“If you and I got together,” she answered, her words slow and measured like she was testing them out as she spoke.
I nodded. “Exactly. So let’s give her what she wants.”
“You want to date me?” Her question came out as a surprised squeak.
“I want us to pretend to be dating. It’ll make Gloria happy, which hopefully will keep her from showing up unannounced to harass us.”
“You honestly think that’ll work?” Her brows screwed down into a deep vee as she thought it through.
“Scout’s honor, I have no fucking clue. But it’s got to be better than what happened tonight, right?”
“Not sure her interference could get much worse, to be honest.”
I lifted a skeptical eyebrow in response.
Rosalie chuckled. “Okay, you’re right. It could always be worse.”
“So, Rosalie Mitchell Wentworth, what do you say? You want to be my fake girlfriend?”
She batted her dark, sooty lashes at me. “Why, Preston I-Don’t-Actually-Know-Your-Middle- Name Kelly, it would be an honor.”
“It’s Patterson,” I said. “My mom’s maiden name.”
“My middle name is Catherine, by the way. And you can drop the Wentworth. I’m going to start using my maiden name again.”
“Rosalie Catherine Mitchell, it is,” I said, liking the sound of that much better. The fewer reminders of Blake, the better.
All of a sudden, she launched herself off the couch. “This calls for a celebration!” She reached into the fridge to grab the last two beers in there.
With a fond smile, I watched her moving about my kitchen. But then my smile fell when I had to remind myself that this was all just pretend … even if my feelings weren’t.
Moving back into the living room, she passed me my beer and then plopped back down onto the couch, contorting her legs into a pretzel shape in front of her. “How is this going to work?”
“Well, we’re already dinner buddies, so we’ll just continue with that. Maybe light some candles so it looks romantic.”
“Good idea,” she said, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out her phone.
“Are you taking notes?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
I chuckled and rolled my eyes. “You do you, then.”
She stuck her tongue out at me. “We have to keep our story straight. My mom’s not dumb.”
“How many nights a week is she home these days?” I asked. “Seems like her car has been gone a lot lately.”
Rosalie tapped the pad of her index finger to her chin. “She plays bridge on Monday nights, does yoga on Tuesdays and Thursdays until seven, and I think she’s in two book clubs now. Really, the only time I see much of her is on Sunday nights.”
I nodded. “Okay, that gives us plenty to work with.”
For the next half hour, we stuck our heads together to plot out exactly how to sell the hell out of this fake relationship. Like Rosalie had said, Gloria wasn’t dumb. I had zero intention of doing anything to make her think I wasn’t one hundred percent devoted to her daughter.
At least that’ll be easy, I thought, as we pulled up our calendars to plan our first official not-really-a-date date.
16
Rosalie
Our plan to trick my mom into thinking Preston and I were dating was all systems go. The other night, we’d finalized all the details of how we planned to make it work, and tonight was our first attempt at putting it in motion. To prep for our first official “date,” I’d spent all day driving from one specialty shop to another, picking up ingredients for the “romantic” dinner I planned to cook for him tonight. I just hoped my mom fell for our ruse.
As if on cue, she came gliding into the room, her long dark curls twisted up into a thick bun on the top of her head and she was wearing what I thought of as her dressy caftan (as opposed to her run-of-the-mill everyone ones). And if I wasn’t mistaken, that was mascara on her lashes. Before I could ask why she was all dolled up for her book club, she began rifling through the ingredients I’d purchased.
“Truffle salt?” She held up the tiny ziplock bag that had cost me a small fortune, her eyebrow lifted. “How fancy.” She set it down and picked up a container of shallot and thyme butter. Her eyes scanned the rest of my purchases. “Ribeyes, too?”
I shuffled nervously, wondering if I’d gone overboard. We were trying to convince her our relationship was genuine, and if I were cooking dinner for an actual boyfriend, I definitely would have gone all-out. But maybe the fancy steaks and condiments were a bit too extra? I didn’t actually have to impress Preston, did I?
“I wanted this meal to be special. It’s the first time I’m cooking for him since we decided to stop fighting our feelings for one another.”
As if in slow motion, she turned to face me. “Come again?”
“Silly me,” I said, feigning innocence. “I was sure I’d told you.”
Her eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “Told me what, Rosalie Catherine Mitchell?”
Uh oh. When my mom used my full name, I was in deep trouble. I started to twirl a lock of hair around my finger but immediately stopped and dropped my hands back down to my sides. I was trying to give off an air of unbothered nonchalance, but fiddling with my hair was a surefire clue that I was up to something. I spun away from the counter, opened the refrigerator, and began rearranging its contents to make room for my groceries.
“When you left the other night, Preston and I got to talking. We realized you’ve been right about us the whole time, and we decided to take our relationship to the next level.”
From the other side of the fridge door, she squealed, and I winced. I knew she’d be happy, but I hadn’t quite expected eardrum-splitting levels of excitement. She yanked me out of the fridge’s interior and pulled me into a tight hug. “I’m so happy for you, sweetheart. You’re such a fantastic woman, and Preston is such a great man. I just knew you’d be perfect for each other. Oh my gosh, this is so exciting!” She stepped back, and keeping her hands locked on my forearms, studied my face. “How come you don’t look happy?”
I forced myself to smile. I hated lying to my mom, but I hated being embarrassed by her antics even more. This fake relationship was for the best, I reminded myself. “I am happy, Mom. But I’m also being cautious. We’ve agreed to take things slow. We just want to see where this goes, okay?”
“Oh! Yes, absolutely,” she said, taking another step back and folding her hands together beneath her chin. “I’m just so thrilled to see you moving on from that—.”
“I’m glad you’re happy, Mom, but I also need you to cool it with the antics, okay? Preston is the first man I’ve dated in over a decade, and I don’t think I can handle you pressuring the way you’ve been doing. Promise me you’ll be chill about this, all right?”
She nodded vigorously and then sketched an X over her chest. “I promise to be chill.” She bounced on her toes and squealed again, which was the exact opposite of chill. “By the way, I’ll be home around eleven. In case things get romantic.” She waggled her eyebrows, and I groaned.
As she turned to leave the room, I breathed out a sigh of relief. When Preston had suggested we pretend to be together, I thought he’d lost his damn mind. But if my mom’s reaction just now was any indication, this plan just might work.
When she returned less than a minute later carrying her purse, she stopped and eyed me critically. “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”
I glanced down the length of my body. In terms of attire, the baggy jeans with a tear in the knee and a loose chambray shirt knotted at my waist were a vast improvement over the paint-spattered yoga pants and sweatshirt I’d had on earlier. “Umm, yes?”
“It’s your first dinner as an official couple, and you’re going to sit across from him looking like some … some … street urchin?”
My jaw dropped open. That was a bit harsh. “These jeans cost over two hundred dollars.”
“Well, yo
u paid one hundred and ninety dollars too many. You could have bought ten pairs just like them at the Goodwill for half that.” She snorted, but I couldn’t tell if it was in laughter at her own joke or disgust over the cost of my jeans. “What kind of crazy person spends that kind of money on jeans with holes in them already?”
Definitely the jeans, then.
“Everyone in San Francisco,” I answered dryly. “Besides,” I continued, brushing her critique aside, “it’s just dinner at home. It’s not like we’re going anywhere fancy. Not that Colebury has anywhere fancy to eat.”
“You could go to Speakeasy. Sam’s fiancée Phoebe is the executive chef there. You should ask him for a recommendation.”
“That’s not the worst idea. Next time, though. Tonight, I’ve got a ribeye calling my name.”
“I’m not leaving for my book club until you’re dressed properly for your date, and since I’m supposed to lead tonight’s discussion, that’s a major problem.” She set her purse down on the kitchen table and pulled out a chair.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“As a heart attack. Now go.” She shooed me out of the room, and I went begrudgingly.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I rifled through my closet, nerves blooming in my belly. While Preston and I had discussed how to pull our ruse off, we hadn’t touched on some of the finer points … like proper date attire. I supposed my mom raised a good point: if this were a real date, I’d go all-out to impress him. And since she clearly thought it was, I now had to make an effort.
But I was so out of practice. It felt like forever since I’d last tried to impress a man. I honestly had no clue what was considered appropriate for a date at home where you were cooking for your supposed new boyfriend. According to my mom, it wasn’t this.
Tentatively, I reached for a black Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress, the last thing I’d purchased before I’d decided to leave Blake. I’d never even gotten a chance to wear it. Would Preston like it? I shook my head minutely to chase away the silly question. What did it matter if he did—or didn’t—like my dress? After all, I told myself for what felt like the twentieth time since I’d woken up this morning, this wasn’t a real date. The only reason I was up here dressing up for it was to appease my mom’s demands. And wasn’t that why we were doing this in the first place? To keep her off both our backs? So in reality, I was dressing to impress my mother, not Preston.
With a sigh, I bit off the price tag and shoved it down into the bottom of my trash can where my mom wouldn’t accidentally see it. If she’d thought what I’d paid for my jeans was ridiculous, I could only imagine her reaction to what a DVF cost. Not that it wasn’t worth it. The expensive fabric flowed softly over my skin, revealing a shape I hadn’t realized I had. I turned this way and that, examining my reflection in the standing mirror and marveling at the curves of my hips and backside. I spun back around and glanced down at my cleavage. Raising my hands, I cupped my breasts and tested their weight. The bralettes I wore most days didn’t provide much support, but then, I hadn’t ever really needed it. With the diet I’d been on for the last decade or more, the girls had shrunk dramatically. Since moving home, I’d put on some weight, and thankfully, it appeared to have landed in all the right places. But how had I not noticed before now?
Before I could spend too long admiring the view, my mom called up, asking how much longer I’d be.
I jogged over to the door and leaned out. “Be down in a minute!” I called back before rushing over to the antique art deco vanity I’d hastily unpacked all of my makeup into. Running a brush quickly through my hair, I wound my locks into a loose bun on the top of my head and secured it with a couple of decorative bobby pins. Next, I rifled through my makeup bag and pulled out a tube of mascara and lip gloss, and with a deft hand borne of years of practice, I quickly applied both. Briefly, I considered digging through my belongings for a pair of black strappy heels. Instead, I shoved my feet into ballet flats that were more practical for cooking before heading back downstairs.
“Is this better?” I asked as I rushed through the swinging door to the kitchen only to stop in my tracks when I spied Preston already seated at the table.
His eyes found mine, and I watched as he did a slow sweep of my body, his gaze turning heated. He pushed his chair back and stood, flattening the wrinkles of his dress shirt out with his palm. “You look …” He shook his head and smiled. “Wow. You look gorgeous, Rosie.”
I smiled back, feeling myself blush under the weight of his praise. From the corner of my eye, I saw my mom do a double-take between us, and then her lips hitched to the side in a slow, satisfied smile. Maybe she’d been right after all. Preston’s reaction just now had definitely been worth the extra effort I’d put into my appearance. Not that I needed his approval or anything, but I couldn’t deny that it didn’t feel really damn good.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” I said, stepping more fully into the room and moving to the cupboard to pull down two wine glasses. As I moved across the room, I let my gaze linger appreciatively over him. The whole hot lumberjack thing Preston regularly had going on was like catnip to me, but tonight he’d put away the denim and flannel, dressing instead in a pair of charcoal wool trousers that set off his muscular thighs to perfection. Up top, he wore a black button-down dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the forearms I so admired. His hair was combed back and his beard was neatly trimmed, making it so much easier to appreciate his full, kissable lips.
No, I warned myself as I reached into a drawer to pull out the corkscrew. Don’t you dare go there. If I did, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop thinking such thoughts. No matter how you packaged him up, Preston Kelly just did it for me.
But we were friends, that was all. This absolutely was not real.
You go ahead and keep telling yourself that, my subconscious snickered as I took a deep breath and spun back around to face him.
My mom picked up her purse and looped it over her shoulder. “You two kids have fun,” she said, shoving her arms into her wool coat. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She cackled as she opened the door and sailed out into the cold, late autumn night.
She needn’t have worried. Preston had been a perfect gentleman all evening, pulling out my chair, offering to do the dishes, and running inside for a blanket when we’d decided to sit on the porch with a glass of port at the end of the night.
Gentleman seemed to be his default setting, in fact. While I loved that about him, I also really wanted him to do very ungentlemanly things to my body.
But how did I let him know?
17
Rosalie
“I hope you don’t have any plans later,” my mom announced a couple of days later as she came through the kitchen door, her arms laden down with tote bags overflowing with craft supplies.
I jumped up from my seat and ran over to meet her, relieving her of the most precarious ones before she dropped them. As I set the bags down on the table, one of them flopped over onto its side and a a small jar of glitter rolled out. I dove forward, catching it before it landed on the floor. Whew. Crisis averted.
“Why?” I asked, tucking it firmly back inside the bag. No one wanted a broken bottle of glitter. I’d be cleaning it up forever.
“I volunteered you to take over coordination of the library’s book sale.”
“You did what?” My jaw hung open.
She popped her head out of the depths of the refrigerator. “You keep saying how bored you are. This will give you something to do.”
It was hard to argue with that logic, much as I wanted to. “But why do I have to take over? Can’t I just … I dunno. Sort some books or something the morning of?”
She smirked. “Oh, you’ll definitely be sorting books the morning of the sale. Don’t worry about that.”
“See?” I cried. “I don’t know anything about running a book sale.”
“No, but Patricia does.” Patricia was the head librarian at Colebury’
s library. Like many of the women that formed my mother’s social life, they’d been friends since before I was born.
“So why does she need me, then?” I asked, my voice laden with suspicion. Had she strong-armed Patricia into creating a bogus job just to get me out of the house?
Her face softened. “Her carpal tunnel is acting up again. The doctor said if it doesn’t get better, she’ll need surgery.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling guilty. “Tell her I’m sorry.”
“You can tell her yourself. She’ll be here at four.”
“You don’t actually have to do all the work yourself, Rosalie,” Patricia said as we sat in the living room together, drinking a pot of mint tea as she walked me through how the book sale had worked in years past. “You just have to keep the ball rolling and make sure everything’s coming together.”
I tapped my pen against my chin, deep in thought. “Is it too late in the game to change a few things?”
“Like what?” she asked, massaging her wrist.
“You said yourself it takes weeks to sort and organize all the books since you collect them the whole year. Is there maybe a way to partner with the high school to bring in a few kids each month to do that on an ongoing basis? Maybe they can earn official volunteer credits or something?”
“Hmm, that might work. My nephew is a guidance counselor at the school. I’ll mention it to him and see what he thinks.”
“Great,” I said, pleased to hear her so readily accept my suggestion. Over the years, I’d volunteered with a variety of organizations that claimed to want fresh ideas, but what they’d really wanted was new people to carry out all their old ones. This was a refreshing change.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Well, you also mentioned how tired you are at the end of the sale and how it takes you at least three days to recuperate.”
Homecoming (Speakeasy) Page 11