Page 23 of Untruly With You

Inside the house, hardly anything has changed. The couch has new throw pillows. I think the lamp on the side table is an addition from the past six years. But otherwise, it’s the same. Two massive elk mounts sit on either side of the two-story fireplace. Four flower arrangements from Mom’s garden are scattered around. The same painting as always sits on the mantel, showing two riders on horseback in front of a wall of aspen trees. It looks so similar to the view off the back deck, I could be convinced the artist used Silver Ridge Ranch as a reference.

It evensmellsthe same, like wooden log walls and the unmistakable scent of rhubarb pie wafting in from the kitchen. We follow the latter like hound dogs hot on a trail.

Mom’s back is to us as she stares out the window over the sink. She still has the same shoulder-length honey blonde hair curled in perfect ringlets.

I look down at Laine, and her eyes are already on me, her gaze soft. She squeezes my hand, and the thumping in my chest takes on a new meaning.

Clearing my throat, I call out, “Mom?”

Every time I’ve seen my mom since Duke’s funeral, I’ve worried that she might harbor some anger toward me, like Dad or Wells do. But as always, when she sees me, there’s nothing but a joyous smile. Just as quickly as Frankie had, Mom closes the distance between us, colliding into my chest and tightening her arms around my back. Laine drops my arm so I can return the embrace.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers. I can hear the broken shards in her voice. Guilt swells in me.

I pull back and wrap an arm around Laine, trying to make it look natural and hoping I can hide how the simple movement makes me more anxious than I was for my interview with Imagineer Books. “Mom, this is Laine Rodriguez. Laine, Mom.”

“It’s great to meet you, Mrs. Davis,” she says, smiling her perfect Laine smile.

“Magnolia,” Mom says, extending a hand out to Laine. When Laine reaches out, Mom doesn’t shake her hand. She just holds it. “Or you can call me Maggie.” Mom pauses, looking over every inch of Laine’s face. “You are every bit as beautiful as I imagined.” Her eyes flick up to Laine’s head, her lips curling into a humored grin. “And I like your hats.”

Laine laughs dryly, taking off the two brimmed hats she’s been wearing all day. “Oh, right. I didn’t want to jam them into my suitcase.”

“Brilliant idea,” Mom says, her gaze dancing between Laine and me. “You two look…”

Phony?

“Worn out from traveling?” Laine finishes.

Mom shakes her head, and I spot a few silver hairs woven into the blonde.When did she get those?“You two look perfect together.” Her eyes glisten with unshed, hopeful tears. The room seems to hold its breath as Mom's sentiment hangs in the air.

Laine steps closer to me, wrapping both arms around one of my biceps and leaning her head down onto my shoulder.Selling the story. “Well,” she hums, “Suttonalwayslooks perfect. I guess I’m just an added bonus.”

Heat courses through my veins at the whisper of Laine’s breaths on my arm. Her soft laughter, the warmth of her touch, the scent of her hair—it's a potent combination that makes it challenging to focus. My brain knows it’s a part of the farce, but my body doesn’t seem to get that memo.

12

SUTTON

“I think that went well,don’t you?” Laine asks, balancing on the windowsill of the guest bedroom window so she can look out at the view yet again. The orange sunset bounces off her cheeks, making her olive skin glow. She looks back at me, and I avert my eyes to my suitcase, open on the mattress. I refocus on my unpacking efforts and pray she didn’t catch me staring.

Laine walks toward me and plops down on the bed, right beside my suitcase. I haven’t seen her reapply any makeup all day, but her lips are still a perfect, subtle shade of red. “We have one problem, though,” she says, biting back a smile.

“That problem being my brother is about to marry my ex-girlfriend?”

“Okay, two problems.”

As awkward as the situation is, I can’t help but laugh. “What’s the second one?” I ask.

“You’re not selling the whole ‘dating’ thing.” Laine crosses her arms. “We’re supposed to be in a fresh relationship, the honeymoon phase.”

I try to ignore the sudden galloping in my chest. “What do you have in mind?”

“You know, hand-holding, snuggling, heart-eyes, forehead kisses…” Laine trails off and moves her gaze back out the window, her cheeks tinted pink. “I mean, we should make it convincing, right? We need to act like a couple that's head over heels for each other.”

Shouldn’t be too hard.

Before I can respond, she's on her feet and heading for the bathroom. "I'm just going to freshen up a bit before dinner," she says, her voice holding a hint of nerves. Maybe she’s creeped out about what Frankie called “months of pining.”

The guest room has an attached bathroom, and I hear the water turn on almost immediately. While Laine showers, I change out of my travel clothes and into a new outfit, trying to focus on anything aside from the feeling of Laine’s arm around mine. It’s a fruitless effort.

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