Page 5 of A Royally Fake French Menage
On a lark I grabbed one with silver leaf shot through the bust. Molly gave me a double thumbs up.
Desiree, my other room mate who lay on her stomach on my bed, grinned. “Perfection.”
“At least you have a fan club going.” I could practically hear Mom’s eye roll from two oceans away, assuming she was where I thought she had situated herself today.
“They’re called friends.” I tried not to bristle, but then our relationship had never been as simple as mother and daughter.
Or business partners.
“As long as you look the part. Remember, if it's a chateau date, take as many dresses as you’ll need for the afternoon and evening sets. They have very specific expectations, even if their royalty doesn’t mean a damn thing these days,” Mom murmured. “I guess I’ll see you on Sunday then. London time,” she reminded me. “And wow me with that shade. None of that midnight-and-fuchsia rubbish from last season. I haven’t had anything perform so poorly.” Mom sniffed.
“At least not since you tried to reinvent the splice. Lime and black never looked so terrible together,” I answered, but I was talking to an empty line and a dead phone.
Molly cheered my comeback.
It didn't hit me until my packed bags—fuchsia and midnight blue to suit the line that were still my favorite colors of the year regardless of my mother’s preferences—stood in front of my dorm, and I waited for Barclay’s driver two minutes early, where I made a mistake. Or rather, my mother had.
Because I never mentioned a fake chateau date.
But she did.
CHAPTER THREE
BARCLAY
Perched beside me in the back of the black Bugatti headed away from Paris, Genie curled on the leather like a pampered house pet. Her eyes were closed, and her breaths came slow. Which left me in the company of my mother’s silent driver to transport us the two hour drive from the private airstrip outside the capital where we headed to our destination of the La Borde family estate.
Genie became my study. Not that I hadn’t had my eye on her for a while now back on campus, wondering which frat party to go to that ensured we’d attend together, or how best to encourage her to drop her flirty facade that she used to keep everyone at bay. Everything she did was designed. A carefully crafted outlook that made her seem oh so likable, sociable and perfect while she flirted and fluttered without ever actually stopping to engage andflirt.
Apparently, all it took was asking her out on a fake date. I should have tried that one earlier. A sort of bubbly, fizzing warmth surrounded her as she dosed. Even sitting still, she buzzed with the sort of happy energy I envied on this trip.
As though she sensed me watching her, Genie’s fingers fluttered at the hem of her powder blue skirt that perfectly matched the twin set my mother would wholly approve of for a European born girl educated in America.
Another mask from her personal collection. I looked forward to breaking down her perfectly manicured walls.
“Penny,” she murmured, stifling the cutest kitten yawn behind her French tipped fingers.
Her wrist turned as she stretched. I caught a glimpse of out of place stripes on the inside of her pale skin before she shifted again. The brief, intimate glimpse of who she was beyond her facade flitted away.
An ache started in the hollow of my gut at the damage.Perhaps we’re not all as perfect as we pretend after all.I added to my collection of mental notes, knowing I would need that for later this weekend.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” I said quietly. My fingers itched to tuck her hair behind her ear, touch her soft skin, but we weren’t there.Yet.
Her lips curved up a fraction, a fraction less glossy than they had been when we took off earlier. “That’s…considerate.”
“You seemed tired.”
She slept for most of the trip, sinking into her leather seat, and declining my favorite cocktails to my disappointment. Still, she did appear to need the rest. I wasn't about to be a Beau Bennett asshole level who declared she needed to entertain me just because I was sore over losing her company for a brief period. The onslaught of my family would be enough to wear us both out over the next few days.
Besides, I liked to watch her sleeping. In a non-stalker way. The way her face softened, more than usual, left her with the sort of peace that I craved for myself. Stripping that away from her seemed unnecessarily cruel.
Genie sank into the cream leather, her head tilted to watch me. "I think you should tell me about this weekend. What’s expected of us both?"
I smirked at her, rubbing my hand over my mouth as I drank her in for the first time with her watching me since the trip began. “Most likely I should warn you about my mother.” I sighed. “Genie, don’t worry. You are– You’ll be perfect. Don’t stress on it.” The terms still sounded foreign in my mouth. I reached absently for her hand, then stilled as my brain caught up with the all too easy motion.
Genie caught my fingers, curling long, curved legs beneath her as she turned to face me. Her fingertips were cool against my palm as she started a little discovery tour of the tiny scars across my knuckles, cataloguing each before moving onto the next. “I thought your hands would be smoother,” she murmured. “Tell me about your family?”
Who you are?
