How to Be a Rockstar's Girlfriend: a fake dating, small town, rockstar romantic comedy (Cash &

Chapter 7

Allergic reaction – not the same as poisoning someone. Mercy hopes.

Mercy

I pace the porch as I wait for Gibson to show. This is a disaster. I shouldn’t have agreed to fake date a rockstar. My uncle is going to see through us in two seconds flat.

“Mercy!”

Speaking of the old codger.

“Yes, Uncle. What do you need?”

“I’m hungry. When is your beau getting her?”

My beau? I blow out a puff of air and stick my head in the window to talk to him. Mercury might not mind yelling but I do.

“I don’t get you and your obsession with me having a boyfriend. I thought hippies were all about free love.”

“Nothing wrong with free love but having a partner who loves and supports you can’t be beat.”

“You must have loved my aunt Adhara very much.”

He coughs. “I did.”

“I wish I had met her.”

I don’t know anything about her except that she died. I don’t even know when she died. My mom didn’t give me any details and Uncle Mercury isn’t exactly forthcoming.

“Where is your young man?” Mercury asks. I guess he’s done talking about his wife. No surprise there.

“He’ll be here.” I hope.

“Good. I want you settled before I move into the nursing home.”

“Settled?”

He nods. “Love, marriage, babies. Settled.”

“Hold on, Uncle Mercury. You can’t change the deal now. You promised to go into a nursing home if I have a boyfriend. There was no talk of marriage and babies.”

Is this whole fake dating agreement with Gibson for nothing? I’m certainly not marrying the man. And I’m definitely not having his babies. Is being a player hereditary? I know being an alcoholic is. I can’t chance it.

“What deal?” He asks.

Is he serious? “You said—”

“Do I hear an engine?” Mercury interrupts to ask.

I glance behind me. A Hummer is pulling into the driveway. I frown when I realize the engine is electric. Some vehicles shouldn’t have electric engines no matter how good it is for the environment.

Gibson exits the vehicle and waves to me before reaching inside to pull out a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine.

He bounds up the steps toward me. “Couldn’t wait to see me, country girl?”

I roll my eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?” He winks and I shove him away. He laughs as he rights himself.

“After you, darling.” He holds the door open for me.

“Darling?”

“I was trying it on.” His nose wrinkles. “No?”

“No.”

We enter and I try to observe the place from his perspective. A rich rockstar who can have anything he wants. I cringe. This house is not rockstar worthy.

The floorboards creak, the windows are bare since Mercury won’t let me hang curtains, the rugs are thin and non-existent in some places, and the furniture is worn. I think it’s charming. Gibson probably wants to run away.

Uncle Mercury stands as we enter. I lead Gibson to him. “This is my uncle, Mercury.”

Gibson smiles at him. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mercury.”

Mercury scowls. “Just Mercury. I ain’t no mister.”

“Mercury.” Gibson offers him the bottle of wine. “This is for you.”

“Can’t drink. Too much medicine the voodoo doctor has me on.”

“Mercy will enjoy it?” He offers the bottle to me but I refuse to accept it.

Mercury barks out a laugh. “Girl don’t drink. Don’t you know that?”

Gibson raises an eyebrow at me and I shrug. I’m not explaining to him how I don’t drink since my mom’s an alcoholic. It’s none of his business. This whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing is fake.

Except my body’s been humming in anticipation all day knowing Gibson would be here tonight. I ignore it. I don’t have any experience ignoring my body’s desires, but how hard can it be?

“These are for you, honey bun.” He shoves the flowers into my hands.

I lift the bundle to my nose to smell them and immediately sneeze.

“Crap. Are you allergic to flowers?”

Mercury snorts. “Those ain’t flowers. Those are weeds. Chicory weeds if I’m not mistaken.”

I sneeze again and Gibson snatches the weeds from me.

“You can’t buy cut flowers in Winter Falls, so I plucked these myself.”

He plucked them for me? How sweet. No. Not sweet. He’s playing a part. This is all an act. It’s not real.

Gibson runs outside and returns with empty hands.

“What did you do with the wine?”

“Left it on the porch since no one in this room drinks.”

I nod. Good. He’s not drinking. I wasn’t sure if I could believe him when he said he wouldn’t drink as part of our deal. But I had to try. Mercury doesn’t know much about my life but he knows my mom’s a drinker. He would never believe Gibson’s my boyfriend if he drinks.

“Shall we sit?” I indicate the table.

Gibson moves to help Mercury, but my uncle bats him away. “I can walk on my own.”

Gibson scratches his chin. He appears lost and confused as he watches Mercury slowly hobble to the table.

“Sit here, young man.” Mercury taps his cane on the chair next to him. “Your name is Gibson and you’re in one of them rock bands?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

“No, sir.”

Oh crap. Mercury isn’t going easy on Gibson. I need to hurry up and serve the food before Uncle Mercury figures out Gibson isn’t my boyfriend.

“Do you—”

“Dinner is served!” I announce loudly to cut off my uncle’s next question. “I hope you enjoy pasta.”

Gibson’s eyes are full of relief as he answers, “I love pasta.”

“It’s fettucine alfredo.” I set the dish in the middle of the table and serve everyone before sitting across from Gibson.

“What about saying grace?” Mercury asks as I lift my spoon to my mouth. Gibson’s spoon clatters to his plate.

I frown at Mercury. “We don’t say grace.”

He chortles. “But look how scared rock boy is.”

Gibson’s mouth is gaping open and he’s frozen in his chair.

“He does appear scared.”

Gibson’s eyes narrow on me. “Not funny,” he mutters as he picks his spoon back up and begins to eat.

I watch him as he eats. Does he like it? I’m not the best of cooks. Pasta is pretty much the only thing I can make. And even then, the sauce is from a jar. A jar I had to drive to White Bridge to buy since pre-packaged food is a big no-no in Winter Falls.

“How did you two meet?” Mercury asks.

“At the bar,” I answer at the same time Gibson answers, “At the festival.”

“At the bar during the festival,” I amend.

“And how long have you two been dating?”

“A week,” I say.

“Two weeks,” Gibson says.

“Well, what is it? One week or two weeks?” Mercury demands.

I widen my eyes at Gibson and he motions for me to answer.

“We’ve known each other two weeks but we started dating a week ago.” There. My answer sounded totally plausible. And cleared up all of the confusion. I mentally pat myself on the back. We got this.

“And what first attracted you to my Mercy?” Mercury asks and I gulp.

Crap. We don’t got this. Gibson isn’t ‘attracted’ to me. Correction. I’m sure he’d jump into bed with me if I gave him a chance. But he’s not attracted to me in the traditional sense of girlfriend/boyfriend.

Gibson motions to me with his spoon. “She’s beautiful.”

Mercury narrows his eyes on Gibson. “She is but there’s more to attraction than beauty.”

“She’s sas-s-s.” He coughs. “Saaasy.”

What the hell! He’s slurring his words. He’s trying to hide it but he’s definitely slurring his words. Did he drink before he came here? He doesn’t reek of alcohol but there are ways to hide the smell.

“Aaand smaaarth.” He scratches his cheek and redness forms.

“What’s wrong with you, son?” Mercury asks.

He drops his spoon. “I-I thon’t snow.”

I glare at him but then I realize the redness on his cheek is a rash. I gasp. “Are you allergic to pasta?”

He shakes his head. “Pees.”

“You’re allergic to peace?”

“Pees,” he tries again.

My eyes bulge. “Peas? You’re allergic to peas?”

He nods.

“I put peas in the pasta.”

He scratches at his cheek. “Feel bath.”

He feels bad? What do I do? I jump to my feet and run around the table. “What do you need? What can I do?”

“Anti…” He licks his lips. Oh dear. His tongue is swollen. No wonder he’s slurring.

“Antihistamine?” He nods. “Will it help?” He nods again.

I rush to the bathroom. Thank god I have some antihistamines to deal with my hay fever. My hands tremble as I pick up the bottle. I drop it in the sink and it rolls around a few times before I manage to snatch it. I run back to the dining room and kneel in front of Gibson.

“Here.” I shove the bottle at him. He opens it and guzzles half of the bottle in one go.

“You should probably lay down. Let me help you to the couch.” I start to wrap my arm around him but he bats me away.

“Feet work.”

He stumbles to the couch and falls onto it. I need to enlist some help. He shouldn’t be driving. Good thing Indigo insisted on putting her number in my phone.

“Hey, bestie!” She answers on the first ring.

“Can you send someone over to Old Man Mercury’s house to pick up Gibson?”

She growls. “Is he drunk?”

“He hasn’t been drinking. He had an allergic reaction.” Aka. I poisoned him.

“Oh.” She blows out a breath. “I’ll send someone over.” She hangs up before I can thank her.

I throw my phone on the table and run to the couch to check on Gibson. He’s passed out. I lean close to make sure he’s breathing. It would be just my luck to kill a famous rockstar I’m pretending to date. I can imagine the headlines now.

Out of work mechanic poisons rockstar she was pretending to date. Was it an accident? Or is she a black widow in the making?

Nope. I force those thoughts away. He’s fine. He’s breathing. I push to my feet and prowl to the window. No one’s here yet. I return to the couch. Gibson’s still breathing. Phew. I prowl back to the window to check if anyone’s on their way.

“Stop pacing. You’re making me nervous,” Mercury barks at me.

I wring my hands together. “I poisoned a famous rockstar.”

“You didn’t poison him. He has an allergy. I told you peas don’t belong in pasta.”

“Well, excuse me, for trying to get you to eat a few vegetables.”

There’s knock on the door and I rush to it.

“Mercury here?” Fender asks.

I motion to the sofa. He grunts before marching there and lifting Gibson before throwing him over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” I say as I rush in front of him to open the door. “I didn’t know he was allergic to peas.”

“Get the door,” he grumbles and I hurry to open the car door for him.

He throws Gibson in the seat and buckles him up. I frown. This appears to be a practiced routine.

“Thanks again,” I say as Fender walks toward the driver’s seat. He waves and gets in the car to drive away. I watch until I can’t see the car’s rear lights anymore.

“Welp! That’s what I call a successful evening,” Mercury says when I enter the house. “I’m going to bed.”

Successful evening? Is he joking? What was successful about it? The part where my supposed boyfriend gave me weeds? Or maybe how he tried giving a household of teetotalers a bottle of wine? Or – and this is my favorite part – how I poisoned him?

Tonight is no one’s definition of successful. I don’t know how I’m going to pull off being Gibson’s fake girlfriend if this is what I’m in store for.

Too bad I’m not in the market for an actual boyfriend because even with his tongue swollen and a rash on his cheek, Gibson’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met.

Player, I remind myself. Player who enjoys drinking too much.