She’ll hate me, but that’s fine. As long as I can get her to come to dinner and not make a fool out of me, that’s all I care about.
This is really fucking dumb, and any person watching me do what I’m about to do would agree. But desperation is at my door and I’m fucking answering.
Chocolates in hand—because honestly, I don’t know what women like and I’ve never done this before—I walk up the small path that leads to Lottie’s front door. She lives in a small bungalow with an impeccable yard, right around the corner from The Flats. The house must be worth a fortune now, especially on such a nice parcel, right next to a wealthy neighborhood.
I knock on the door and hold my breath.
“I got it, Mom,” I hear Lottie call out right before she opens the door.
She’s wearing a pair of cotton shorts and a Rolling Stones T-shirt. Her hair is up, pulled away from her face, and her eyes are wide with surprise.
“Hey, babe,” I say with a devilish smile. “I’ve missed you.”
Through clenched teeth, she asks, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Don’t you want to invite me in?”
“No . . . I don’t,” she says in a snippy tone. Looks as if I have my work cut out for me.
“Lottie, who is it?” a female voice asks from inside the house.
“No one,” Lottie calls out. I can sense she’s about to slam the door in my face, so I take a step forward and stand in the doorway, cutting her off from an abrupt departure on my end.
“No one? Is that how you treat your fiancé?” I ask. “I thought I meant more to you than that?”
“You’re insane,” she whispers. “How do you even know where I live? Did you stalk me? Do you have someone following me around, watching my every move? Rich people can do things like that. I know the kind of power you have.”
Trying to hold back my smile, I say, “You typed your address into my Google Maps. It was in the previous addresses section.”
“Oh.” She slowly nods. “Yeah, that checks out.”
Jesus.
“Lottie, dessert is . . . ready. Well, hello.” From the vast resemblance between Lottie and the woman next to her, I’m going to assume this is Lottie’s mom. “And who might this be?”
Before Lottie can say anything, I hold out my hand and say, “Huxley, ma’am. Lottie’s boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” her mom shouts in surprise and turns to her daughter. “Since when have you had a boyfriend?”
“Three months,” I answer once again. “We’ve kept it really quiet. We wanted to get to know each other before we announced anything publicly. Especially since my job is high profile.”
“Wow, I’m shocked. I didn’t even know Lottie was dating anyone, but what wonderful news.” She holds out her hand and says, “I’m Maura.”
I take her hand and give it a soft shake. “Huxley. It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Huxley, oh, what a wonderful name. Please come in. Dessert is ready, and I’d love for you to join us.”
I hand her the chocolates. “Maybe I can add to the dessert table with these,” I say, but before Maura can take them, Lottie snags them from my hand.
With a ravenous look in her eyes, she says, “These are mine.”
Her mom chuckles. “Don’t get between Lottie and her sweets. I’ll grab another plate for our guest. Come in, come in, Huxley.”
I do just that. I step into their quaint but homey bungalow and remove my black Tom Ford shoes and then my black suit jacket as well. I undo the buttons on the cuff of my long-sleeved button-up and roll the sleeves up to my elbows while staring down at Lottie, who’s staring up at me, hatred beaming from her pupils.
“Hey, babe,” I say again, this time with a smile.
“You’ve completely lost your mind,” she says quietly. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Playing dirty. I tried to play nice, but you didn’t want to, so here I am now. Playing dirty.”
“What makes you think I’m going to play along?” She lifts her chin.
“Because I know you don’t have a job . . . and you don’t want your mom to know.”
Her face goes white, and in this moment, I do feel slightly bad. It’s obvious Lottie is going through a hard time, and I watched her struggle with her conscience in Chipotle as she tried to figure out what to do. Respected that. But I don’t have time for her to figure it out, and honestly, I don’t feel bad enough to end the farce. Especially since I’m in deeper shit than she is.