Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Completely unaware of the filthy thoughts running through my mind and still surprised at the mildest chivalrous gesture, she quietly says, “Thank you.”
I’ve got no issue with women who want to open their own doors and don’t need their chair pulled out, but Janey likes those things. I suspect she’s never been treated that way, and I plan to show her how a man should cherish her in all the everyday, small ways.
“You ready?” I ask, keeping her in the open doorway with one hand on the truck and one on the door. There’s no one around to hear us, but this is a private conversation. Only she and I know what’s about to happen, and it needs to stay that way. If she says no, I’ll help her climb back in the truck and have her roaring down the highway, heading back to the cabin, in under sixty seconds.
“Yep! Let’s go introduce everyone to my awesome, hot, smart, rich boyfriend!” she says, sounding like she’s channeling a cheerleader on pep rally day. Rah, rah, sis, boom, bah!
It’s fake. Obviously so, and I sense she needs a little encouragement to do this. She needs to at least partially feel like it’s real.
I lean into her, murmuring so close that my lips brush hers. “Call me your boyfriend again, beautiful.”
I feel her breath whoosh out and grin victoriously. She’s not thinking about Paisley or her parents or her sister now. She’s thinking about me and only me. And not that I’m some fake stand-in that she’s lying about.
For a moment, it feels real.
“You’re not a boy . . . or a friend . . . or a boyfriend. You’re something else entirely,” she whispers, and now her smile looks real.
“Tonight, I’m yours and you’re mine,” I prompt with a meaningful look, “and don’t forget it.”
I take her hand in mine, press a kiss to her wrist, and lead her toward the restaurant. It’s showtime.
I’m nervous. Not that I’d show that to Janey or anyone else. But this undercover gig feels bigger and more important than any job I’ve had before. Janey needs this to go perfectly, and I’ll do anything to make sure that happens.
We follow the hostess’s directions to the private back room and I open the door, then press a hand to the small of Janey’s back to guide her in. The space is filled with dark walnut paneling, rich carpeting, and staid oil paintings of cattle and ranchers. The long, white tablecloth-covered table in the center of the room is covered with brightly polished silver, sparkling stemware, and a gathering of greenery and white flowers that meanders down the middle.
Though the room is full of people, no one so much as glances our way to notice Janey’s arrival. Even so, she takes my hand again and squeezes . . . hard. I can feel her nerves ratcheting up like she’s entering the Thunderdome and will have to fight to the death instead of having dinner with her family.
“We’re fine. You’re fine,” I whisper in her ear, keeping an eye on the room though I glance down at her chest, which is rising and falling too quickly. “Slow down your breathing. I’ve got you.”
“There’s Mom and Dad,” she says.
I follow her gaze, clocking the two people I need to impress the most.
Janey’s mom, Eileen, is short and thin, has a brunette bob that brushes around her jaw, and is wearing a blue dress with large red flowers along the hem, which is touching the tops of her knees. Her shoes are sensible block heels and her jewelry is minimal, only a tennis bracelet that I bet she pulls out of her jewelry box for special occasions.
Janey’s dad, Leo, is tall and has a round belly I suspect is from a more-than-occasional beer. His head is freshly shaved, and his smile looks easy as he listens to whatever Eileen is saying. Leo’s wearing boots, khaki slacks, and a green polo shirt with a pair of reading glasses tucked into the button placket.
They seem slightly underdressed for the occasion, but all in all, they look remarkably . . . normal. Which is surprisingly not uncommon when you’re talking about people who are shitty parents. They’re rarely the scary monsters we expect them to be. More often, the worst of the worst look like your neighbors, which is the scariest part of all.
“Let’s go introduce me,” I say, pulling Janey toward them. I have a few choice words for these two.
And the rest of the family too.
Janey
I can’t do this. I should’ve told Cole no. I should’ve laughed at how ridiculous the very idea of his playing my boyfriend is. But I wanted it to work and had myself believing it would right up until we walked into this room.
Now, sticking my head in the sand ostrich-style is sounding like a better plan. I want to run back to the cabin and hide. Skip the rehearsal dinner, skip the wedding, and go back to work next week like nothing happened.