Page 17 of The Jellybean Dilemma

The rest of our trip was spent arguing over music and reminiscing. The time flew by and before I knew it, I saw a sign welcoming us to Marquette. We drove through the picturesque town, catching glimpses of the colossal Lake Superior. I couldn’t see any of the Great Lakes without thinking of my parents. Our livelihood came from those lakes, the source of our money and reputation.

My thoughts drifted to Greg’s parents. I let myself daydream about the quaint house they lived in, something normal, like a two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch. Nothing ostentatious like the massive house I’d grown up in. I winced remembering the echoing, cavernous walls and the museum-quality feel of it. Mother’s reprimand echoed in my head from every time we were too loud or rambunctious. How dare we run or play or be kids.

I doubted Greg’s mom was like that. I imagined her as warm and caring, with a big welcoming smile. Someone who baked cookies with her kids, read them stories before bed, and made chicken noodle soup when they were sick.

The closer we got to arriving, the more excited I became. I was with a normal guy, not someone who wanted me for my money or status. Not some rich, spoiled brat with a full staff waiting on him hand and foot.

If I could make this work with Greg, maybe I could have what Avery and Derek had. Even if it meant I had to wear baggy sweaters and off-brand jeans occasionally. I might even admit I was a tad more comfortable—if someone tortured it out of me.

Greg put on his turn signal by a driveway that wound up a huge hill, and I held my breath in anticipation. When I saw the big, arching gates, I frowned. The moment he pulled through them, and I got my first glimpse of a house as massive as mine, my fantasies began crashing down around me like an unstable stack of blocks.

Surely this was a mistake. Greg wasn’t like the others—he was different, normal…right?

The idea of appearing in the ratty clothes and little makeup had my teeth on edge as my mother’s voice echoed in my head. “You only get one chance to make a first impression.”

Greg grinned, shutting off the engine, turning to me with excitement etched into every nook of his face. “What do you think?”

“This is your house?” A burst of panic flared in my chest.

He nodded, as if I were supposed to be thrilled. A familiar iciness coated my heart as I re-evaluated the reason Greg had brought me. Arm candy, indeed.

I glanced down at my Wal-Mart clothes and slip-on boots. My skin felt greasy from travel, and my makeup had to be smudged. So much for flannel shirts and Bog boots. Devastated, I watched the last of my stupid dreams slide down the drain with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

For one second, I wallowed. Then I pulled my heiress cloak back on and put my foot down. “There is no way I am walking into a house of that caliber like this. Not when you clearly brought me here to impress your family.”

His forehead furrowed in confusion. “Rhonda, what—?”

“No.” I lifted my chin. “I won’t step out of this car until you find me somewhere to change and do my makeup.” This was one fight I wouldn’t lose. “Are we staying here?”

“Probably. I mean, I know other family will be in town, but my folks have plenty of room.” Greg stared at me for a long minute. “I thought you’d be impressed. I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

“Of course you don’t.” I pressed a finger to my temple, trying to rub away the beginning of a stress headache. “I can’t make a first impression twice. Your family is expecting Rhonda fucking Elgin, so that’s who they’re going to get.” I dropped my hand and folded my arms as I demanded, “Now, find me a place to change.”

Ignoring the hurt that flickered across Greg’s face, I went through my wardrobe in my mind. Even as I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter that he’d brought me up here to show me off. It didn’t matter that he was just like every other guy I’d ever met. It didn’t matter that I was back to being dollar signs, a status symbol, and a way to pretty up the scenery.

And the pain in my chest is just heartburn.

Greg pulled into a truck stop a few miles up the road.

“I won’t be long.”

He huffed out a muttered, “Yeah, right.”

My blood boiled at his skepticism. “Look, Greg.” I let his name drip with all the acid I felt at the moment. “You want arm candy—it doesn’t happen with the wave of a magic wand. But when I say fifteen minutes, I mean fifteen minutes. It’s not like this is my first time.” I slammed the door behind me.

Sixteen minutes later, I walked out of the spacious bathroom, not a hair out of place, makeup absolutely perfect. I was every inch the version of Rhonda Elgin his family would want, right down to my Jimmy Choos.

“All set?” Greg asked tightly when I sat down in the car.

I clicked the seat belt into place, feeling the small noise echo between us as if it sealed my fate. “Yes.” I focused on shoving every thought, every daydream into a little box to be examined or tossed out later. When we pulled into the driveway this time, Rhonda Elgin, heiress, was ready.

When Greg offered me his arm on the steps, my fantasies of strolling hand in hand as equals obliterated. I pasted on my charitable smile, so familiar it was like a second skin.

“Greg!” A tall woman in black slacks, a long-sleeved blouse, and perfect ombre hair greeted him happily, pulling him into an exuberant embrace.

I forced my smile to stay in place as they broke apart and turned to me.

“Mom, this is Rhonda Elgin.” His dimple appeared, though his expression dimmed as he took in my practiced smile. He always could tell the difference. “Rhonda, this is Julie Peterson, my mom.”

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