Page 21 of The Fine Art of Faking It
“Getting better,” Davis said. It still hurt like hell, but at least now he could look at his phone screen without getting dizzy. “Is Mom with you guys?”
“She took a little side trip to a winery in Washington State,” Bryson told him. Davis’s parents’ divorce had been so amicable that when his father came out and introduced them to Bryson, Tilly had claimed him for a friend. The three of them spent the better part of the year traveling wine country together.
“I’m calling Sheriff Cardona as soon as you hang up,” Ferguson yelled in the background.
His family could forgive his father for leaving, accept the fact that he was gay, and welcome his boyfriend into the family with open arms. But they could hold a grudge against the Moodys for generations of perceived slights.
In Davis’s rarely voiced opinion on the matter, the Gates family had behaved worse than the Moodys over the years. For ten years, his mother had walked their dog seven blocks every night just to leave piles of dog shit in the Moodys’ front yard. The Gates’s side was not blameless.
“You take care of yourself,” Bryson ordered, ignoring Ferguson’s bellows in the background. “Where are you staying?”
Davis bagged the clothes he’d laid out on the bed. “I’m staying with… a friend. Just until I can come up with a more permanent solution,” he lied. There was no way he was telling his family that he’d spent the last two nights under Eden Moody’s roof.
“Mm-hmm,” Bryson hummed. “I hope yourfriendis a knockout.”
“You have no idea,” Davis grinned. He’d dutifully kept his distance from Eden in the two years since he’d returned to Blue Moon. She’d made it clear on his first day back that there would be no reconciliation or second chance to pick up where high school had left off. So he’d been left to admire her from afar.
“Tell him we can’t evict the tenants at the house,” Ferguson yelled. Davis’s parents rented out the house—that the three of them shared—in Blue Moon for the six or so months of the year they spent traveling.
“Of course not. That would ruin his rating,” Davis said, hitting on one of his father’s sore spots. Once, a guest had ranked his stay in the home a paltry four stars because he didn’t care for the special water metering shower faucet. Ferguson had banned the man from ever staying in another Gateses’ property… as if they had more than one.
“We can be on a plane in the next two hours,” Bryson reminded him.
“I’m fine, Brys. I can handle this. You guys enjoy your trip and I’ll keep you updated on the repairs.”
“Okay.” The way Bryson drew out the word, Davis knew his stepfather didn’t believe him that everything was fine.
“Listen, Brys. Don’t share anything you might see on Facebook with Mom and Dad. I didn’t get into details about the damage, and I don’t want them worrying over something they can’t do anything about.” He’d flat out lied to his father about the fire.A little smoke damage. Might need to replace some appliances…He didn’t need to add any more stress to the man who was already a ticking time bomb. Fortunately, in addition to being anti-Moody, Davis’s parents were also anti-social media, refusing to join the rest of the world online.
Bryson’s voice dropped. “I’ll do it if you send me pics.”
“Deal. Don’t freak out.”
“Honey, I’m not your parents. And I also want pics of your ‘friend.’”
“I’ll send them, but you have to swear to delete them. Both topics will probably push Mom and Dad headlong into a psychotic break.”
“Now, I definitely need pics.”
They both laughed. Ferguson and Tilly might be divorced, but they still shared a commitment to drama.
“Just keep them busy, okay? I’ve got to figure out a few things before I’m ready to tell them anything.”
“Fine by me. See you at Christmas. Make good choices!”
“I’ll do my best,” Davis chuckled and hung up. He hauled the pitiful pile of not-quite-destroyed clothing out into the narrow hallway. Poking his head into the tiny second bedroom, he sighed. His closet-sized man cave/art studio had sustained some smoke damage. He had a desk shoved into one corner where he worked on his father-not-approved winery plans. The rest of the room was dedicated to his painting hobby.
His barely begun canvas, an abstract in colors of the vineyard before harvest—greens, purples, browns—stared back at him.
Painting wasn’t exactly a secret. He just didn’t share it with anyone. Swirling acrylics across a canvas was how he relaxed, how he unwound at night or on his rare days off. Davis was well aware that too much of his time was spent on winery business, leaving him with precious few hours for anything but work. However, that was to be expected when charged with carrying on the family legacy.
He considered packing up some supplies and decided to stick with a sketchbook and charcoals. He’d love to coax Eden into posing for him. Not that she’d let him anywhere near her with a canvas and brush or charcoals. But still, the idea was worth fantasizing about.
How would he capture her forced scowl that was softened by blue eyes that were never quite cold? Eden was distractingly beautiful and painfully prickly. They’d spent an hour “negotiating” his room rate. She had stubbornly refused to take his “dirty Gates money” while he wasn’t interested in her “sanctimonious Moody charity.”
It was the most fun he’d had in months. He could have blamed the concussion, but Davis was smart enough to realize that that high school crush had never completely faded.
Davis sighed and gathered what he needed. Another distraction.
