: Chapter 8

Note to self: Fake dating a billionaire may not be bucket list-worthy.

So long as I don’t end up in prison, accidentally do something that would get me fired from my teaching job, or get murdered, I’m sure I’ll still find something positive out of the experience, but right now, I’m sincerely doubting I’ll have anything good to say about Hayes Rutherford when this is over.

Case in point?

Fifteen seconds ago, when a perfunctory knock sounded on the door, he sighed heavily, put away the phone he’s been staring at non-stop while I’ve been needling him for information so we could pull this off, looked at me, and said, “I hope you’re half as good with parents as you are at annoying me,” then walked to the foyer, swung the door open, and said, “Mother. What a surprise,” in that way that says it wasn’t at all a surprise to see her.

And now, I’m staring wide-eyed at three of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen in person in my entire life.

Giovanna Rutherford leads the pack. Hayes’s mother is one of those women who reminds me of a bird. If I wanted to stay as skinny as she is, I’d have to live on a daily diet of three chickpeas, a shot of vodka, and four hours of being yelled at by a personal trainer named Guy, then two hours of therapy to get over the four hours of being yelled at. She has fewer crow’s-feet in her seventies than I do in my early thirties—and don’t ask about how flawless her white skin is, without even a hint of a single sun spot—her pantsuit looks like it was woven by angels and fitted by Tim Gunn or the Queer Eye guys, and her chin-length hair is such a lovely shade of silver that it could be braided into a chain and used as a necklace.

Or possibly I’m having an irrational girl-crush reaction to being within inches of Jonas Rutherford’s mother.

I wonder if Hyacinth is picking up on my freak-out over our twin radar.

Not that I have time to worry about that. The two women behind Giovanna are giving off major diva vibes.

The first is a stunning dark-haired, brown-skinned woman with more curves than a mountain road and more poshness in her pinky nail than I have in my entire body. The second is a striking alabaster-skinned redhead—and I mean a natural shade of red, unlike mine—who has lust written all over her expression when her brown eyes shift to Hayes.

Giovanna gives me a once-over, then hands me her gloves as she plucks them off her hands.

My fake boyfriend’s mother has traveling gloves, while I’m standing here dripping in sweat from running around picking up and changing sheets, my hair glowing fuchsia, and with a streak of what I hope is dirt and not paint from an undetermined source swiped across my left boob.

It’s probably a good thing I opted to not wear my Artists Do It In Full Color T-shirt.

“See to it that my luggage is taken to the guest quarters upstairs and make Amelia comfortable in the room down the hall,” Giovanna orders me. “Charlotte will take the en suite in the basement.”

“Carry your own luggage, Mother,” Hayes says. “Begonia isn’t here to serve you.”

“Ah, my sweet boy. So cranky when you’re tired.” She pats his cheek, turning her back on me like I’m the hired help, which would make a lot more sense than what I signed paperwork agreeing to. “Have you had anything to eat today? That never helps either.”

“Neither do uninvited guests.”

“Hayes.”

“Mother.”

“I realize you’re old enough to take care of yourself, but it’s been a difficult two weeks, and you shouldn’t be by yourself right now.”

I fling myself between them and grip Giovanna’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically, because oh my god, I’m touching Jonas Rutherford’s mother. “Mrs. Rutherford. Hi. I’m Begonia. It is so good to meet you. Hayes hasn’t told me much about you, but then, you could probably say the same about what he’s told you about me, couldn’t you?”

She smiles at me, but it’s one of those patient smiles that I give my students when they try to convince me that a blank canvas is art just because they didn’t want to do the assignment.

Or possibly like that smile my mother gave me when I told her I was divorcing Chad.

“I’m sorry, I have no idea who you are,” Giovanna says, smile still in place, patiently letting me continue pumping her hand without pulling away.

I wonder if this happens when she visits the Razzle Dazzle Village amusement parks. Strangers accosting her and shaking her hands and telling her thank you for being part of the family that runs their favorite vacation spot.

“Relax, darling, I’m quite all right with it if she doesn’t like you.” Hayes slips an arm around my waist, his fingers resting above my hip. It’s an intimate gesture suggesting we’re much more acquainted than we actually are, and it should make me uncomfortable—I don’t need another overbearing man in my life, even if I’m mostly game for fake-dating a billionaire—but instead of my common sense reminding me that this is pretend, my vagina reminds me that it’s been somewhere between twelve and eighteen months since a man’s touched me for anything other than a handshake or a hug among colleagues or family. I don’t remember the last time Chad and I had sex, but I do remember it wasn’t any more memorable than a handshake, which is the only thing that made it memorable.

“Begonia, meet my mother, Giovanna. Mother, this is Begonia Fairchild. My girlfriend.”

My mom looks nothing like Giovanna Rutherford.

But I know that disappointed mother face.

I know it very well.

It disappears nearly as quickly as it appears though, which makes me wonder if Jonas got his acting skills from this side of the family.

“Ah, again?” she murmurs, fake smile still plastered on.

A-ha! I was right.

He’s used fake girlfriends before.

Possibly including the mayor here.

And now I want to know how that one went down. It couldn’t have been terrible if she was willing to come ring the gate bell.

Or does he just have very, very poor taste in women?

Of all the time to have my internet speed dependent on a hotspot on someone else’s bad wireless connection, the moment when I need to google my new fake boyfriend’s relationship history is not ideal.

“Yes, Mother, I have a girlfriend again,” Hayes says. “Begonia and I met on a Snarflings World forum while I was incognito, moved private chats to phone calls, and I asked her to meet me here. She had no idea until this morning who I actually am, nor to whom I’m related, and I’d prefer if you don’t make her uncomfortable.”

Wow.

He’s good.

Except I wouldn’t be caught dead within seventeen miles of a Snarflings World forum, since it was Chad’s favorite television show and I never really got it.

Aliens trying to correct things wrong with Earth and always getting it wrong?

They could’ve tackled world hunger or environmental disasters, and instead, they were like, we must save humans from Cheerios.

It was so absurd it wasn’t even funny.

And now I wonder just how odd Hayes really is, and also if he knows that little detail about Chad from his background check on me.

Just how thorough can a background check be if it’s done in ten minutes?

Once again, I’m back to wondering if he knew I was here, but the circle of questions is more likely to make my head hurt than it is to convince me to run, so I stay, smiling brightly.

“You can take your own luggage to your rooms,” Hayes continues, “or, more preferably, to one of the other accommodations in town across the island.”

“Did you run a background check on her?” the dark-haired diva asks. She’s familiar, but I can’t quite place her, and this isn’t a Did I meet you at Cracker Barrel? or Was your brother one of my art students? kind of familiar.

Is she an actress?

“Begonia, this is Amelia Shawcross,” Hayes says. “We went to grade school together. And this is Charlotte, my mother’s personal assistant who deserved a Sunday off but apparently didn’t get it. I assume there’s a security detail making the rounds outside. You’ll meet them soon enough as well.”

Amelia takes my hand for a handshake that feels very practiced. “Hayes and I got married in second grade.”

“Oh, that must’ve been adorable.” I beam at her. “I married my dog when I was nine. My sister and I were arguing over who got to be the bride and who had to be the bridesmaid, so we decided to take turns, but when Mom heard me talking about a honeymoon with Oreo, she freaked out over what the neighbors would think, so Hyacinth never got to be Oreo’s second wife.”

Hayes chuckles, and the sound wraps around me like a blanket made of chocolate lava cake. “Isn’t she adorable?”

“Quite…normal.” If Giovanna’s appalled, she’s hiding it well.

Amelia shakes her long, thick hair and smiles a vulture’s smile at me. “You probably shouldn’t tell that story in mixed company if you don’t want stories about yourself having sex with a dog spread across the tabloids. Have you ever dated someone famous, Begonia?”

“Just Oreo. He ate the mayor’s wife’s roses and made the local papers for it. Mostly because he wasn’t smart enough to stop after the first thorn made his tongue bleed.” I turn my beaming smile up at Hayes, and yes, I’m well aware that my dog being famous has nothing on the level of fame these people deal with every day. “But I’m attracted to smarter creatures now. And Oreo’s tongue was okay. It wasn’t as bad as the news made it sound. Plus, he was recovering from the ol’ snip-snip and still had a lot of painkillers in his body when it happened.”

The looks on their faces are priceless.

I can’t wait to tell Hyacinth that Jonas Rutherford’s mother will never forget me.

Obviously, I’d prefer it was for a better reason, but a girl has to work with what she’s got. And honestly? The idea of the whole Rutherford family sitting around a Christmas tree, fire roaring, laughing about that time Hayes pretended to be dating a girl who married her dog who went small-town viral when he was drugged-up and snip-snipped brings me a little joy.

Do people on Fifth Avenue talk about the things their pets do that aren’t normal or polite?

They always seem so stiff, like they need the little things to laugh at.

“Are any of you hungry?” I ask. “I think we have crackers. There was, erm, a refrigerator malfunction, so we’re out of butter. I can use the house phone to order a Tuber to have some lobster rolls delivered. Have you had the lobster rolls from Clickety Clack? They’re delicious. And I think it’s adorable that there’s a local named Mr. Tuberman who runs the Tuber. It’s like Uber, but not.”

“They know where Clickety Clack is if they’re hungry, darling,” Hayes says.

Giovanna’s lips go flat and tight.

“Don’t be a bear,” I whisper to Hayes. “They’ll think I’m a bad influence.”

“It’s not you, Bernardia,” Amelia says.

“Begonia,” Hayes corrects. “Though I prefer to think of her as my bluebell.”

“Of course you do. I was always your azalea.”

Amelia Shawcross.

It clicks.

Holy sweet da Vinci on toast. “You were on Dancing with the Stars.”

“Amelia’s multi-talented.” The smile Giovanna aims at Amelia leaves no doubt just how much the older woman likes her. It’s a Sesame Street smile, except Giovanna doesn’t want Amelia to be her neighbor. She wants her to be her daughter-in-law. “She’s quite brilliant in her day job on Wall Street, runs a popular finance blog, and would’ve won that season if they hadn’t let a former cheerleader with seven years of dance training into the competition.”

“You kicked ass,” I tell her sincerely. “I don’t know how you kept up with everything while you were doing dance lessons for the show too. Seriously amazing. My sister and I couldn’t stop talking about how we would’ve been so exhausted after the first thirty minutes of rehearsals, but you killed it like a major lady boss. Such a great role model for young girls everywhere. High five, rock star.”

I lift a hand.

All three women stare at me like I’m an alien.

I glance at Hayes and find that he, too, seems completely befuddled.

“You don’t celebrate each other’s successes?” I ask.

“And you wonder why I like her,” Hayes says to his mother.

That’s all the warning I get before he grabs me by the hips, spins me so our bodies align, and lowers his mouth to mine.

My first instinct is to protest, but I ignore it.

Not because I’m contractually obligated to, or some other legal nonsense reason.

But because if these people truly don’t celebrate each other, then who am I to interfere with Hayes’s plans to not get set up with one of them?

Also, I haven’t been kissed in months.

Months.

Well over a year, for sure.

And I like kissing. I like being close to someone. Skin to skin. Breath to breath.

Intimacy.

I don’t miss Chad.

I miss intimacy.

Hayes wraps one arm tighter around my waist while he settles his other hand at my nape, his fingers spreading over my scalp and making my nerve endings stand up and rejoice. He licks the seam of my lips, and I melt.

I’m no longer Begonia Fairchild, lost child in search of herself.

I’m a puddle of paint in every color of the rainbow, swirled and glittered and beautiful and wanted, or at least, I can pretend I’m wanted.

For just a minute.

I miss being wanted.

I part my lips, touch my tongue to his, and while a hazy part of my brain tries to remind me that this is just for show, when he teases my tongue right back, my vagina leaps to her feet and throws her bra at the stage where Hayes is performing the encore of all rock show encores.

“Hayes,” a distant voice says.

I ignore it.

He ignores it.

This is a spectacular kiss.

I would believe this kiss if I were watching it.

He could make you come in thirty seconds if he kissed your pussy like this, a little voice whispers.

There’s a shriek in response, and I realize that’s not me shrieking.

Nor is it my vagina recoiling in fear that we’re not ready for pussy-kissing.

It’s an actual shriek.

“Dog!”

Dog.

Dog.

Marshmallow.

I wrench myself out of Hayes’s arms and spin away. “Marsh—”

“Sit,” Hayes orders.

He’s right behind me, and I can feel his chest heaving against my back.

I can also feel—oh.

Oh, that’s not good.

I mean, it is, but—did he enjoy the kiss that much? Or does he have a hair-trigger erection?

Focus on the dog, Begonia.

For once, Marshmallow has followed an order.

And he’s now sitting in the middle of the living room with a lacy pink bra draped over his head.

A lacy pink bra that is not mine.

My gaze flies to the luggage that the three women dragged in behind them.

And then back to my dog.

“Marshmallow.”

“Put. It. Back,” Hayes says.

Marshmallow whimpers, rises to his feet, and skitters across the floor to drop the bra at Amelia’s feet before army-crawling to Hayes’s feet, where he plops all the way down, then lifts his eyes at my fake boyfriend like he’s begging to still be loved.

“Good boy,” I squeak out.

Giovanna’s gaping at me.

Amelia lowers herself to the floor, lifts the bra with a single finger, and rises again, draping it over her shoulder with a meaningful look at Hayes.

Georgia O’Keefe have mercy, I am in an entirely new social class, with entirely new rules, still reeling from that kiss, and I’m pretty sure my fake boyfriend is being propositioned with a bra that my dog dug out of another woman’s luggage.

Adventure?

Oh, yes, Begonia.

You are getting an adventure.