Page 13 of Falling for your Fake Boyfriend

“Wicked? No. She was just really annoying, and she didn’t have a clue about how to be a mother. Of course, we made that extra hard for her.”

“And your real mom?” I asked.

She turned back to face forward and settled down lower in the seat.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just assumed?—”

“Our mom died when I was ten. Layla was only five. She only has whispers of memories about our mom.” Isla stared out the window, and her long fingers fidgeted with the hem of her T-shirt. “It was a fever. Dad took her to the doctors, and they kept sending her home, telling him she’d be fine.” Her voice grew frailer. “I can still remember Dad carrying her to the car to take her to the hospital for the last time. She looked like a thin, pale rag doll in his arms. Nothing like the beautiful, vivacious woman who would walk to the school to pick us up.” She sat up and her expression brightened. “We each had our day of the week for a piggyback ride home. My day was Wednesday. She always had warm blueberry muffins or peanut butter cookies waiting for us when we got home.” She gazed out the side window even though it was just the freeway on-ramp and little else. I sensed she was blinking away tears. “Since Dad was always traveling, my grandmother raised us.” She turned back to me. Her blue eyes were glassy with memories, good and bad. “In her crooked little cottage. And it was nothing short of magical. Nonna had lost her own child, so she always told us we helped her survive that terrible heartbreak. Only she was the one who helped us survive. We were five lost little girls, and Nonna brought us into her small, wonderful world.” She sniffled and gave herself a little shake. “Enough about me. What about your family? What should I know about them? Hold on. Before you start, I think I’ll need fortification.” She unbuckled her seatbelt.

I raised a brow at her.

“What? I assume this thing has airbags that will pop out of the ceiling, floor and doors if we crash. But don’t crash.” She twisted around and leaned far into the back seat. Her round bottom wriggled back and forth as she struggled with the canvas bag. “Might have overpacked the snacks,” she grunted as she tried to yank the bag free. With some more maneuvering and the muttering of a few choice words, she managed to pull the bag to the front seat. She promptly put on her seatbelt and then reached into the bag. She pulled a plastic container free and untwisted the lid. A buttery, maple smell filled the car.

“Oh wow, that smells good,” I said.

She held out the container. “Sourdough pecan and cranberry granola bite?”

“Don’t think anyone in their right mind would turn down that offer.” I reached in and took two round nuggets of granola. They tasted even better than they smelled.

We crunched the granola for a few minutes. Aside from the occasional wispy cloud, it was turning out to be a clear summer day. It would be a beautiful weekend. My mother wouldn’t have it any other way for one of her social events, especially her daughter’s wedding.

“By the way,” Isla said as she plucked out another granola chunk, “there’s a chance you might not see me in the dress I brought. It’s a little snug, and we’ve only been on the road for twenty minutes, and I’m stress eating.”

“You’ll be fine, and I bet that dress will look amazing. Now, for a few details about the Greyson family. I’ll start with the easy one—Bryan—my brother. He’s three years younger, and, mostly, he couldn’t care less about any of the family dynamics or business or anything that might cut into his fun. He tried college and basically partied his way right out of the hallowed halls of Yale. No cap and gown, no degree, just a very big scowl from my dad. He also tried to work for my dad for a year, and that ended in the same fatherly scowl. Otherwise, he’s a fun guy. My sister, Rachel—hmm, what can I say about Rach? She’s smart and intuitive, and I think she’ll like you a lot because you’re not one of—” I stopped.

Isla looked over at me. “Not one of your usual rich and famous beauties?”

I shot her a side-eyed glance.

“I didn’t hire a private eye. Didn’t need to. Ella is a research whiz. She found the article about you inPeoplemagazine.”

I groaned. “That stupid article. I had no part in it, by the way. They asked friends and my mom for details, and she never even mentioned it to me. She thought it would be a nice surprise.” I shook my head, remembering that heated conversation. “It’s as if she doesn’t know me at all. Anyway, Rachel is clever, and she’ll probably figure out the ruse. She’ll also keep our secret.”

Isla dropped the granola container into the bag. “Speaking of our secret—you never said—what is the reason for this elaborate and expensive scheme? Is your mom trying to fix you up with someone?”

“Bingo.” Traffic was heavy this morning. We hadn’t gotten into the countryside yet, where a two-laned ribbon of asphalt cut through mostly vacant land. “Which brings me to my mom, Margaret Greyson. She’s—well—picture the stereotypical, born-into-money, married-into-money, uber-controlling matriarch, then put that picture on steroids and you have my mom. If she likes you, she’ll let you call her Maggie. Otherwise, it’s Margaret, and don’t expect her to like you because she didn’t pick you, so you’ve already got marks against you. But don’t worry about that,” I said quickly when I felt Isla tense up. “She’ll be so busy being the hostess queen this weekend, she won’t have time to frown or show her disapproval.”

“Oh goodie. So far, so good. I’m almost afraid to ask—but your dad?”

“He’ll also be too busy smoking cigars, chugging expensive brandy and debating finances and business with his equally stodgy friends to notice that I’ve even come home. He’ll only leave his study for meals and to walk Rachel down the aisle.”

“How about your brother-in-law to be?” she asked.

I realized then that I had little to say about David Whitford. He was that devoid of character and personality. It seemed Rachel was right. “He’s fine.”

“Well, that either says a lot or it says nothing at all,” Isla said with a chuckle.

“A little of both, actually. That’s the word Rachel uses when David comes up in conversation.”

Isla leaned forward to watch a hawk flying over the freeway, then she sat back. “You’re not pleased with the match, are you?”

“I feel like she’s settling. David has all the right, as Rachel puts it, ‘boxes checked.’ He’s from a wealthy, influential family.”

A small laugh spurted from her lips. “That’s it? Those are the checked boxes? What about—does he make her laugh? Does he bring her cinnamon toast and tea when she’s feeling down? Does he call her up during the day just to say hello and tell her she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him? There are just so many more boxes that should be checked other than ‘he’s from a good family.’”

“I agree.” I looked over at her. “Apparently, you have a list ready to go.”

She tapped the side of her temple. “It’s all rolled up and filed away for future use.”

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