Page 7 of Space Oddities

“Yes.” Ian’s leaning against my trailer, the very trailer he called a hellhole, looking like a Ralph Lauren model in his polo shirt and jeans.

Sighing, I stand tall, or as tall as I go, hands on hips, glaring at the hitch. “That’s too easy. What’s the catch?” I glance at my truck, where my toolbox rests in the back. If I get my rubber mallet, I could bang this sucker out.

Ian comes up behind me, close enough to where I can smell the delicious cologne he always wears. Aqua di Gio. Imayknow this because on a recent shopping trip with Rose Imayhave gone from perfume counter to perfume counter until I found the exact smell that can seemingly overwhelm my senses and make me act like a cat in heat.

Funny. The scent out of the bottle wasn’t nearly as potent as it is on Ian.

“Need help?”

Clearing my throat and breathing through my mouth, I side-step him and reach for the bungee cord holding my toolbox against the side of the truck bed. “No. I got it.” I manage to unhook one side of the bungee and slide the heavy metal box toward me. Rusty hinges squeak as I unlatch the lid.

“Here.” Ian extends his arm toward me, security pin in hand.

Pursing my lips, I nab it. “Thanks.” I toss it in the bucket along with the padlock and heavy metal chain I use to secure the trailer to my truck and begin storing my toolbox again.

“I can do—”

“Nope.” I hold up a hand, noticing I need to give myself another manicure. “I got it.”

Ian rocks back on his heel and nods. The next few minutes are awkward as he watches me secure and store everything. One thing trailer living will give you is a keen set of organization skills. I’m used to having to put everything back in its place as soon as I use it to save space, but it sure is exhausting.

“You also have to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

I pause in closing the tailgate, replaying what he just said. I can’t have heard him right. Slamming the tailgate shut, I turn toward him. “What?”

He grimaces, looking out the garage door, out to his smoothly paved driveway bracketed by a well-manicured double lot in an upper-class family neighborhood. “You heard me.”

“Well, yes, Iheardyou. That doesn’t mean I understand what I heard.” For what seems like the millionth time today, my eyes rake over his body. “Why wouldyouneed a fake girlfriend?” Six feet of lean muscle wrapped up in well-fitted, expensive brand name clothes. And to top it off, what is underneath is even more impressive. My eyes flick to his crotch.

I mean his brain. Hisbrain.

Get your mind out of the gutter, Patty.

I think back on how Flynn’s ex showing up had caused all sorts of problems between him and Jackie, including the cops being called. “This isn’t an ex-girlfriend situation, is it?” I wipe my hands on the back of my cut-off jean shorts. “Honestly, I don’t think I could handle the drama.”

“No, this isn’t an ex-girlfriend situation. It’s a family situation.”

The man is making my brain stutter. “So not only do I have to pretend to be your girlfriend, I have tolieto your family.” I swallow, feeling suddenly nauseous. “I don’t think—”

“Hello there!” A group of women power-walks up Ian’s long driveway. Unlike my trailer park manager, Myra, these women are decked out in tight-fitting spandex, sports bras without actual shirts over top, and honest-to-God diamonds. Tennis bracelets, large wedding and engagement rings, and huge diamond studs glint in the Texas sun as they shake their money makers up the driveway.

“Ian, dear, it’s so rare to see you out and about these days.” The taller blonde, and apparent leader of the group, says as they approach the edge of the garage.

“Hello, Veronica.” He nods at the other women. “Meghan, Kate, Melissa.”

“Hi,” they say as one before their heads swivel in my direction. Four sets of false eyelashes flutter as they give me the once-over.

It’s like I entered an episode of Desperate Housewives.

“And who is your friend?” Alpha housewife Veronica steps closer to Ian. She’s tall, even in sneakers, and I hate how the closer she gets, the higher I need to tip my chin to meet her eyes.

Why couldn’t I be wearing heels and makeup? Or in this case, might as well call it war paint, because I’d have to be an idiot not to realize this woman is throwing down the gauntlet. I may not want to win the war, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to win this particular battle.

“I’m Trish. Pleased to meet you.” I smile sweetly and extend my hand.

She pauses, but gives in to social pressure, extending her own. Her hand is limp in mine. Probably tired from all the diamonds weighing it down.

“Oh, an Airstream!” Melissa exclaims, a genuine smile on her face. “I’ve always loved those.” She turns to Ian. “Can I look inside?”

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