Chapter 7 #3
David is a silver fox who could absolutely grace the cover of an age-gap, billionaire romance novel.
His button-down is tucked into his slacks, and I’m certain he’s Noah twenty years in the future with that strong jawline and glasses over those striking blue eyes.
A pair of binoculars dangles from his neck.
Noah sniffs at the air, a window propped open near the porch. “Something smells good.”
“Bad news: your brother and sister can’t make it.” Christine’s bottom lip puffs out in a pout. “They’re in the hospital.”
Noah’s brows shoot up his forehead. “They’re in the hospital?”
“Your sister helped deliver a baby! Oh, she’s going to be such a wonderful mother! And then your brother fainted, so the paramedics put him in an ambulance too.”
I shouldn’t be relieved that his siblings are at the hospital, but I can’t help the way my shoulders relax. I won’t have to meet his entire family all at once, and I can put off facing his sister for another day.
“Killian can’t stand the sight of blood,” Noah explains to me.
“Me neither.” David shakes his head. “Or vomit. Can’t stand the smell either. Or the sound. Or talk about it, really—”
David gags, spinning away from us to dry heave over the railing while his wife pats his back.
“Must be a family thing.” I flash a teasing smile at Noah, who groans.
“What’s that?” Christine’s brows furrow in confusion.
Noah heaves a sigh. “I may or may not have puked in Summer’s bathroom.”
“Pretty early in the relationship to be puk—” David’s words are cut off by another round of dry heaving.
Christine gives Noah and me a warm smile. “Sounds like love. Let’s head inside before the food gets cold.”
She ushers David inside once he regains his composure, and the two of them lead the way into their home that smells like peppermint and hardwood, even cuter and roomier than I expected.
Our footsteps creak across the vinyl flooring until we reach the dining section of the open floor plan.
Towering windows let in swaths of natural light and provide a stunning view of the lake, the last rays of sun reflecting off the water, and part of me seriously wants to offer to be the Sinclairs’ live-in housekeeper.
At the table, bowls and plates of steaming food already await us.
The assortment is a bit random—a plate of lasagna, a bowl of mashed potatoes, several smaller bowls of broccoli, green beans, and corn, a tray of sliced roast beef, a giant bowl of stir-fry, and a charcuterie board with cheese, fruit, and crackers.
“We weren’t sure what food you like best, Summer, or what dietary restrictions you might have.” David pulls out a chair for his wife. “But we’ve got meat, vegetarian, vegan, and gluten-free options.”
“That’s wonderful. Thank you so much. Everything looks delicious.”
Noah groans. “Dad, even if Killian and Vee were here, do you really think we’d be able to eat all of this?”
Christine clucks her tongue at her son. “Your father has been up since four preparing this dinner.”
“He always wakes up at four.”
Before I can pull my chair out, Noah does it for me. I try to think of the last time any of my clients or even a real date pulled out my chair, but my mind comes up empty. For some reason, my cheeks warm.
He catches my eye as I give him a grateful smile, and I hate that I can’t tell if this is part of the show we’re putting on for his parents or if he’s always like this.
Part of the show, obviously. He needs to convince them this is real, that our relationship is better than the one he had with the ex-girlfriend they all adored and he’s definitely moved on.
When Noah slides in next to me, his fresh, minty scent overpowers the food for a moment, and I wish I could bottle up that smell and spray it on my pillow. I guess I can. If I figure out what cologne he wears.
“Yes, but today, he started his day prepping dinner.” Christine smacks a glob of mashed potatoes onto her plate before passing me the bowl. I’ve never combined mashed potatoes with lasagna before, but I can’t see why I shouldn’t start today.
“With a couple of breaks to watch the blue jays.” From the seat beside his wife, David taps the binoculars around his neck. “Do you like bird watching, Summer?”
“Um.” Never in my life has it occurred to me to wonder whether I like bird watching or not. “I do.”
What’s a little white lie when my and Noah’s entire relationship is fake?
My job is to convince his parents to like Summer, Noah’s fake girlfriend, not the real me.
Besides, it’s not that I don’t like bird watching.
I’ll watch robins searching for worms in the small grassy patch in front of my apartment building in the summer. For a few minutes.
David brightens. “What’s your favorite bird?”
“Uh.” I glance at Noah, but he keeps his mouth shut, lips turned up with amusement. I’ve dug my own grave, and he’s not helping me out of it. “A . . . raven?”
I cringe the second the word leaves my mouth.
I’m supposed to be convincing his parents I’m the perfect manic pixie dream girl they’d want for their precious son.
A princess who sings with canaries every morning and bakes cinnamon rolls from scratch at four a.m., not the witch who raises ravens and lures their golden child to the dark side.
David nods. “The majestic raven. As smart as a seven-year-old child, they say.”
“She loves ravens,” Noah cuts in. “Absolutely obsessed.”
I kick him under the table.
Shit. I really shouldn’t be kicking my clients.
But that playful smirk never leaves Noah’s lips. He barely seems to have registered the kick. Did I even make contact, or was that the leg of his chair?
“Mine would have to be the Wood Thrush.” David rubs the scruff on his chin as if the choice takes careful consideration. “Or the Superb Lyrebird.”
“Those are gorgeous.” I’ve literally never heard of either of those species in my life.
“Would you believe he wants to travel to Australia just to see a bird?” Christine scoops a helping of broccoli onto her plate while shaking her head.
“I’m trying to convince my wife that we should take a trip to Australia for our thirtieth anniversary.” He smiles at Christine like they have a shared secret, and my heart squeezes.
I’ve barely known them for ten minutes, and Christine and David already remind me so much of my parents.
Always doting on each other, hugging and kissing every time they were in the same room, inside jokes and tender secrets.
I wonder if I’ll ever look at someone like that.
If someone will ever look at me that way.
I shovel a bite of lasagna into my mouth and nearly choke. “Wow, thirty years! What’s your secret?”
“A man who knows his way around the kitchen.” Christine winks at me. “And the bedroom.”
“Mom.” Noah drops his fork and knife with a clatter onto his plate, clutching his temples with both hands. “Add that to my therapy bill.”
Christine ignores her son and beams at me. “So tell us. How did you two meet?”
I tense. We’ve reached the cross-examination part of the evening. Slowly, I breathe through my nose. It’s okay. We’ve prepared for this.
“We met at the clinic, actually.” Noah straightens beside me before he captures my hand.
His touch electrifies me. My heart leaps up to my throat, and every thought melts away, my brain only capable of registering his hand on mine.
He plants our entwined palms on the table for his parents to see. “She brought her hedgehog in, and it was practically love at first sight. On my side, anyway.”
My stomach flips at the way Noah smiles right at me and squeezes my hand. This is fake. Not real.
So why the hell is my skin tingling where his brushes mine?
Why are my palms sweating? Normally, I’m calm, cool, collected with my clients, even when meeting their families and friends, or more often, coming face-to-face with their exes.
No reason to feel nervous when there aren’t any stakes.
As long as I show up and do my job to the best of my ability, it’s not my fault if someone doesn’t buy our act or if a client is dissatisfied with someone’s reaction to our faux relationship.
But for some reason, it feels different this time. Maybe because I already knew Noah beforehand. Maybe taking him on as a client really was a mistake.
My heart drums harder as we keep our hands glued together, and ever so slightly, Noah grazes his thumb over mine. Goosebumps spring up along my arms. Thank god I’m wearing a long-sleeved, turtleneck dress.
“You met at the clinic?” For some reason, Christine’s thin, pale brows furrow in alarm at this. “So you met Naomi then?”
Silence falls over us. I don’t know who Naomi is, and now this seems like a name Noah really should’ve mentioned during our rundown.
While I scramble for a way to respond, completely tongue-tied, Noah drops my hand to keep eating, and for a second, I miss the warmth of his touch. What the hell is wrong with me? “She didn’t, actually. Naomi wasn’t there that day.”
Who is this Naomi? A coworker turned serial killer?
Christine cuts into her lasagna. “Tell us about you, Summer. What do you do for work?”
Relief melts the tension in my shoulders.
I tell them stories about my work as an artist that are cloaked in half-truths to make my career sound more impressive than it is, which only further makes me want to ditch my gig at Plus One and go full-time.
Not only did I get commissioned to draw the character art inside a book, but the author also commissioned me to illustrate the cover.
Half-truth. Not only did I design a bookmark for an author, but I designed all of the merch in their shop. Half-truth.
As Noah predicted, Christine inquires about my childhood and family.
My job as a fake girlfriend is to be forgettable, and for our safety, not to share any details that are too personal or identifying.
So I don’t mention that my father died or that my mother had an existential crisis after he passed, but it’s okay because now she’s been to therapy, become a travel blogger, and met someone else.
This version of Summer, Noah’s-fake-girlfriend Summer, has a great relationship with her mother—true—and had an idyllic childhood.
David interjects with questions about the condition of my apartment and advises me on how I can fix the jiggly toilet handle, and Noah gives me a knowing, told-you-so smirk.
A ding from the kitchen sends Christine jumping to her feet. “That’s our dessert! I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll help.” I toss my cloth napkin onto the table and follow her into the kitchen, even though Christine insists that I stay seated.
Some insane part of me is itching for a few moments away from Noah and his alluring scent, the inviting heat radiating from his body, the itch to reach out and grab his hand—
My god, I need to get laid. Developing any sort of feelings for my clients, even basic lust, is beyond inappropriate.
In the kitchen, Christine pulls a pan of brownies from the oven and places them next to a pie tin.
She rounds on me with a giant smile, clutching at her face with hands still covered in oven mitts.
“You and Noah are absolutely perfect together!” Though she keeps her voice hushed, her squeal reminds me of a teenage girl.
I love that Christine has been able to hold onto a genuine enthusiasm that most people lose in childhood. “My son adores you, I can tell.”
“Oh, that’s—” I scramble for the right words. Noah must be an excellent actor if he’s convinced his own mother that he has any genuine feelings for me at all. “We are definitely very . . . fond of each other.”
I cringe, but Christine has already busied herself with cutting the pie into perfect slices. “Noah was always so unsettled around Naomi. He could never just relax and be himself.”
Naomi. Naomi is the ex-girlfriend who broke his heart. The reason he ended up intoxicated in my apartment with no idea where he was. They must’ve been coworkers.
My heart squeezes for him. If Christine is right, then a relationship like that probably did a number on Noah. No wonder he’s resorted to hiring a fake girlfriend. He probably doesn’t want anything to do with a real relationship right now.
Christine hands me a tiny plate with a slice of pie. “I can’t remember the last time I saw my son this happy.”
A wave of guilt washes over me. All Christine wants is for her son to be happy, and we’re deceiving her.
But this is what Noah wants, and I’m only doing my job.
Besides, we won’t need to pretend to be in a relationship for long.
Just long enough to convince his family he’s moved on from Naomi.
He’ll have had a brief, fun fling with me, and then he’ll be ready to enjoy single life for a while, free of his family’s meddling.
I shove the guilt away as I take another plate from Christine with a grateful smile and hurry back into the dining room. She follows with pie for herself and her husband, and when I place Noah’s plate in front of him, he pulls out my chair for me again.
When he drapes his arm across the back, his minty scent and warmth wrapping around me, he leans close to murmur in my ear. “Is this okay?”
All I can do is nod. A man hasn’t flustered me like this in . . . maybe ever. Static electricity buzzes in the inch of space between my shoulders and his arm.
“You two are just so cute.” Christine smiles at us, and I’m certain she’s already planning our wedding.
“It’s all Summer.” Noah grins at me. “She’s gorgeous.”
This is fake. Noah is putting on an act. One that’s convincing enough to fool even his mother. He doesn’t actually believe the nice things he’s saying about me.
Besides, if he found out who I really am, if he knew about all my dark fantasies, he’d run screaming.