Chapter 11 #2
“Not happy to see us, rabbit?” Lars says through gritted teeth, his face scrunched in the battle with my brother.
“No!”
“Wounded,” Lars teases, pushing my brother’s arm closer to the tabletop.
“I’m sorry.” Sighing, I peer between him and Lord James, a half-stoic, half-indignant expression fills the duke’s features. “I’m happy to see you both. I’m sorry for my rudeness. It’s just… The whole reason Jackson took you is to hide this from Hope and Rem.” I rub my temples.
“My lady, would you care to lie down? You look unwell.” Lord James tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “I could carry you upstairs and put you to bed,” he says, his voice dripping with sinful intentions.
“Oh….” My mouth goes dry.
“No, you don’t.” Jackson slams Lars’s arm to the table and jumps up. “We talked about this, Lord No Boundaries. There will be none of your Mr. Darcy seductiveness outside of your official date time.”
“Official date time?” I ask.
“Each bachelor will have an official date over the next six days.”
“Six days?” Face scrunched, I tilt my head. Fogginess creeps in, nipping at my ability to follow the thread.
“Should give you enough time to decide which man to take to the wedding and who you’d like to pursue something with.”
Lars steps beside Jackson, patting his shoulder. “Jacky boy worked it out. Each of us will take you on a date; a meal and an activity. The activity we plan, to woo you. You know, romance and all that shit.”
“Smooth, K-9 Club.” Jackson shakes his head. “And because we don’t subscribe to archaic gender roles, the meal portion of the date you plan… You know, romance and all that shit.”
I laugh at his repetition of my little tut from earlier.
Despite the ridiculousness of this entire situation, Jackson treats this like it’s normal.
As if we’re not talking about people’s lives—even if three of those people are fictional.
Still, it’s sweetly reassuring. Although what isn’t reassuring is that they are here and… .
“Where’s Owen?” I look around.
“You’re so right about cinnamon. It really is the perfect addition to banana bread,” Hope coos, shuffling from inside the house.
“It definitely gives it that extra something.” Owen grins, following her with a tray laden with food.
“I repeat, what are they doing here? We were hiding them from Hope and Rem,” I hiss through clenched teeth to Jackson.
“Like you were going to keep this from Hope very long—” he tsks “—and if one of these men is our future brother-in-law, we need to integrate them into the family,” he whispers back, his tight smile fixed on Hope, who moves toward the table where Lars pulls out the chair for her.
“Aw, the wolf has manners.” His tight smile softens to a real one.
I arch a brow.
“Georgia!” Hope waves me over. “Have you met Jackson’s friends from pickleball?”
“Uh, yeah.” I move to the table.
“She may know them better than anyone.” Smirking, he plops onto a chair beside Lars, their snickered expressions in silent conversation with each other.
Again, my eyebrow arches at him. Well, not just him, but them . They are like two sides of the same snarky coin. One, the polished suit-wearing version, the other in ripped jeans and flannel.
“Owen helped me put together some tidbits. He’s amazing. Better than any sous chef I’ve ever had,” Hope says, taking a small stack of plates from the tray and handing them to Owen.
Of course, he is. All of Owen’s culinary expertise comes from Hope.
So much of her passion for food is infused into my small-town baker character.
Though that was intentional versus my accidental infusion of aspects of Jackson into my werewolf alpha.
I can’t help but wonder what real life person may linger inside my handsome duke, who sits spine straight beside me.
“I’m grateful for Baker, because LJ over there is useless in the kitchen.” Lars chuckles, grabbing a plate and piling food on it.
“Baker? LJ?” Hope’s brows kiss.
“Owen Baker. Lars has this thing about not calling people by their actual names, so he calls me by my last name,” Owen explains, pouring water into a glass from the pitcher on the table.
She nods, her brown eyes sparking with interest. “And who’s LJ?”
“Lord James,” Lars says, handing the now full plate to Jackson, who accepts, an “Oh shit” expression blooming on both of their faces just as…
“Lord James?” Hope’s gaze narrows on my duke. “I thought your name was Jim?”
“It certainly is not,” he scoffs and then looks to me, his face aghast. “I mean… Yes… Jim is my name.” His lips pinch.
Every muscle in my body tightens. None of my book boyfriends are good liars. It’s core to their literary DNA, so whatever ruse Jackson cooked up is coming undone. Not to mention, Hope is perceptive.
She wags a carrot stick at Lars. “And what was your name again?”
“Lars…” He wrinkles his nose. “I mean Larsy?”
“Larry.” Jackson coughs.
“Why didn’t Owen get a new name?” I lean over to Jackson and whisper.
“Every good lie has some truth,” he whispers back.
“ Good is the important word in that sentence,” I hiss.
“Owen Baker? Lord James? Lars?” Her fierce stare jumps between me and Jackson. “Who are these men?”
I cover my face with my hands, a twinge thuds behind my closed eyes.
Lying to my best friend is a shitty thing to do, even if the plan was for it to be temporary to not stress her out during her pregnancy.
It’s not the stress of this situation’s impact on her that I worry about, but the favor I’ll need from her.
“They’re Owen Baker, Lars the alpha werewolf pack leader, and Lord James the sexual harassy duke… And they’re here to date Georgia,” Jackson says.
“They’re what!” Hope shrills.
“Sorry, sis.” He lets out a long breath. “I thought this would work.”
“I, for one, never thought this charade would work. Jim? As if a duke is named Jim? How ludicrous,” Lord James drawls.
“This would work? Duke? Dating Georgia? What in the H E double-hockey-sticks is going on?” Hope’s high-pitched questions cause me to lower my hands and face her. “Kitchen, now.”
Nodding, I rise, lightly swat the back of Jackson’s head, and follow her into the house.
That dull ache behind my eyes has grown to a steady throb.
This is all so messy. It’s like I’m Hurricane Georgia.
Thanks to the toss of a “lucky” penny into a fountain, I’m leaving a path of destruction everywhere.
At this moment, I wonder how lucky that stupid penny is.
“Georgia Angelica Lane!” Hope whirls to me the moment we enter the kitchen. “What’s happening? Who are those men? Did Jackson hire three men to pretend to be fictional characters and date you?”
“No!” I step back, my butt coming into contact with the small breakfast table. “Jackson didn’t hire escorts to date me and pretend to be fictional characters.”
“Georgia, did you ?” Brow scrunched, she cocks her head. “Wait, how did you find escorts that resemble your book characters? Is there an app for that? Please tell me you did your research to vet them.”
“They’re not escorts.” I rub at my temples.
“What’s happening? Who are these men?” Her eyes widen. “Oh my god, are you okay? Are they stalker fanboys who think they are your characters? Are you and Jackson being held hostage? Blink twice if you need me to?—”
Laughter bubbles out of me, its intensity racking through me. Leave it to Hope to go from my trio being hired escorts to stalking fanboys in two point five seconds.
“Should I call Rem?”
“No!” My laughter dies. “Don’t call Rem, please.”
“If you’re in trouble?—”
“I’m not in trouble… Well, not that kind of trouble.” I rub the center of my forehead, the throb intensifying.
My adherence to a gluten free diet combats my celiacs, but too much stress causes migraine flare-ups. The seeds of one sprouting with the pulsating ache, the queasy sensation swirling in my belly, and fuzziness, which wasn’t just my reaction to Lord James in his suit.
I look up, meeting her perplexed gaze. “What I’m about to tell you is ridiculous and unbelievable, but it’s true, and you can’t tell Rem. Please.”
“Are you sure you’re not in trouble t rouble ?”
I nod, that action causing a twinge behind my eyes.
She looks between her wedding ring and me. “Okay.”
“You better sit down.” I pull out one of the chairs from the table.
This is the second time this story has spilled out of me.
Like Jackson, Hope believes me. Even if her face scrunches with disbelief, and her “Oh my word’s” fill the kitchen.
Only the story I share with Hope contains the tidbits about Davis/Kenny.
I’m not sure why I include him in the tale, because he’s not part of this.
Even if there’s still a flutter in my chest at his thoughtful gift.
Despite the pull to him, I need to stay away.
No good will come from further interaction with him.
“Why go on a date with these three guys when you just had a do-over date with Davis?”
“It wasn’t a do-over date. It was just a grandson showing appreciation,” I say, my flimsy protest doesn’t convince even me.
Swatting at the air, she goes on, “Whatever it was, it’s clear there are sparks. Why not pursue that?”
“Because Davis wasn’t poofed into my life by a possibly magic fountain at the facility where I work. Lars, Lord James, and Owen were, and I owe them. Whether it’s with me or not, I owe them happy endings.”
“You don’t owe anybody anything. You didn’t wish for them to be transported here. You wished to know what your happy ending is and how to find it.”
“That doesn’t matter. They’re still here. I stole the happy endings I wrote for them.”
That knowledge aches within me. I know all too well the pain of losing the tomorrow you hoped for. Even if the guys were ripped away from their stories during their third-act breakup, I know what they stand to lose. I can’t take that from them.