by Meg Harding
The bedrooms are all on the second floor. He heads to his.
“We could give you his number? You could text him, or call, and get to know him that way.”
Aaron narrows his eyes. “You haven’t actually met him, have you?”
Tristan coughs.
He opens his closet and sets his shoes in the spot just for them. He rests his forehead against the cool wall. “Give me his number,” he says, against his better judgment. “But I make no promises.”
Before he goes for his swim, and after he calls Harley, he shoots this Jackson guy a text.
Hi. Your sister gave me your number. I’ve got an important question for you, before this can go any further. How do you feel about dogs? Name’s Aaron by the way.
If he’s learned one thing in the business, it’s to never pretend to date people who don’t like dogs. They’re just not his kind of people.
When he gets out of the pool, his screen shows a text. He bends to look at it.
When I retire, I’m going to own fifty French bulldogs.
He laughs and goes to dry off. Yeah, this might work.
Chapter Two
EVERYONE HAS those moments where their makeup doesn’t go on quite right, and they spend an hour longer than they planned trying to fix it. Or they cycle through ten different hairstyles, none of them feeling quite right, till their hair is stiff like a board from all the gel and they smell like a can of hairspray. The same can be said of outfits. Sometimes getting ready takes longer than expected, and the time to leave ticks around before they know it. And what’s left is a guy in his teal briefs with his dirty-blond hair sticking straight up and a pimple the size of Texas on his right cheek, standing in front of a mirror questioning his life.
Jackson has to leave to meet up with Georgina, Tristan (who he’s still yet to meet), and the much-praised Aaron. He’s got five minutes to get his act together. Georgina has proposed a dinner, thinking it would be a good way for them to meet up and get their stories straight before they’re subjected to a hoard of questions from intrusive distant family—and his beloved mom, of course.
He’s nervous. It’s not an actual date, and he and Aaron have been texting back and forth for a few weeks now, but he still doesn’t feel like he knows him. It’s not like they talk a lot when they text, either. Aaron asks him random questions, clearly trying to feel him out, and Jackson started returning the questions once he figured out what Aaron was doing. All in all, it amounts to a five-minute conversation that takes place every few days.
He knows Aaron likes dogs, has never been to Hawaii, never been to a family reunion (isn’t he in for a surprise), he’s a friend of Tristan’s from school, he watches a lot of sitcoms, and he pretends to date people for a living.
That’s it. He knows nothing else about the guy who he’s supposed to convince his mom he’s been dating for at least a month.
He’s going to pretend he’s been seeing this guy when this is the first time he’s actually meeting him. And he’s going into the situation as the guy who needs a fake boyfriend. One whom he’s paying for. He can’t say that’s not mortifying. This is definitely the lowest he’s ever sunk.
Now he’s wasted one of his remaining minutes staring blankly into the mirror and worrying. He starts to scrub his hands through his hair, but the gelled strands feel tacky and stiff. He grimaces. He’s a makeup artist. He does people’s makeup and even futzes with their hair for a living. He should have this down. He knows what looks good.
He texts Georgina to let her know he’s probably going to run late and hops in the shower. He’s already taken one, but something needs to be done about his hair. When he gets out, he towel dries it, finger combs it, and leaves it to do what it pleases. If anything it’ll just look a little fluffy.
He slaps on a quick bit of foundation, just a thin layer to conceal the pimple as much as possible. What can he say? He’s a vain type of guy. And then he’s right back at the clothes conundrum. His phone buzzes. He answers it absently while staring into his closet. He has so many options.
“Wear the black-and-white flannel, sleeves rolled up, and the dark skinny jeans I got you from Topshop,” says Georgina, forgoing hello. “Chop-chop.” She hangs up before he can reply.
If she were there—and he wasn’t running late—he might be inclined to argue on principle. But she’s not, and he is, so he does as she says. It’s not really anything new. He’s the youngest of the lot of them, and even though the twins are only a year older, they all love to boss him around.
The outfit is flattering. It shows off his tan forearms and how broad his shoulders are. The jeans show off his legs, nicely muscled but still on the lean side, and make his ankles look dainty. When he turns to get a look at his back, yep, his butt looks pretty decent in them. He works out hard for that peachy shape.
They’re going to dinner at Bastien’s restaurant, L’Amour Dans La Ville, and he’s been there before. It’s more upscale than casual, but he guesses since his brother’s dating the chef, dress code exceptions can be made for family. He thinks Georgina chose it because it’s familiar ground, and he’ll be more comfortable there.
He’s not sure anything will make this less awkward, though.
Now that he’s living in a suburb-type area, he’s given in to the need for a car. It’s more convenient than calling for a cab whenever he needs to go into the city itself. At the same time, he loathes driving. New York drivers are scary, okay? He feels like he’s in Mario Kart or Grand Theft Auto, and he’s just holding on for dear life and hoping no one hits him.
He folds into his silver Mini Cooper, and if he speeds a little to make himself less late, well, he’s just becoming one of the many. With the drive to focus on, he thinks less about how nervous he is and how ridiculous the entire situation is. He needs to man up and just tell his mom there’s no guy.
Except he really doesn’t want to.
He doesn’t know what that says about him, being twenty-seven and terrified of his mom’s disappointment. Then again, his brother avoided his mom for ages when he screwed up his relationship with Bastien. Maybe it’s a family thing for the Carlisles.
His nerves hit him full force when he parks two down from Georgina’s blue Audi. There’s nothing left to do but go inside and try to get a handle on everything. What if he doesn’t like Aaron? What if Aaron doesn’t like him? He grips the steering wheel with both hands and takes a deep breath. He’s working himself up over nothing.
The walk in feels simultaneously too long and too short. The host, Henry, smiles at him when he comes back from seating a couple. “Georgina’s at the Carlisle table,” he says. His smile is now more of a smirk. “Go on back, and I’ll let your server know you’ve arrived.”
It probably says something about his family that they have their own table here.
He spots his sister first—after all, she’s the only one he’s seen before. He doesn’t know which of the two men on either side of her is Aaron. One of them looks kind of like Brad Pitt when he was younger, with blond hair and bright blue eyes. There’s a tattoo on his right inner forearm, and when Jackson gets closer, he can see it’s an extremely detailed elephant head. The man on the other side of his sister is darker skinned, with thick black hair and wide dark brown eyes. He’s wearing a sea-green dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and he too has a tattoo. It’s on his left forearm: a medium-sized mechanical heart done in black and gray. Jackson thinks he might be Spanish, but it’s hard to tell. Possibly Italian? He has a hard time imagining the thick Southern drawl he’s heard over the phone coming from this man.
Oh fuck, he thinks. Is Aaron going to have a Southern drawl? He hopes not. He won’t be able to take him seriously. How did he not think of that before? He’s really not the Southern accent type. Oh God.
He realizes he’s just standing there awkwardly while they look at him. He feels his cheeks heat and shoves his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t wring them. “Hi.”
Georgina rolls her baby b
lues. “Sit down, loser.” She wraps her fingers around the arm of the Brad Pitt lookalike. “This is Tristan, my beau.” It’s Jackson’s turn to roll his gray-blue eyes. She’s been picking up the oddest vocabulary since she started seeing this guy. “And this is Aaron.” She tilts her head toward the man on her other side.
Aaron holds out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says. His voice is deep and smooth, not a trace of a Southern accent. Though there is the faintest trace of something there. He can’t pin it down. He takes his hand, shivers at the contact. Aaron’s hands are huge, larger than his, and they’re cool from the air-conditioning.
“Nice to meet you too,” he says, trying not to squirm under Aaron’s assessing look. He sits down, his hand still clasped in Aaron’s. He thinks maybe he should let go, and he forces his grip to loosen, his hand to slip away.
He ignores Georgina’s wide smirk.
Tristan’s hand is the next one held out, and when he says, “Nice to meet you,” it’s said in his slow Southern drawl. Jackson feels like he’s watching an episode of True Blood. He shakes his hand, and it’s much quicker, there’s no shivering or urge to hold on.
“Heard a lot about you,” Jackson says. “She’s kept you quite the mystery, though.”
Tristan’s smile is slow like his voice. Jackson can see where his sister’s finding him appealing. It’s a pretty devastating smile. “She said y’all are nosy.”
He blinks. Y’all. All right, then…. “She’s the nosiest of us,” he says. He wonders if Tristan has any clue what he’s in for, being brought around to a family reunion. It makes him wonder what Georgina’s thinking, introducing him to everyone in such a way. She’s been dating Tristan for over a year. He doesn’t get the big mystery.
“Don’t know about nosy, but she sure is bossy.” Tristan laughs, and there’s an undercurrent there that makes Jackson think ew, no. But Georgina’s beaming, and Aaron’s laughing, so he forces himself to remember Georgina’s an adult. She’s in her thirties. She should have brought more guys around to prep him for this. He’s not prepared.
His brothers are going to flip.
It’s not the server who comes to the table then, it’s Bastien. His chef whites have a red smudge on the front, and his hair is wildly curling around his face. “Bonjour,” he says, rocking up on his toes and back to his heels. His bright gaze keeps flicking to Tristan. “Henry said you were all here.” He bites his bottom lip, eyelashes fluttering. “I thought I’d take your order.”
Georgina snorts. “Where’s James?”
Bastien tries to look innocent. “Working.”
“Let me guess, he’s out to dinner with the rest of the squad.”
Bastien shrugs. “I’m not his minder.”
“But you are going to call him.”
He looks to Jackson, blatantly ignoring the question. “You don’t have anything to drink. What would you like?”
He snorts. “House wine.” He does not want to get in the middle of his sister and Bastien. Especially not when she’s doing him a favor.
Bastien looks betrayed. His bright eyes narrow, and he turns back to Georgina. “What would you like to order?” He’s being very careful not to look at Tristan.
It’s Georgina’s turn to snort. “Bastien,” she says, “I’d like you to meet Tristan—we’re dating. Tristan, this is Bastien. James’s boyfriend.”
Tristan holds out his hand. “How do you do?” His accent is overexaggerated to the max, and Jackson watches in puzzlement as Bastien’s entire face flushes red.
He shakes his hand, but instead of answering he just opens and closes his mouth. Jackson wonders if his refined French brain can’t translate the Southern into recognizable English.
His suspicions are confirmed when Bastien says, haltingly, “I… do good?” He blinks. “I’m good. That’s a, uh, heavy accent you have. James didn’t mention it.”
Tristan and Georgina have matching smirks on their faces. “I could say the same about you,” says Tristan in his regular accent.
Jackson watches Bastien take it in, realization dawning on his face. He laughs quietly to himself, mutters, “Ah.” He clears his throat, smiles a little. “Sorry. I really do need to take your orders, though. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen.”
Jackson asks for the same thing he always gets—a lemony-flavored fish dish he can’t pronounce. Aaron orders something involving steak, and he does it in French. He speaks the language perfectly, and Bastien looks pleasantly surprised, attention zeroing in on him in a way it didn’t before.
He’s heard Bastien speak French many a time, and Jean—one of Bastien’s friends—as well, and he’s never found it particularly sexy. Mostly he feels confused. When Aaron speaks it, it feels like the words are rolling down his spine and making him melt. He doesn’t care that he can’t understand any of it.
“You speak French?” he asks when Bastien finally walks away, turning to give Aaron his full attention.
Aaron smiles, and his teeth are straight and white, his lips beautifully plump. He’s got a deep dimple in his left cheek only. “I speak a couple different languages,” he says. “Just enough to get by.”
Jackson took five years of Spanish, two of German, and one of Italian throughout his many years of schooling. None of them stuck. He can say “hi” in all of those languages, and that’s about it. Needless to say, he’s impressed. He fiddles with his napkin to give his hands something to do. He never used to be this nervous around guys. His head is completely empty of things to say in return.
Is this an Aaron thing, or did Angel manage to permanently damage him somehow?
Why is a guy who looks like him and who is obviously intelligent going to pose as his fake boyfriend for two weeks? Why does he pose as anyone’s boyfriend? Jackson’s betting he definitely has better things he could do with his time. Like date people for real.
Aaron blinks at him, lips turning down in a frown. “Well,” he says, “you’re not exactly shabby yourself.”
“PLEASE TELL me I didn’t say that aloud,” says Jackson, cheeks flushing a dark red. He looks like he’s about to sink under the table from embarrassment. His blue eyes are dark, his face thinner than in the pictures Aaron’s seen in Georgina’s house. He’s lost weight he didn’t need to lose. Aaron wonders if it has something to do with the ex no one will explain. His hair is cut differently. It’s short and dirty-blond, but it’s starting to grow out, to fall into his face. It’s tousled and looks like he spends a lot of time raking his fingers through it.
He’s a good-looking guy. And really, that’s an understatement. The body beneath his clothes appears to be firm and muscled, wonderfully lean. He’s a lanky type of man. All legs and butt. Aaron is definitely an ass man—not that it matters here. Even with the thinness to his face, the sheer awkwardness he’s exuding, Aaron knows when he smiles for real, it’s going to be like daybreak.
Aaron would like to spare him, though he definitely did say those flattering things for all to hear. “You didn’t say anything aloud.” He smiles softly, tries to make it seem like he’s not making fun of him. And he’s not. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s people. And Jackson is highly uncomfortable. He’s nervous with the situation, his fingers constantly twitching. Aaron can feel the vibration in the booth from the jumping of Jackson’s leg. He doesn’t think Jackson’s even aware of it.
He needs to distract him. They’re not going to get anywhere if he keeps acting like this. Aaron’s a good worker—not a miracle one. He puts his hand on Jackson’s knee under the table, noticing the way he stills abruptly. His entire body goes motionless. The blush spreads to the tips of his ears and over what’s visible of his chest through the vee of his flannel. He leaves his hand there. Jackson’s staring at him with his wide, endearing eyes. His lashes are long and a lighter color, making them hard to see when he turns his head a certain way.
“Georgina says you’re a makeup artist?” It’s something he’s already asked Jackson over their brief t
ext conversations, but he wants to make him feel comfortable. Wants him to warm up. He needs to get him focused. “Did you ever practice on her?”
Jackson’s gaze moves briefly to his sister and then back to him before settling somewhere around Aaron’s chin. He licks his lips. They’re a little glossy, and Aaron wonders if he’s wearing ChapStick or lip gloss. He tracks the movement. Since Jackson isn’t watching his eyes, he won’t notice.
“I actually practiced on Denver,” he says. “My, uh, brother.” He rubs his neck, and he finally makes eye contact with Aaron. He’s going to take it, even if it is a shy look from beneath his lashes. “Georgina’s got this thing with her eyes. She won’t let you near them.”
Tristan starts to laugh, and he can see the look of relief on Jackson’s face from the corner of his eye when he turns to look at him, brow raised. He removes his hand when he does so, resting it on his own leg. He’ll put it back on Jackson’s if he starts to bounce again.
“You should have seen her when they tried to put the drops in at the eye doctor.” His words are broken up by his giggling.
Georgina whacks his arm. “It wasn’t funny!”
She’s definitely wearing eyeliner now, though. “Does it not bother you if you’re the one touching them?”
She turns to him. “I’m confident I’m not going to damage my own eye.”
Jackson snorts. “She had me teach her how to do eyeliner wings by modeling them on Denver.”
Georgina reaches over Aaron to pinch one of Jackson’s still red cheeks—it turns white as a result. “My own personal YouTube tutorial.”
When Aaron asked, he was wondering if he practiced on her now. They make it sound like Jackson’s been doing this for years. This is the kind of thing he needs to know. It’s relevant to Jackson, and it’s what a boyfriend would be aware of. “So you started doing makeup when you were a kid?”