Sexy Mother Faker (Hot Maine Men Book 2)

by Remy Rose

  So even though I look the part, I feel like I’m going to throw up, and I sincerely hope that feeling is gone by the time Damon gets here, or at least before we get to Kensington Winery. Little did he know he probably should have added a stipulation in the contract about my not embarrassing him in public. I’ll probably be okay once I get there and start drinking, but the anticipation is killing me.

  Ice cubes. I need ice cubes. For some reason, whenever I get queasy, sucking on those usually helps. Still in my underwear, I head to the fridge when my phone rings. I almost hope it’s Damon cancelling, but it’s my father. I haven’t heard from him a while—he works a lot of overtime as a machinist at G.E. in Bangor.

  “Hey, Dad.” I open the freezer door, take out a couple of small pieces of ice and pop them into my mouth.

  “Hey, sweet pea. Had a few minutes while I’m headed over to try and fix your mother’s dishwasher and thought I’d check in.”

  I mentioned Dad’s and Mom’s divorce was amicable, but what I didn’t mention is that they seem to spend even more time together now that they’re no longer married. I’m still not exactly sure why they split up—something about Mom finding herself and Dad wanting her to have the opportunity. She supported me all through my life, Laney, he told me. Now it’s my turn to support her, and if it means letting her go, I’ve got to be unselfish and do that.

  There aren’t many men in this world like my father.

  “That’s nice of you, Dad. How are things in the big city of Bangor?” The ice in my mouth is quickly melting, but the cold seems to be working its magic on my stomach.

  “Just hopping, as I’m sure you remember.”

  “Oh yes. Not that Ellsworth’s much more exciting, but tourist season is right around the corner.”

  “Your brother will be glad of that.”

  “Absolutely.” Wilder has become quite the entrepreneur, with his new company that caters to Maine tourists. A fair share of his clientele seem to be attractive women, but it’s very understandable—he’s young, single, and even if he’s my baby brother, I can’t deny he’s a total stud.

  “Any big plans tonight, Lane?”

  Oh, Dad...if you only knew. “Nothing major. I might go out later.”

  “Well, I hope you do. My girl is too beautiful and too special to be alone in her apartment on a Saturday night.”

  “Aw, thanks.” It suddenly occurs to me that I’ll be moving soon—there’s an apartment above where my café will be.

  It also suddenly occurs to me that Damon will be here in just a few minutes, and I’m not dressed. I don’t think he’d appreciate that. Then again...

  “I’ve got to go, Dad. Talk soon, okay?”

  “Absolutely. Love you, Laney-girl.”

  “I love you, too.” I end the call and hurry down the hall to my bedroom, feeling my throat thicken. The adult-me wishes that all men could be like my father. The little girl-me wishes that he and Mom hadn’t split up.

  I’m playing contortionist trying to zip up my dress when the zipper gets stuck. And at the exact same moment, the doorbell rings, which in my world makes total sense. Shit, shit, shiiiiit...I don’t want Damon to see me like this, but I need him to help me fix it. Ughh, I have no choice. I go to the door, pull it open and…

  Oh, God. I wasn’t ready for this. I should have been, but I was so wrapped up in what I was going to wear that I neglected to mentally prep myself for how Damon Cavanaugh would look in a tux: which is amazing enough to forget that I don’t like him.

  He rakes his gaze over me, shaking his head slowly. “Wow. Damn, Delaney...”

  Even though this is not a date, I have to acknowledge it feels good to have him appreciate how I look. A smile works its way up from deep inside me, threatening to claim my lips, and I fight it because this. Is. Not. A. Date.

  My tongue trips over my words. “The zipper...it’s stuck. I can’t—can you—” I stiffen as I turn around, not wanting him to see my bare back and part of my bra, and especially not wanting him to touch me, but there are his hands on my back now, lightly grazing my skin, and I can’t help but shudder. His fingers dip into the top of the dress to hold it still, and I know it’s only his knuckles against my back, but I feel his touch in places he’s not even touching me. With a few gentle tugs, I feel the zipper slide up.

  I turn around, and my eyes flick up to his face.

  He’s smiling like he’s got a secret. “You’re a little jumpy. I wonder why that is?”

  Shit that he noticed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You didn’t feel yourself shiver when I touched you?”

  “No. I’m sure it was because I’m a little cold.”

  “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t why.”

  “Sometimes people cringe when someone they don’t like touches them.”

  “And sometimes people shudder when someone they do like touches them. This was definitely more of a shudder than a cringe. You know,” Damon says, taking a step closer, “I could test out my theory and prove it.”

  I take a step back. My mouth is dry, my stomach is churning, and I need another goddamned ice cube. “The contract. No physical contact in a private setting. And this is a private setting.”

  “I believe it was written, no unwanted physical contact in a private setting. And from the way your chest is moving up and down and the intensity in those pretty blue eyes, I’d say your body wants to override your words.”

  I cross my arms over my breasts and take another step back. “You shouldn’t be looking at my chest.”

  “It’s pretty hard not to. You look fucking amazing in that dress, Delaney.”

  His brown eyes are veiled with something that looks like hunger as they rove over me again. I shiver and pray that it looks more like a cringe, but his grin tells me it doesn’t.

  “I need to get my purse and my wrap,” I tell him, turning quickly and going back into my bedroom. When I return, my breath catches in my throat, seeing him again. It’s like he’s been plucked from a red carpet in Hollywood and someone dropped him in my modest little living room.

  He’s looking around, nodding in approval. “I like your place. Your fashion sense extends to interior decorating.”

  “Thank you. I’m excited to renovate the building.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing the progress. Who’s going to do the work for you? Or do your talents also include carpentry?”

  “I’m going to help as much as I can, but my best friend’s boyfriend is doing most of the work.”

  “Nice. I don’t do much in the way of home repair, but I’m extremely skilled with my hands.” He’s looking at me with exaggerated innocence, and God damn him, because I was just starting to feel like I didn’t need an ice cube.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell him, going into the kitchen. I scoop up a few broken pieces of ice from the ice cube tray, flip them around in my mouth with my tongue and take a few deep breaths, because in just a couple of minutes, I am going to be alone in a car with my fake boyfriend on the way to meet his very real mother.

  Okay. I can do this. I have to do this. Café, Delaney. Eyes on the prize. I spit out the remaining ice in the sink and arrange my white wrap around my shoulders before Damon can help me, and then I’m out the door and in his dark blue Range Rover.

  The car fits him: a blend of rugged and sleek, tough and polished. Before we pull out of my driveway, he adjusts the temperature, points out the control for the heated seats, asks me if I’m comfortable (twice) and turns on the radio to a classic rock station. The audio is unbelievable. I raise my eyebrows and look at him.

  “Sirius Satellite. Thirteen speakers.”

  “Seriously? And did you see what I just did there?”

  “Nicely done. Great sound, isn’t it? I usually blast it after I leave work. Especially on days when my mother is particularly challenging.”

  “Speaking of your mother...do you have any tips about winning her over?”

  “You’re not going t
o win her over.”

  “But I thought—”

  “It’s not about getting her to like you, because she won’t. She doesn’t like many people, and she definitely won’t like you, because she’ll view you as standing in the way of her ultimate goal. This is about getting her to see that I’m in a serious commitment.” He takes his eyes off the road to look over at me. “Which means you need to pretend to like me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You sound like it’s going to be difficult.”

  “It’s not going to be the easiest thing I’ve done, no.” I steal a glance at the side of his face. He’s grinning again, like a really delighted-looking grin, which both perplexes me and creates a stirring where I don’t want it to. “What’s so funny?”

  “You. Because what you’re telling me and what you’re feeling about me are two different things.”

  We’re crossing into Surry where Jack and Maddie live, and for some inexplicable reason, my mind makes a leap to what they’re doing right now...probably at home, making dinner and listening to music. I can picture Maddie at the stove adding spices to a pot of delicious stew, and Jack coming up to stand behind her, sliding the hair away from her neck to kiss her softly…

  A little ache begins to take root inside me. I give it a good mental yank and turn my attention to my faux boyfriend. “I don’t know how you can possibly be confident enough to make a statement about my feelings.”

  “Probably because it’s blatantly obvious you’re attracted to me. Sometimes, if I listen real closely, I can hear your ovaries moaning my name.”

  “My God, you’re so vain. And the line in that song about walking onto a yacht totally fits here.”

  He’s laughing now, and the thing I’ve noticed is, no matter how arrogant he sounds, it’s completely negated by how hot he looks. I loathe him even more for this.

  “Come on, Delaney...you have to admit I get you hot and bothered.”

  “I’m not going to deny I found you attractive at the bar. But that was before I knew you.”

  “You think you know me now?”

  “Enough to know you’re one of the cockiest men I’ve ever met. If not the cockiest.”

  “You just said cock. Twice. I like that.”

  I open my mouth to retort, then snap it shut and fold my arms across my chest, fighting like hell to keep from bursting out in a scream. Or worse, a laugh. What is it about this man that makes him so infuriatingly obnoxious but so irresistibly hot?

  Speaking of hot, I’m getting there myself, and it’s not just the heated leather seats. But seeing as I seem to be unable to stop Damon from creating an inferno in my southern hemisphere, I lean forward to tap the control that lowers the seat temperature.

  As expected, he doesn’t let that slide. “Little warm below the Equator?”

  “It’s the seats.”

  “Of course it is. Hey, I’ve got a good nickname for you. Want to hear it?”

  “I’m sure I don’t.”

  “No, you do. It’s cute. Sprite.”

  “Sprite?”

  “Yeah. You remind me of it. You’re bubbly and fizzy but basically sweet and harmless.”

  Okay, so that was totally unexpected.

  “You need to come up with one for me.”

  “You mean we’re not going to just call each other Payor and Payee?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “I already have a nickname for you—I told you, Malibu Ken.”

  He wrinkles up his nose. While he’s navigating the curve in the road, I take a second to look at his hands. They are large and strong-looking, with perfectly-manicured nails. His right is gripping the top of steering wheel, his left relaxed on his thigh. I take a second to look at that, too.

  “Come up with another one.”

  “All right then...Demon.”

  “Don’t think you’re the first woman to have called me that.”

  “It totally fits.”

  “I do have a devilish side.”

  At least we can agree on that. We continue on Route 172 to Blue Hill. Kensington Winery is only minutes away, and I realize I’m just the slightest bit disappointed that this ride is almost over.

  But only because things will be a lot more stressful soon, when I meet his mother. No other reason.

  “So, Sprite...we have our story on how we met, right?”

  “Yes. At New Moon. That’s easy, because it’s the truth. And your mother knows where I work, right?”

  “She does.”

  “I can only imagine her reaction about my being lower-class.” My words slice into the air.

  “There is nothing lower-class about you, Delaney. And that’s how my mother thinks—not me.” He slides his gaze over to me, looking genuinely concerned.

  “Okay.” It doesn’t matter, really—this is a business arrangement, after all. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you considered the possibility of this Portia person? I mean, maybe she isn’t as bad as you’re anticipating, and you should just give it a try...who knows, maybe even marry her. You could always get divorced if it didn’t work out. People do that all the time.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re even more cynical about relationships than I am.”

  “Just trying to be realistic.”

  “Well, first of all, I don’t want to get married. And believe it or not, if I did, I’d want to be in love with my future wife.” His jaw muscle tightens. “I’ve seen how it is when two people are together for reasons other than love—it’s ugly. I don’t want that. It’s probably a major part of the reason why I’m planning to stay single, and safe.”

  This admission from him is more surprising than all the other cocky, inappropriate things he’s said to me because it’s raw honesty, and I didn’t think someone like Damon Cavanaugh would ever be one to share his thoughts on love.

  “That, and also the fact I have too much fun fucking to settle down.”

  Annnd just like that, he’s back.

  We’re in Blue Hill. I’m looking out my window as we pass by the Liros Gallery, the Baptist church and then the library when Damon makes a request.

  “Give me your hand, please.”

  “Why?”

  “You can’t flinch every time I touch you, and I’m planning to be a little physically demonstrative at the winery. Think of this right now as me getting you...desensitized. Although that’s the total opposite of what I usually do with women.”

  Reluctantly, I put my hand over within reach. He laces his fingers through mine, and the feeling is so surprisingly intimate and awkward but almost nice that I feel like he’s a teenage boy and I’m a teenage girl, and we’re in that totally intoxicating, hopeful/promise-y/fairy-dust dimension of a first date, when of course we are none of those things. After a few seconds, he gently turns my hand over to begin a slow, rhythmic stroking of my palm with his thumb. A slow, rhythmic, circular motion that makes my toes curl in my hot pink pumps, and makes me think of other things he can stroke like this.

  Moments later, we pull into the parking lot of Kensington Winery, and Damon flashes me a smile. “So...you survived that. And now we’re here, where you will also survive. Just remember—be yourself. I’ll be right there with you.” He gives my hand a squeeze before getting out of the car, walks over to my side and offers me his hand again to help me out.

  Okay, Delaney...put on your best Academy Award winner face, and let’s do this.

  I’ve never been to this place before—mainly because it seems to cater to snobs—but I have to admit, it’s impressive. Walking in, there’s an instant vibe of elegance. The foyer is spacious and beautiful: cathedral ceilings, a five-tiered crystal chandelier that looks like an upside down wedding cake, gleaming floors so shiny you can almost see your reflection. The coatroom attendant appears, asking if I’d like to hang up my shawl, but I decide to keep it like it’s some sort of security blanket.

  I hear the faint sounds of a piano and violins
. Damon places his hand on the middle of my back, and I stiffen.

  “Sorry. Just a little jumpy. About you...this place, your mother...everything.”

  “No need to be jumpy, Sprite. Especially not about me. We’re on the same team, remember? And it’s not like I can misbehave with you in this place, anyway.” He leans down, his breath tickling my ear as he whispers. “But in private? Different story. It was pretty much killing me not to do more than hold your hand in the car.”

  I take a few seconds to collect myself, because fuck. My acting begins now. “Thank you, but also, please stop. We’re in a faux relationship, remember? Which can be spelled F-O-E.”

  “Delaney...you’re not the only one who has to act here. I was just practicing before I go on stage. Apparently, I sounded convincing.” He arches an eyebrow, gives me a slow wink, and I’m instantly back to loathing him again. But should I even believe that he was just faking?

  The real issue is, I don’t want to.

  “Ready to meet the infamous Gloria Cavanaugh?”

  No. “Absolutely, I’m ready. Let’s do it.” I pull my wrap around me a little tighter. Damon’s hand is at my back again, guiding me as we walk into the great room. It’s stunning, with an all-glass, wrap-around veranda overlooking the bay and a huge fieldstone fireplace where a few couples are sitting in antique love seats. It’s packed with people—men in crisp black tuxes and most women in spring cocktail dresses, some in long sheath gowns. Jewels sparkle at their earlobes and necks and wrists, and I realize with a jolt of panic that I’m not wearing any accessories. I’d been so stressed about the zipper sticking, I’d totally forgotten to put on even earrings. Damon must not have noticed—guys never notice those kind of things—but girls do.

  Suddenly, I feel like every female in the room is going to be staring at my naked earlobes. Especially the female walking briskly toward us right now.

  Damon’s mother.

  She looks just as I’d envisioned, except slightly taller, which makes me glad I’m wearing heels. Very attractive, but in a harsh sort of way, with a sleek blonde bun and a sharpness about her face—thin nose, angular cheekbones, ice-blue eyes. She’s wearing a navy blue gown with a halter neckline and sequins scattered along the skirt that glimmer in the light. She looks, quite honestly, like royalty, and if I feel intimidated just by her appearance alone, I can only imagine how I’ll feel talking to her.