Austin, and if there’s one thing Texans know, it’s their guacamole. I am in it to win . . .” My voice trailed off as he flipped the lights on and we both came to a stop in front of the bed.
The.
Bed.
As in one.
“Um . . .” I looked up at Mitch, who was staring at the bed as though it were a particularly nasty kind of snake.
As well he should. Said bed was ginormous, and festooned with rose petals, sprinkled across its surface and around the perimeter. A garishly red heart-shaped pillow perched at the head of the bed, on top of the pillows like a vulture of love. A bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates were on the nightstand, honestly the only palatable part of this scenario.
“Hmm?” To his credit, he made an effort to sound unconcerned in the face of this aggressive display of romance.
“Do you . . . do you see this?”
“Yep.”
“Any idea what the hell this is?”
Mitch sighed a long sigh. “Lulu was really excited when I told her I was bringing a girlfriend.”
“So she what, got us the romance package?” I wanted to laugh, but I was too horrified. I wanted to crack open that bottle of champagne and chug it, but showing up drunk at Mitch’s grandparents’ would probably be a bad idea.
“Yeah, that . . . that looks like exactly what she did.” He leaned down and plucked a couple of the rose petals off the bed, which made exactly no difference. I tried to focus on the rest of the room. Two small uncomfortable-looking wingback chairs and a small end table sat near the window, while the wall across from the bed had a desk and a dresser, with a television taking up most of the real estate on the wall itself. It was a nice room, all things considered. Except that I was going to be sharing a rose-petal-covered bed with Mitch Malone for the next two nights.
“Okay.” I set my purse and the tote of guac ingredients on the （super-king-size） bed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay,” I said again. “Let me call down to the front desk. I can get my own room. Or maybe they can switch this one? Give us a different room with two beds in it?”
“Yeah. Because that’s not going to look suspicious for a couple with the romance package.” Mitch snorted. “Besides, I don’t know who else from the family is staying here. What if someone drops by the room? It would be pretty obvious if your stuff isn’t here.”
I sighed. While the odds of that happening seemed pretty low, he had a point. Keeping a lie going was a lot of trouble. Probably best to keep things as simple as possible.
“Fine.” I reached for my suitcase. We were due at his grandparents’ place in a couple hours. That champagne was going to have to wait. “But it’s going to cost you.”
“Anything you want.”
So many places I could go in response to that. But I played it safe. “Well, my living room walls aren’t going to paint themselves.”
“Deal.” We shook on it, and his hand was warm around mine. Odds were good I’d be holding that hand more than once this weekend. I should get used to his touch.
To that end . . . I unzipped my suitcase and got out my makeup bag, along with the outfit I planned to wear tonight. Mitch needed his mature, steady, fake girlfriend. Worrying about sleeping arrangements could wait. It was time to get into character.
* * *
? ? ?
Malones everywhere. That phrase had stuck with me ever since Mitch asked me to do this, and it echoed in my head now, over and over, to the rhythm of . . . well, everything. My heartbeat, which grew steadily faster and louder in my ears as we left the hotel and started the drive to his grandparents’ house. The music on the radio, which Mitch had kept tuned to the classic rock station because I’d liked one of the songs there about an hour into our trip earlier today. The engine of Mitch’s truck, which hummed all around me like I was in a giant cocoon. I felt safe in Mitch’s truck. But soon enough we were going to arrive at his grandparents’ place, where I’d have to leave that cocoon of safety. Where there were Malones everywhere.
My eyes widened and my eyebrows crawled up my forehead when we turned in to a neighborhood lined with what can only be described as mini-mansions. With lush, huge front yards and winding driveways featuring wrought-iron gates, they looked like houses celebrities hid in, where paparazzi hung from the massive oak trees trying to get a million-dollar shot. Mitch didn’t seem like a mansion kind of guy. But that didn’t mean his family wasn’t. My blood pressure shot up a little more until I could hear my heart pound in my temples. I was sitting here in a blouse and slacks that were barely a step up from business casual with a bag of avocados in my lap, and while Mitch had changed into a shirt with an actual collar, I still felt underdressed for houses like this.
But . . . all these houses looked like relatively new construction. I turned to Mitch. “I thought you said they lived in an old house?”
“Hmm?” He glanced over at me for a split second, keeping his eyes on the road for the most part.
“You said it was like a hundred and fifty years old? Secret passages?” I gestured to the houses out the window as we drove past them.
“Oh yeah.” He dismissed the scenery outside with a wave. “Don’t pay attention to that.”
A couple of left turns later, Mitch pulled onto a winding driveway whose gates stood open. We drove through a little wooded area off the street, and while I couldn’t see a house right away, I was prepared for something tremendous. How the hell many people were going to be at this gathering if there wasn’t room for Mitch at the family home? My chest tightened, and I gripped the oh-shit bar on the door as I tried to take a deep breath. Maybe it was me. Maybe they didn’t want me there. Oh God.
But then the trees gave way to a clearing, and the house appeared. And he was right. While it certainly wasn’t small—I could probably fit two of my houses in there—the nineteenth-century farmhouse bore little to no resemblance to the huge houses we’d driven past. Obviously well maintained, it was covered in gray clapboard siding and had a wraparound porch dotted with rocking chairs. I couldn’t see the backyard from where we were, but trees in the distance showed that it backed onto a forest: the house and the land it stood on seemed snuggled into a semicircle of oak and fir trees. In front of the house there was a carport area of sorts that was mostly gravel, and currently filled with cars.