Page 24 of The Billionaire's Unexpected Wife
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“You really want to drive this thing?” I grimaced as I looked the car up and down. She nodded, and I could tell from the look on her face that there was going to be no arguing with her.
“We could get my car out of the garage and take that for the drive instead,” I suggested again, hoping she would take me up on it. We were already walking into a minefield, and the last thing I wanted was for my dad to be able to jump down my throat about arriving in such a shaky old thing.
“I haven’t had a chance to drive myself anywhere in days,” she replied. “We’re taking my car.”
“Should have left this thing in parking,” I muttered as I climbed in.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I replied. I didn’t want to rile her up, not today of all days, when I needed her firmly on my side. “Come on, let’s get going. I don’t want to be late.”
She pulled out of the garage, and I leaned back in the seat and tried to relax. It was nice of her to offer to drive, but I wanted to be the one in control today. I wanted to be the one who pulled everything together. Because, like it or not, today was the day she would meet my father.
We had managed to put it off for nearly a week and had found ourselves a nice routine in the process. She would get up in the morning, and I would have made coffee, and we would drink it together and chat about the coming day. And then she would arrive home later in the evening, and I would either have ordered in or cooked a little something for us, and we would sit and catch up on everything that had happened. Even though I knew it was a thin proxy of what marriage actually was, I had to admit, I was enjoying having her around, having someone to check in with day in and day out. She was smart and funny and interesting, and she admitted she had been starved for adult contact while she’d been taking care of Jolene all those years and appreciated having a grown-up to talk to in the evening. Speaking of Jolene, we had finally nailed down a date to take her out on. The facility had already booked out the van for the day we’d decided on, but we’d rescheduled. Amaya told me she was looking forward to it.
And I had done a successful job avoiding my father, warning him off by telling him I needed time alone with my new wife, but eventually, he ran out of patience and cracked, calling me up and demanding we come over the next day. I could have tried to slip out of it again, but there was no point. I had to do it sooner or later, and I would rather get it over with and move on with my life once and for all.
Amaya had gotten her car from parking outside her house, and it was that beat-up old thing she had insisted on driving down to meet my father. I had tried to convince her to let me take my Mercedes, but she had been dead set, and I knew by now that there was no point arguing with her on these things.
“How long a drive is it?” she asked.
“A half-hour, if this thing doesn’t fall apart on the highway,” I replied, and she rolled her eyes at me.
“It’s not that bad,” she protested. “Just because it wasn’t built in the last two years doesn’t mean it’s total crap.”
“Right,” I replied grimly and set my eyes dead ahead. “Let’s just get there in one piece, huh?”
She drove quickly, faster than I would have, and before I knew it, we had come to a halt outside my father’s house.
“Fuck,” I muttered, checking myself in the mud-flecked side mirror.
“You all right?” she asked, and I nodded. Then, I shook my head. Then nodded again.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I assured her. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”
“Agreed.” She nodded, and the two of us climbed out of the car and stood outside the gorgeous restaurant my father had booked for us tonight in the city. He had ins at fancy eateries all over the place, but this was where he came when he had to see me for one reason or another.
I trudged up the steps toward the door, and Amaya followed me. She slipped her hand into mine. I glanced over at her, surprised but not protesting.
“We have to make it look real, don’t we?” she remarked, offering me a comforting smile, but before I could reply, the door burst open and my father, Leo Balaban, was standing there staring down at the two of us. Why wasn’t he at his table? Had he seen us coming and wanted to intercept us at the door to make sure Amaya was fit for a place like this? His eyes slid between the two of us, and he nodded and stepped aside.
“Come in,” he ordered, his voice booming so loudly, I was sure the entire street could hear us.
“You know that’s what the host is for, right, Dad?” I muttered, mostly to myself, but of course, he overheard.
“That’s enough out of you.” He shot me a warning look, and I knew better than to protest, even though I hated it with a passion when he talked down to me in that way. We took a seat at the table he had booked for us, opposite his new wife—fuck, Kitty? Karen? What was her name again?—and I could feel the nerves coming off Amaya in waves.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Balaban,” she offered at last, and he leaned back and surveyed her like she was a piece of property he was thinking of investing in.
“So, you’re the wife, I suppose.” He shot a look in my direction.
“Yes, that’s me,” she replied perkily, and I could tell from the set of her jaw that she’d decided she was going to make a good impression no matter what. He picked up the menu and glanced over it as a waiter approached, looking up as he arrived at the table. He ordered for all of us as he was wont to do, and Amaya shot me a “seriously?” look that almost made me laugh.
“So, Amaya, what is it exactly you do?” My new stepmother, whose name I couldn’t for the life of me recall, smiled at Amaya.
“I’m a librarian,” she replied. “I work at the university library up on Main. What about you?”
