Page 46 of Faking All the Way
“Thanks, Grandma.” I squeeze her tight, lingering for a moment in her familiar embrace.
When we separate, she turns to Asher, and I hold my breath. My grandmother’s opinion matters more to me than almost anyone else’s, and if she doesn’t like him—if she sees through our charade or finds him lacking somehow—I’m not sure what I’ll do.
But her face lights up with pleasure as she takes him in. “And you must be the new boyfriend I’ve been hearing about. My goodness, no one mentioned how handsome you are.”
“Asher Vaughn, ma’am. Thank you for having me tonight.”
“Beverly, please. None of this ma’am business.” She’s already charmed, I can tell. “Come in, come in! Everyone’s dying to meet you.”
Asher looks a little surprised by that, his eyebrows raising slightly. I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my lips, and I nudge him as we follow her inside.
“You’re not that familiar with small towns, are you?” I whisper. “Good gossip spreads faster than the flu around here.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m starting to figure that out.”
My grandmother wastes no time dragging us into the living room to start introductions. It’s like making the rounds at a political event, with handshakes, small talk, and the same questions over and over.How long have I been back? How’s the illustration work going? What’s it like living in the big city?
But what strikes me is how different people are acting toward me tonight.
Celia Hutchins from the post office, who usually just gives me a polite nod when I pick up packages, lights up like we’re old friends. “Kat! Don’t you look lovely. I heard you’re doing illustration work now. That must be so interesting!”
The Kowalskis, who run the hardware store and have never shown much interest in my artistic pursuits, actually seem engaged when I mention my freelance work. “Must be exciting, working on your own schedule like that,” Bash Kowalski says. “Creative field and all.”
It’s weird but kind of nice, as if I’ve suddenly become more interesting just by association. As if having Asher beside me has given me some kind of social currency I never had before.
We work our way through the crowd, stopping to chat with the fire chief, some of my parents’ friends, and a few teachers from my old elementary school. Asher handles each introduction with the same easy charm, asking people questions about themselves and nodding along with interest as they speak. When Devlin Crawford mentions his granddaughter starting college next fall, Asher asks what she plans to study as if he’s talking to an old friend.
“You’re really good at this,” I murmur to him during a brief lull between conversations.
“Years of media training and team events,” he says with a shrug. “Hockey players spend a lot of time in the public eye. You learn how to work a room, make small talk, remember names and faces.”
“Multi-talented, huh?”
That gets me another one of those grins that sends my pulse into overdrive. “I have my moments.”
We’re standing near the old piano in the living room when a group of women from my high school class spots us. Lyla,Amanda, and Tracy weren’t exactly my inner circle back then, but they weren’t mean girls either. Just the popular crowd I never quite fit into, the ones who dated the football players and got elected to student council.
“Kat! Oh my god, look at you.” Lyla gives me an enthusiastic hug that catches me off guard. “You look amazing. City life agrees with you.”
“Thanks, Lyla. You look great too.”
“And this must be your boyfriend,” Amanda chimes in, her gaze shifting to Asher with obvious appreciation.
I make the introductions, watching them size him up. He’s probably used to this kind of attention, being a professional athlete who’s handsome and successful. He doesn’t seem fazed by the way they’re practically drooling over him, just stays politely engaged as they pepper him with questions about his career and what brought him to our little town.
“So how long have you two been together?” Tracy asks, taking a sip of her wine.
“About seven months,” I say, sticking to our story.
“That’s so sweet. How did you meet?” Lyla leans forward like she’s expecting a romantic comedy plot.
God, if only she knew.
I glance at Asher, hoping he remembers the café story from the car. Thankfully, he handles it without missing a beat, repeating the lie about me spilling iced tea on him and even adding a few extra details, like how we walked together to the dry cleaner and then ended up spending the rest of the day together, talking for hours about everything and nothing.
“By the time we said goodbye that night, I was already planning our second date,” he says with a grin that looks almost fond. “I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I texted her the next morning anyway.”
The three women pout their lips and exchange glances as if they’ve just heard the most romantic thing ever.
