He glances down at me. “I’d hardly say you’re the bottom of the barrel.”
I clutch my chest. “Oh, a compliment. I shall cherish it throughout the night as I attempt to play your heart-eyed, pregnant fiancée.”
He leads me to the front of the house and rings the doorbell. He clutches my hand tightly, as if he’s afraid I’m going to run away. Trust me, I’ve thought about it. Many times, on the drive over here, I considered pulling the old “tuck and roll right out of the moving car,” but two things prevented me from performing such an action-hero move: one, I was worried about road rash, and two, the iron-clad contract I signed that holds me accountable. Basically, if I don’t follow through, I’ll lose everything, and so will my mom, Kelsey, and my unborn children, still chilling in my lady bits.
But I do wonder—is he nervous?
He doesn’t look as though he is. Then again, I don’t think he knows how to show emotion. He’s so stoic, completely different than the man I met on the sidewalk, and the man I had dinner with. Who is the real Huxley Cane? A part of me wants to believe this emotionless man holding my hand is all an act to protect what rests underneath that puffed and proud chest of his.
The doors unlock and a wave of nerves hits me like a tidal wave as the door opens, revealing two people who are the prime picture of wealthy suburban life. Dave stands there with his arm wrapped around Ellie’s shoulders, and she has her hand pressed against his chest.
Smiling. In love.
All dewy-like, with their perfect skin and teeth.
Ready to be published in Home and Country magazine.
Who opens the door like that, like there’s a photo opportunity on the other side? They look positively perfect.
Dave is incredibly handsome. He has that whole “blond hair, blue eyes, nerdy finance guy” vibe going for him, while Ellie is basically the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen. Highlighted blonde hair that’s curled in perfect waves, framing her face. Her makeup makes her glow, and her sweet little red capris with white flowy top just give her this angelic vibe that I’m totally digging.
“Welcome to our home,” Dave says with a huge smile. “We’re so glad you could make it.”
This is going to be an incredibly long night. I can feel it already.
Dinner in Pleasantville—pretty sure this isn’t the place to lie back, pat your belly, and say, “Boy, I couldn’t stuff another taco in my face.” And then quickly grab the last taco before it’s taken back into the kitchen.
I’m so used to eating dinner with Jeff with his napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt and Mom, who likes to give us the rundown on the latest celebrity gossip—which she claims she doesn’t pay attention to—that I’m not sure I’m going to remember my manners, like elbows off the table, small talk that doesn’t revolve around a surprise mole that was found on one’s back, or what kind of chicken bone was tossed over the fence by our grotesque neighbors.
“Thank you so much for having us,” Huxley says in a pleasant voice that nearly startles me out of my designer sandals. “This is Lottie. Lottie, this is Dave and Ellie.”
Dave steps up and offers me his hand. I take it as he says, “Lottie, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” I say, because that’s what people say in movies, when really, I have zero pleasure in meeting this man. It’s actually the opposite of pleasure. It’s . . . it’s . . . displeasure. Yup. It’s a displeasure to meet him. “And, Ellie, it’s so great to meet someone else who’s pregnant. All my friends are in a completely different stage of their lives.”
“I totally get it,” Ellie says, shaking my hand. “I’m in a bit of the same position. Come in, come in. We can talk some more.”
I turn back around to take Huxley’s hand and catch the smallest glint of appreciation in his eyes as we walk into the house.
Hmm . . . maybe he’ll be nicer to me now.
Chapter Seven
HUXLEY
“I hate you,” Lottie whispers into my ear as she stands from the table, her hand lovingly caressing my shoulder as she walks by.
“Thank you, babe,” I say. I keep my eyes on her as she takes my glass and heads into the kitchen for a refill. Not a fan of “serving her man,” as Ellie said. Got it.
Lottie doesn’t seem to be a fan of much.
If it weren’t for her brilliant ability to slap on a smile and act interested in Ellie and Dave’s love story, I know I’d find an unwavering scowl, a gauntlet of sarcastic comments, and maybe a toss of her angry hands here and there.