Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
I’m not sure whether I’m clinging to a lion or about to be thrown to them as my family, who were not too quiet with their comments and doubts about me landing a fiancé, have us surrounded.
To their credit, they’re not wrong.
But I hate the idea that they might be right.
Self-preservation is real, people!
“He’s taller than I’d expect,” Selby says as if we’re not standing right here.
Aunt Cindy adds, “Bigger.”
“Brawnier.” Aunt Mona lets out a breathy sigh.
“Meaner,” Lana whispers.
They part slightly and my mother fills the gap. She merely clicks her tongue as if those details are irrelevant and the only thing of significance is his wallet.
To cap off their list of objectively true things about him, I say the opposite, “And he’s my fiancé.”
A sort of growl comes from his throat.
The masses look from him to me and then each other as if doing girl math. Margo plus Viking Highlander Hottie does not add up.
I sense this is a disaster waiting to happen. He has no reason to go along with it. My skin prickles like I have poison ivy and hives at the same time.
“My fiancé,” I repeat as if this is a cue for him to say something.
He looks at me sharply and I give the teeniest, tiniest little shrug as if to say, Improvise . I’ve never done this before either.
“Your fiancé,” my mother repeats.
“Uh-huh.”
When he remains silent by my side, I subtly poke him in the ribs.
This time he grunts.
I believe in love at first sight, but is there such a thing as annoyed at first sight? Is pretending to be my fiancé too big an ask? Sheesh. Some people.
A sinking feeling makes me quite sure I’m going down with the ship. What if he has a girlfriend or a wife or someone he’s pining over?
Apparently, he’s not a team player, but I’m pretty sure he’s a hockey player that I recognize from the game I went to with Juniper. I’m like ninety-percent sure. Then again, for most of the game he wore a helmet. Eighty percent, given that he was sweaty and in uniform with all that padding as the goalie, which isn’t the fast-action part of the team—kind of like a cross-country runner of the hockey world, where endurance and focus are key. Where it’s less about tossing balls, er, passing pucks, and more about a personal best.
On long runs, I’m very much in my head and don’t have to communicate with anyone. Perhaps he’s the strong and silent type. We’ll go with that and not that he’s contemplating how to complete my humiliation with a few simple words along the lines of, I don’t know who this woman is. She might be unhinged. If so, and you’re her family, I suggest you have her speak to a professional. Also, the stress lines on her forehead suggest she could use some chocolate pudding right now. Cake frosting. Anything. If you care, help her out.
When he still doesn’t say a word, I fill the awkward silence, blurting, “Yep, that’s right. This Viking Highlander hybrid hockey star is my fiancé.”
This time I don’t get so much as a look, a twitch, a moan, or a groan out of him. He's either been hit in the head with a puck or he's stubborn because he refuses to play his part.
Likely story. I don’t buy it is what my mother says with her eyes as she gives him a disapproving down-the-nose look.
To really twist the knife of my own public execution, with a little flounce to my voice, I add, “And we’re in love.”
I bounce on my toes and squeeze his arm as I gaze up. He doesn’t meet my eyes. But up close, he’s a bit of a dreamboat if you’re into strong, sculpted features, full lips, and deep green eyes. Also, there’s a beard, but it’s trim.
“In love?” my mother asks as if that’s the tipoff that this is fake, fake, fake.
Raise your hand if you’ve ever started something you know you should stop, but it’s too late and you’ve dug yourself into a word hole filled with lies. All those letters pile on top of me and there’s no way out. I raise both my hands. Only not really because I won’t let go of my fake fiancé’s arm. I grip it like a little girl refusing to give up her comfort blanket.
He tenses like he might tear someone’s head off. Hopefully not mine—not that I want any of them to be headless, but the women in my family are like Hydra and could probably grow two new heads in place of the one that was lopped off.
They whisper among themselves. If they hadn’t encircled us against the wall, I’d bolt. He could probably smash through them like a tank.
I repeat, gazing up at him, “Yes, very much in love.”
Folks, this is just the appetizer. Stay tuned for the main course because the vultures are hungry.
At last, I sense his gaze on me from above. Now, I’m afraid to look up.
A few other rubberneckers gather close—namely Aunts Bernice and Blanche, then Jed who’s always been too nosy for his own good—instead of pulling the safety brake, I triple down and say, “Meet my mother, aunts Cindy, Mona, Bernice, Blanche, and my cousins Selby, Lana, and Jed. Oh, and Jody in the back. Hi! I see you. Meet my fiancé. He’s here all the way from Hockey Town.”
I didn’t have time to verify this information, but I’m seventy-percent sure the guest I scoped out—who is definitely here without a plus one—is a hockey player for the Knights. Either that or he’s a dead ringer, which kind of brings me down another ten percent. If that’s the case, I hope he’s okay with impersonating someone. We’ll deal with the legalities of that later.
In my periphery, he shifts his attention to them. My mother, aunts, and cousins look him up and down as if they’re all suddenly thirsty for a glass of water—goodness knows they’ve had plenty of champagne.
“It’s nice to meet you—” My mother extends her hand and gives me a side eye, whether because I didn’t use my manners and say his name or because she’s on to me, I’m not sure. Strong poker face that one.
“I’m Beaumont.” His voice is deep and rocky. Also—what’s the right word?—splendid. Beaumont has a splendid voice that’s part Arctic and part accented.
The fog of anxiety parts and a memory surfaces with clarity. When I was at the hockey game back in Manhattan, according to Juniper, he was the goaltender responsible for the win. I’m still learning the rules, or making them up as I go, depending on which game we’re talking about.
Back to that night: When the team did their victory lap around the rink, the arena went insane for Beaumont Hammer, but he didn’t even smile. Maybe he didn’t realize that they were all cheering, Hammer, Hammer, Hammer. The sound of the crowd shouting his last name echoes in my mind.
Margo Hammer sounds doable.
Mom says, “Wren Cabot. Pleasure.”
His grip is so firm, I’m afraid he might break my mother’s bird bones when they shake hands.
“And I’m the future Mrs. Hammer.” I shake a little jazz hand action and smile.
He does not.
“Hockey Town, huh?” Selby asks, batting her eyelashes.
Aunt Cindy elbows her. “You’re a married woman.”
“Speaking of married, when’s the date?” Celeste, my sister, appears like a carrion bird descending from storm clouds.
“Well, we, um, haven’t decided. One wedding at a time. Don’t want to steal anyone’s thunder. Am I right?” I peer into the crowd, looking for Maxine because really the focus should be on her and the groom today.
“Where’s the ring?” my mother asks, unrelenting. She stares me down like the last pair of designer shoes at a trunk sale. As far as she’s concerned, the size of the rock is the most important thing.
Please let it be big.
“It’s not real if there’s not a ring,” Wren says.
“The more bling the better,” Celeste adds, admiring the rock on her finger.
Ignoring Beaumont, either because they’re intimidated or know I’ll crack under pressure, they turn on me. I look at my bare hand and then at them and turn to my fake fiancé.
Pressure makes diamonds, right?
Sending up a silent prayer, I ask for help, but I don’t expect the Good Lord to be in the habit of aiding and abetting liars.
“Unless you’re taking things slow,” my mother teases out the words.
“Unless you’re making this up,” suspicion slithers out of my sister’s mouth.
As seconds pass, my thoughts drip like a leaky faucet as I scramble for what to say.
“I don’t buy it.” My mother shakes her head slowly.
Celeste lifts her chin in agreement. “Not for a minute.”
I think it’s over. We’re through. I’m going to be the laughingstock of the family as usual. Everyone will remember Maxine and Marlon’s wedding as the time Margo tried to steal the spotlight by staging a fake engagement. Only half of that is true. I’m not interested in the spotlight, but this is fake. I know it. They know it. Soon everyone will know it.
Then my sister drops the hydrogen bomb. “The giveaway was there’s no way a guy like Beaumont,” her voice purrs when she says his name, “would go for a girl like Margo.” Only she says my name like Mar-go with a heavy emphasis on the go part.
Quickly calculating how to backtrack and get out of this, I decide that I’ll face my fate rather than have my family tear me limb from limb.
As if going into battle, Beaumont Hammer coils with animosity? Hostility? Berserker rage? Maybe what I thought was his indifferences was actually him building defenses because the man looks like he’s about to destroy something.
He squeezes my hand gently, firmly, assuringly.
For a moment I think I hear a choir of angels, but it must be the band in the background over the radio static amplified in my mind. Then a deep voice filters through the cacophony.
“We’re waiting for my grandmother’s ring to be resized,” Beaumont answers with less than a second on the clock.
Score!
The buzzer goes off and the crowd goes wild. Okay, that’s just happening in my head, but I thought he was going to expose me when instead he’s playing along with my fake relationship scheme.
I glance up at him and study his intense green eyes for one long moment. Blinking back to reality, for a second there I got lost, swimming in a pool of tranquility, in a place where I am treasured above all.
Giving my head a shake, I say, “Yeah. It was so thoughtful and special, being a family heirloom and all.”
The women start squawking about diamonds, demonstrating for all the world what they value above love. I mean, we’re barely on a first name (or last name) basis, so I’m not so delusional to think I’m in love with this man, but I’d like to marry for love rather than financial security. Or financial boasting rights. I’d like to marry for real someday, though I have no illusion that it’ll be with Beaumont, but we’ll deal with the fake fiancé peccadillo later.
Meanwhile, the women in my family gossip about me in front of me. About my relationship history, dress size, and how I’m not the best prospect for a professional athlete. I feel like I’m at a Kennel Club event, only I get awarded Worst in Show .
Then, as if the wind direction changes and they sense a tornado on the horizon, the group goes silent, still.
Beaumont glares. I’d hate to be on the opposing team even if I were coming at him with a stick. His glower alone hushes them. “Do not talk about my fiancée like that.”
I get cartoon googly eyes, yet I lengthen my spine slightly.
All at once, they start making excuses.
“Enough chatter. Apologize.” His tone isn’t a suggestion. It’s a command.
“Oh, my,” Aunt Mona says, fingers splayed in front of her chest.
“Sorry,” Selby whispers.
I’m pretty sure Lana whimpers.
Aunt Cindy looks scandalized.
My mother trains her shrewd gaze on me and says something, but all I hear is, Cluck cluck, bok, bok . I press my lips together, forcing back a gulp of laughter. She looks like a chicken right now with her neck extended, her glassy eye peering at me as a tuft of her hair sticks up and out of place.
Beaumont’s comment echoes in my mind and theirs turns into background static. Irritating, but not as loud as before.
“Shall we dance?” he asks.
Swoon me now.
My sister makes a simpering sound. They cluster and clatter. I imagine them all marching away as a mass. It would be a very on-brand move for them to convince themselves they had the last word. But I don’t find out because Beaumont leads me to the dance floor.
The little squeal of triumph dying to come out of me says that he had the first word and the last word. I think back. What were his first words to me?
Here I am?
Hmm. That’s not particularly romantic. We’ll skip ahead to when he said, My fiancée …
Also notable. Okay, I’m downplaying it because I have to repeatedly remind myself that this is fake even though his hand wrapped snugly around mine feels very much like a life ring.
My heart does the two step. Or is this song the band plays a fox trot? A samba? A Roomba? Wait. I think that’s a robot vacuum. The only problem about the whole dancing thing is that I’m not very good at it.
Celeste once said I dance like a robot.
My mother added, A rusty robot.
Dad had no opinion as usual. Gerard just laughed and then went back to his phone, very possibly posting an embarrassing video of me to his Only Friends stories which is different from the @GerardsLuxeLife account. He’d never overtly insult someone because, and I quote, “Toxic influencers are toxic.”
We reach an open space on the dance floor. Beau holds up our hands and then places the other on my waist. There’s an awkward moment where I want to wipe my clammy palms on my dress, but he’d see me, so I just yeet it.
Time to get out of my head because his feet are moving and mine should be too. After exactly twelve bars of me stumbling over myself, I’m about to blame my high heels, but then go still. Well, not externally, I do my best box step. More like inside I freeze with the awareness that even though this fake relationship started with a lie, whatever happens next, I won’t tell one to him. Not even a white one or a fib or a tall tale.
“Sorry. I’m not the best dancer,” I say.
“You’re trying to lead.”
“I’m not. I’m trying not to fall.”
“I won’t let you.” His eyes flick to mine.
Cue that little gesture people make with their hands that looks like an explosion. Internally, I just had one of those. It kind of looked like a Fourth of July sparkler.
“Okay, but how?” I ask.
“Just follow me.”
My breath sticks in my chest.
As if sensing this, he says, “Surrender.”
“Um, like raise a white flag? Extend an olive branch? Tell all the women in my family that I just told a big fat whopper?”
“That’s the problem. They’re used to running the show. You don’t have to.”
“On the contrary, if I don’t, they’ll walk all over me. Bury me in?—”
Lips ever so slightly parted, Beaumont leans back and catches my gaze. It’s kind of like looking in a mirror, only it’s not so much his reflection I see—or my own for that matter. More like the way they treat me becomes more apparent through his eyes.
My thoughts dive and bob. The water becomes turbid. I try to keep my head up, then realize he’s not going to let me drown.
He says, “They don’t respect the men in their lives. They don’t trust them, so they have to take things into their own hands.”
“There are probably reasons for that. My dad is great. But he’s pretty easygoing. My uncles just go along ...”
“It’s a joint issue. But it doesn’t have to be that way.”
“Like a knee joint?”
His lips drop slightly as if concerned that I don’t know the secret of life or some other wizardry. “No. Men have roles. Women have theirs. One isn’t better than the other. They work together. That’s understood. Then the couple figures things out based on their personalities, needs, and what works for them. It starts with mutual respect and honor for each other.”
“When you put it that way ...”
Swoon me again.
“For a relationship to work, one half can’t dominate the other.” He spins me away and then reels me back into his arms with a rush that nearly knocks the wind out of me in the best of ways.
I say. “Thank you for playing along.”
He grunts.
I made sure he was here alone and he isn’t wearing a ring, but he might have a significant other, making me a ruiner. Panic seizes me.
“Your Puck Bunny or girlfriend or wife—WAGs, Juniper calls them—is a lucky woman,” I say, speaking out loud what I’d thought at the Knights versus Kings game.
“Don’t you mean my fiancée?” he asks.
Stumbling, I crash into his chest as the song ends because that was not what I expected to hear.