Six
Roast and Revelations
MIA
I LET OUT A GROAN as my phone buzzes, interrupting my attempt to unwind with a cup of tea and the fragile remains of my sanity. Last night was chaotic, to say the least. Although, in fairness, it wasn’t a total disaster—we probably managed to convince Amber that we’re madly in love.
I glance at the screen.
Mum.
Oh, God.
With a deep breath, I answer. “Hi, Mum.”
“Mia Charlotte Jameson,” she starts, her tone high-pitched and suspiciously cheerful—a dangerous combination. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
I blink. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you dare play coy with me, young lady.” She huffs dramatically. “You’re engaged, and I had to find out through Facebook of all places! Facebook, Mia! Not a phone call, not a visit, not even a text message. Bloody Facebook!”
My stomach drops, and my mouth goes dry. “What?”
“Amber—that lovely school friend of yours—posted the cutest photo of you and Austin at a party last night. Congratulations, darling! I didn’t even know you were dating anyone.”
“Thanks?” I squeak, my voice cracking like a teenager caught sneaking out.
“And the ring! Is it gold or platinum? I couldn’t see it in the picture. Did Austin pick it out himself? What a gentleman!”
I feel like I’m choking on air. “Um . . . it’s being resized?”
“Resized!” Mum exclaims, as though I’ve just announced I’m eloping to Vegas. “When did he propose? Why didn’t you tell us? And why didn’t you post any pictures? Honestly, Mia, are you trying to keep me out of your life entirely?”
“Of course not!” I blurt, panic rising. “It’s just been . . . a lot. You know, with work and, um, life. Things have been busy.”
“Well, we’re your parents, for heaven’s sake! I’d expect at least a phone call. And your father’s beside himself. He’s been polishing his shoes all morning, convinced there’s a wedding to attend any second now.”
I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. “There’s no wedding yet, Mum.”
“Yet! Oh, so it’s happening! How exciting! I can’t wait to meet Austin properly. You know, your Aunt Jean’s going to be gutted she missed out on this news first. She always said you’d be the last one to settle down.”
“Wow, thanks for the confidence boost,” I mutter, trying not to scream.
“Mia, don’t be cheeky,” Mum scolds. “Now, when can we meet him? Sunday roast at ours? I’ll do his favourite—what does he like to eat? Is he a vegetarian? Oh, I hope not. Your father will never forgive me if I make a nut roast.”
“Sunday?” My voice climbs a few octaves. “As in a week today? Seven days from now? That’s really soon.”
“Nonsense. If he’s marrying you, he’ll survive meeting us. I’ll text you the time. Oh, and, Mia?” Her tone softens suddenly. “I’m so proud of you, love. I always worried you’d end up with one of those dreadful men who spends all his time at the pub, but Austin looks . . . well, quite handsome.”
I close my eyes, guilt clawing at me. “Thanks, Mum. I’ll . . . let him know.”
The moment I hang up, I stare at the ceiling, wondering if I could fake my own death to get out of this. My phone buzzes in my lap, pulling me back to reality. It’s a text from yet another well wisher congratulating me on my engagement.
Ugh.
I open Instagram, and the first thing I see is the picture of us. It hits me like a slap.
I stare at it for a moment, taking in every detail. Austin, of course, looks perfect—annoyingly handsome, as always.
Amber captioned the photo: “Can’t believe my neighbours are engaged! Congrats to Mia and Austin—you two are too cute. ?? #CoupleGoals”
The photo has had two hundred and seventy eight likes.
Jeez. I don’t even know that many people.
I reluctantly tap on Amber’s Instagram account, and bam—flawless image after flawless image assaults my screen.
Amber in a bikini, sprawled on the deck of a yacht like she’s auditioning for a Bond girl role.
Amber in her beiger than beige living room, striking a pose beside a Christmas tree that looks like it was styled by the North Pole’s finest interior decorator.
Amber with what I assume is Jason, her perfectly manicured hand strategically placed in his as they show off her engagement ring—a rock so big it probably has its own postcode.
It appears Amber collects Instagram followers like some people collect stamps. She’s that person. You know, the one whose life is so polished and perfect you half expect her to start hashtagging #NoFilter just to mess with us mere mortals.
With a sigh, I open WhatsApp and fire off a message to Austin, breaking the news of my mum’s call.
Me: My mum just invited us for Sunday roast. She thinks we’re engaged. HELP.
Austin replies almost immediately.
Austin: I love a roast. I’ll bring dessert.
Me: This is not a joke.
Austin: Relax, Jameson. I’m great with parents. Can’t wait to meet your mum. ??
I stare at the screen, my heart racing. How can he be so calm in a crisis? This man is going to be the death of me.
I STARE OUT THE window, watching the rolling hills of the English countryside blur past us. The car’s quiet, apart from the hum of the engine and the occasional cough from Austin, who’s clearly trying to concentrate on driving.
We’re heading to my parents’ house for lunch.
It’s been a week since Mum invited us for a Sunday lunch, and let me tell you, I’ve been dreading this day since the moment I hung up.
The woman’s practically planning the wedding, even though, you know, there’s no actual wedding.
Just a pretend engagement I’m somehow trapped in.
“So,” Austin says, breaking the silence, his voice way too cheerful for the situation, “how bad could this really be? They’re just your parents, right?”
I turn to look at him. “Oh, it’s not bad, it’s just .
. . terrifying. My dad’s been working on his father of the bride speech for days.
He thinks there’s going to be a wedding any second now.
And Mum . . . well, she’s been texting me about what to serve you for lunch.
I’m pretty sure she’s going to present you with a quiz on your favourite foods when we get there. ”
Austin chuckles, glancing over at me with that infuriating grin of his. “I’m great with quizzes. Plus, who doesn’t love a good roast?”
“Did you just say ‘good roast’ like you’re a pub landlord?” I groan, shaking my head. “This is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done.”
“I think you’re overestimating how bad it’ll be. The worst thing that’ll happen is your dad might try to hand me a shotgun. But hey, I’ll just pretend to be a deer in headlights and we’ll all laugh about it later.”
I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach. “God help me.”
Austin winks at me, his eyes returning to the winding country road ahead. “Relax, Jameson. I’m a pro. I’ve been rehearsing my ‘charming fiancé’ routine all week. By the time we’re done, your parents will be asking us to move the wedding up to next weekend.”
I roll my eyes and cross my arms, trying to keep my expression serious, though I can’t quite hide the smile tugging at my lips.
“Oh, sure. They’ll have us picking out china patterns by dessert.
If you can charm my mum enough to get her to stop rearranging the dinner table every five minutes, I’ll call that a win. ”
Austin chuckles, his hands tightening on the wheel as he navigates another bend in the road. “Challenge accepted. I’ve faced tougher battles than surviving your mum’s table settings. Hell, I’ve charmed an entire room of architects. This will be a breeze.”
“Architects?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Are you architect types known for being wild?”
He glances at me with that infuriating grin. “Hey, don’t knock it. Architects are full of drama. Nothing like a room full of people pretending to care about steel structures while secretly arguing about which shade of grey makes the building look ‘more modern.’”
I snort, unable to keep it in. “So you’re basically a master manipulator?”
Austin shrugs, looking far too pleased with himself. “I prefer to think of it as ‘strategic design negotiations.’”
I shake my head, laughing softly. “Well, if that’s what you’re calling it, then I suppose you’re perfectly qualified for this gig. Just don’t let my dad offer you a glass of Scotch unless you want to spend the next hour pretending you enjoy the taste of it.”
“Noted,” he says, his grin still in place. “But if your dad’s really into Scotch, I’ll just tell him I’m on a cleanse. Everyone loves a man who’s ‘taking care of himself,’ right?”
I laugh, the tension easing out of my shoulders. “God, I don’t know why I’m so worked up. This isn’t going to be a total disaster at all.” I say deadpan.
“No way,” Austin replies, turning a corner with a flourish. “This is going to be entertainment. You’ll see. By the end of the day, we’ll both be invited back for Christmas.”
I glance at him, then back out the window, my heart doing something strange in my chest. “Yeah, right. If we survive today, I’ll consider it a win.”
Austin gives me a quick look, his grin softening. “We’ve got this, Mia. Worst case, we get a free meal and some questionable pudding out of it.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Pudding is the least of our problems, trust me.”
The car rumbles up the gravel driveway, the crunching sound echoing through the countryside like we’re announcing our arrival at the King’s summer residence. I glance at Austin, who has leant forward, hands gripping the steering wheel as he takes in the view.
“What the . . .” His words trail off, his jaw slackening. “Mia, are we visiting your parents, or did we accidentally book a tour of a National Trust property?”
I roll my eyes, though I can’t help the grin tugging at my lips. “It’s just their house. They like their space.”
“Space?” he echoes, gesturing toward the sprawling brick mansion in front of us. “This isn’t space, Mia. This is a postcode.”