Page 4 of Festive Faking
Not that it mattered much since she decided she hated me on the spot two years ago, when we started our master’s program. She took one look at me—at my last name—and wrote me off as just another rich kid born into wealth.
Yes, I could agree that having money made certain things easier, but she didn’t understand that it also came with conditions. Most days, I felt shackled by my family name and wanted nothing more than to have been born into an average, working-class American family.
“Here, you big baby.” Aspen tossed a granola bar in my direction, and I caught it out of mid-air.
“Come to Papa.” I tore through the wrapper, devouring the chewy snack in only two bites.
“Good Lord, slow down and enjoy it.” The woman by my side made no effort to conceal her disgust.
Licking my sticky fingers, I smacked my lips to annoy her. “Why don’t we go over your immediate family again, so I don’t look like some schmuck who got pulled into this last minute?”
That was me. I was the schmuck.
A week later, I was still wrapping my mind around what had possessed me to offer to be her fake boyfriend for Christmas. Claiming temporary insanity seemed like the only explanation. That, or her sad blue puppy-dog eyes when she realized her ex-boyfriend—and, apparently, the several who came before—was gay, and she had to explain to her family why she was coming home alone.
I still couldn’t understand how some heterosexual man hadn’t snapped her up ages ago. Guys usually fought for the attention of girls like her—smart, pretty, with a flash of fire.
Aspen’s head dropped back against the seat’s padded headrest as she let out a sigh. “Not really instilling a ton of confidence in your ability to pull this off, Mac.”
“That’s why I want to go over it again.”
“Fine.” She breathed in deeply through her nose. “My dad is Jett. He’s a cowboy through and through. Used to be a bronc rider in the rodeo circuit before I was born. Now, he’s a stock contractor. Basically, that means we breed and raise the bucking horses used in competition on our land.”
I noted the important details aloud. “Jett, cowboy, horses.”
A laugh fell from Aspen’s lips. “He’s gonna eat you alive the minute he sees the way you’re dressed.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” My voice rose in pitch.
Peeking down, I surveyed my outfit: charcoal slacks, white button-down rolled at the sleeves with the collar unbuttoned, and brown loafers. I thought I looked perfectly respectable for a meet-the-parents moment.
The girl to my left bit back a smile. “Oh, nothing.” She circled a hand in front of me. “Just screams ‘city boy,’ is all.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She gave up the fight, gracing me with a full flash of her pearly whites. “It is to Jett Sullivan.”
“Noted. Who’s next?”
“My mom is Daisy. She used to be a teacher at the school in Rust Canyon. Now, she’s the principal.”
Wait, did she say . . .
“Theschool? As in, only one?”
“Yup. In a town of six hundred, there’s no need for more than one school. You’re with the same kids, in the same building, from kindergarten through graduation.”
I blew out a breath, reality sinking in at just how small her hometown was. There had been more than six hundred kids in attendance at my prep school.
“How does your mom feel about those of us from the city?”
“She’s a navy brat, grew up all over the place. One of the few transplants to Rust Canyon. Practically everyone else is born there, raised there, then dies there.”
“Sounds like a small world,” I mused.
“You have no idea,” Aspen breathed out, eyes sliding closed. “You don’t have to worry about Mama. She’s as sweet as they come.”
“And you said you have a brother?”
