Page 33 of Falling for your Fake Boyfriend

“Well, that was fun,” Rachel quipped as she slipped past me on the way into the house. Gretchen had prepared one of her usual picnic-style buffets in Mom’s garden room. A long table had been set with all the basics—sandwiches, fried chicken, potato salad, brownies and lemonade. It was tradition after a family ride.

Admittedly, I was still recovering from the kiss. It had been wholly unexpected, but most unexpected of all was my reaction to it. I’d had more than one daydream about kissing those very same lips, and boy, they sure didn’t disappoint.

Now, it seemed Isla was avoiding making eye contact. She sat on one of the many window seats, nibbling a sandwich as she gazed out the window. I filled my plate and walked across the pink-and-white tile floor to the window. “Is this seat taken?”

Isla peered up at me. There was a dab of mayonnaise on that bottom lip, the one that had just been pressed against my mouth. I reached with my thumb and wiped it off. She blushed. I sat down with my plate.

“I’m sure you’re probably wondering what that was about,” she said with a quick glance around. My mom wasn’t in the garden room. Alexandria and her mom weren’t in the room either. I was sure a heavy, regular American picnic wasn’t their idea of a meal. Their loss.

“Actually, I’d like to spend a few more minutes believing that you just had an urge to kiss me because I’m so darn handsome and charming. But I’m sure it had more to do with my mom, which really puts a damper on the whole thing.” Her beautiful pink blush almost glowed now. I took a bite of sandwich and swallowed. “All right. I’m ready. Give it to me straight, and don’t be too brutal. I’m feeling rather vulnerable right now.”

Isla giggled into her glass of lemonade and took a few good sips. “Your mother,” she started and then the words caught in her throat.

“Isla?” I reached for her hand, but she kept it just out of reach and shook her head.

“You need to tell me—should I leave?”

“What? No, why are you asking that? What did she say to you?” I’d noticed my mom dashing back to the house as if her hair was on fire after the kiss.

“She told me I should go. That I was in the way of—you know—her plans. And Alex is beautiful and, as far as very rich women go, not too wretched, and she can jump a horse.”

“And you can bake a honey pistachio cake that blows people’s minds. Everyone has their talents. No, I’d like to stick to the plan. But only if you want to stay. I know my mom is?—”

“Cruel? Yes. She scoffed and mentioned that we were not affectionate toward each other so I?—”

“So, you decided to prove her wrong. Well done. And any time you need to reinforce that notion?—”

Isla nudged her knee against mine teasingly. Then she laughed. “For a second there, I thought, ‘huh, and here I was, sure he’d be a great kisser.’ But you eventually caught on, so …” She winked.

“Good to know. But seriously, Isla. I’m not going to lie. Alexandria has far surpassed my expectations when it comes to my mom’s matchmaking endeavors. But we’re not going to happen.” I finally said out loud what I’d been thinking all along. “I’m not sure why. I can’t put my finger on it. Alexandria has a lot of, to use Rachel’s truly romantic words, boxes ticked, but there’s something missing.”

“No, I don’t think there’s anything missing. I think there are external forces at work here, namely Margaret Greyson. You don’t want to let her win. You can’t let her win. I don’t blame you. I was in a metaphorical cage match with your mom this morning, and I was determined to do anything, even humiliate myself in front of a bunch of strangers, to make sure I didn’t go down for the count. And excuse the boxing metaphors—I’m in a slight state of delusional euphoria over this incredible brownie.” She stared at the uneaten half in her fingers. “Gretchen is nothing short of genius.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind giving you a few more secrets. She liked you … a lot.”

“She’s my new hero. Now, back to our original topic. I can make it through the weekend, but only if you want to continue this plan. Set aside your mom’s interference for a second and think about what Luke Greyson really wants.”

A loud crash of breaking glass yanked our attention toward the other side of the room. A server, a young woman with round glasses, part of the caterer’s crew, had dropped an entire tray of coffee cups. She stood in the middle of the pile of shiny white shards with a look of pure horror. Onlookers gasped and rolled their eyes and some snickered behind their glasses of lemonade. The server dropped down to a crouch to begin the cleanup.

Right then, Alexandria and her mom stepped into the room. They both circled a wide berth around the woman who was so frantically picking up broken glass that her hands were already bleeding.

“That poor thing,” Isla muttered. She put her plate down on the window seat and rushed across the room. On the way she grabbed a stack of napkins from the table and hurried over to help the woman. She’d rushed over to help without a second thought, and my ridiculous upbringing had immediately told me that helping the server was out of the question. My mom walked in next. It was the last thing the poor woman needed. My mom stopped and put her hands on her hips as she scowled down at the scene. She even took the time to kick some of the shards toward them.

I put my food down and crossed the room. Isla had wrapped the woman’s hand with a napkin. Blood was already soaking through it. The server’s nametag read Sharon.

I ignored my mom’s scowl, and it felt pretty darn good. “Sharon, head back to the kitchen and take care of those cuts. We’ll get this cleaned up.”

Mom sucked in a sharp breath. “Surely not. Send someone out to get this cleaned up, and let your boss know that I am very upset.”

I crouched down next to Isla. Her eyes sparkled at me as we picked up the pieces. It was never easy to smile under Margaret Greyson’s formidable glower, but Isla had already put up an impenetrable force field against things like that.

“Lucas, we need a word. Right now.” Mom’s order rained down on our heads.

I peered up at her. She looked as if she was chewing a mouthful of nuts and bolts. Her chin moved back and forth in anger.

“After I finish here,” I said.

Another unwitting victim, one of the caterer’s crew, walked into the room and into my mom’s cloud of rage. “You there, come here and clean this up at once. And, for goodness’ sake, don’t cut your hand. The last girl dripped blood on my tile floor.”

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