Page 79 of Snowed In
He shrugs. “Might be for him.”
“It’s a party. He’ll be fine. It’s a few drinks and finger food.”
“It’s ballroom dancing and a bunch of bored rich people. You might want to warn him if you’re putting him on the spot. There’s going to be a lot of assholes there.”
“Thanks for the concern,” I call, as he disappears into his bedroom, and I glare at his door since I can no longer glare at him.
In Mam’s room, I find the dress in her closet as promised. It’s a simple dark blue cocktail one that I remember from a few years ago, and that was actually one of my favorites. The sight of it just makes me even more confused about Aidan’s words. My mother might not know how my brain works, but she knows what clothes I like. She knows me. And I don’t want to lie to her. I just don’t want to worry her.
I hold the dress up to the mirror, flattening it against my body, as I picture the shoes I brought with me.
Warn Christian. I don’t need to warn him. Warn him about what?
Everything, I guess.
I just subconsciously assumed that he’d be okay. That he’d fit in. And I’m sure he met all sorts of fancy people in London, but there’s a difference between city rich and country rich. A difference when everyone’s known you since you were a child. When they know everything.
What kind of fake girlfriend would I be if I just threw him into the deep end like that? Not a good one.
A pretty bad one, actually.
Shit.
SEVENTEEN
CHRISTIAN
“You’ll need a new one.”
I look up from my emails to find the boiler repair guy standing in the doorway of my room, radiating judgment.
“Should have replaced it years ago,” he continues, and I force a smile.
“I’m aware. How much?”
“I’d say around four grand.”
“Fourgrand?”
He shrugs as if to say,Tell me about it. “If you want to make an appointment for January, I can—”
“How much to get it in by Christmas?”
“Christmas?” He hesitates, looking like I just asked him to build a rocket ship. “That’s just over a week away.”
“I know.”
“Christian?”
Shit. I check the time as Dad calls up the stairs, feeling like I’ve been caught stealing from the liquor cabinet again. He’s usually out of the house until lunch.
“Just a second,” I yell down as I shut my laptop. “Can you do it this week?” I ask the repairman.
He spends a moment huffing and puffing. “I can,” he says eventually, his expression grave. “But it will cost you an extra—”
“That’s fine,” I interrupt. “As quickly as you can. You’ve got my details?”
We finish up, and he agrees to go out the same way he came in, quietly and without drawing attention to himself. If anyone asks who he is, he’s to tell them he’s here to fix my work phone.
