Chapter 12 Under The California Sun
The hour Cheryl and Tom gave us to freshen up passes while we trade stories back and forth and decide on some basic staples of our ‘relationship.’ We stick to the things we’re sure to be asked about, but even that is a lot to cover in so little time.
Noah suggests keeping to the truth as much as possible: we met at work, and after a night out with friends couldn’t stay away from each other.
I roll my eyes at the predictability and how Cheryl seems just the type to eat it up.
I pop my head out of the bathroom as I fasten the back to my earring. “How long have we been together?”
Noah is rolling the sleeves of a light chambray shirt. “A year?”
My stomach drops. Twelve months is longer than any real relationship I’ve ever been in—even Axel only lasted ten miserable months. He continues as I grab the other earring.
“It seems long enough to be reasonable, without being so long they start to question what’s next.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. What’s next?
What’s next for people who are actually dating is marriage or kids, or some other semi-permanent thing like buying real estate.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
Yesterday I didn’t even want to think about sleeping with Noah because of the boundaries I felt it would cross and now I’m faking a relationship and facing the potential of discussing a hypothetical marriage?
Shaking my head against the impending spiral, I reach for my chapstick as I answer.
“The logic is sound. Alright. A year it is. What happens if they ask about your move to Portland? Surely that’s come up before?”
“Shit. It has. Uh, long distance? Maybe we met when I came up on a visit to Flourish’s Portland office?”
“Sounds about as credible as the rest of it. And it might help cover any minor inconsistencies.”
I exit the bathroom with the light green cardigan I haven’t decided on wearing yet clutched in one hand, smoothing the white dress I packed with the other.
“Damn, I should have asked Gayle about an iron. I don’t know if the Barkers will appreciate my wrinkled poor getting all over their stuff.
Not to mention we’re swingin’ right out the gate with these tattoos.
” I point my toes and twist them against the carpet, showcasing the bright blocky ink running the length of my leg.
“You look lovely,” Noah says, and I jerk my head up to make a face.
“It’s just the two of us. No need for compliments.”
“Now I’m not allowed to compliment you?”
I narrow my eyes. “I suppose you’ve done it before, but how do I know it wasn’t a ploy to butter me up so I’d go along with your harebrained plan?”
He holds his hands up in surrender. “If I remember correctly, this was just as much your harebrained idea. I offered to come clean.” Chuckling, he turns and a wave of shame washes over me, my cheeks warming with it.
This was my idea. Or, letting it get this far was. He openly admitted to wanting to clear the air. He probably only agreed to it so I wouldn’t look like a weirdo for suggesting we actually follow through.
Until this moment, stepping back through the terrace doors, I thought lunch was a word with a simple definition: a midday meal somewhere between breakfast and dinner.
However, standing here with Noah’s hand on the small of my back and Tom and Cheryl beckoning us over, I realize I do not share the same definition with our hosts.
The table is laid out with enough food to feed a dozen starving teenage boys over the course of Super Bowl Weekend. Salads, sandwiches, and desserts are piled high, the entire spread embellished with fresh flowers in crystal vases.
“Welcome back, you two,” Tom roars, raising his glass of wine.
Noah and I exchange a look, a final silent agreement to stick to our plan, before he ushers me towards one of the empty chairs.
Cheryl waves and a slender woman with mousy brown hair approaches, a bottle of wine in her hand and a napkin folded over her arm.
She stands by as Noah pulls my chair out and I settle into it.
He sinks into his own, grabbing the ivory cloth napkin from the place setting and spreading it on his lap.
“Thank you both so much for the wonderful accommodations. The guest house is a dream,” he says, as the mousy girl fills his wine glass.
“Yes,” I agree, flashing a delighted smile. “A dream, indeed.” More like a nightmare.
“Oh, it was nothing,” Cheryl says with a wave of her hand.
Nothing? To keep from laughing at how wrong she is, I smile and grip the wine glass, bringing the chilled beverage up for a sip.
I wouldn’t call sleeping in close quarters with the man they think is my boyfriend, but who’s really just my employer who felt pressured to fake date me to save a project that could be making both of our careers, nothing.
“And it gives Cheryl an excuse to feed someone other than myself,” Tom chuckles, patting his round belly. “She’s been itching for an opportunity to host since our youngest packed up and started at Berkley.”
Noah’s eyebrows shoot up and he and Tom jump into animated chit chat about the Ivy Leagues and their West Coast sisters.
I take the break in attention as an opportunity to peruse the offerings and figure my way around engaging Cheryl in conversation.
She seems integral to the way Tom handles business, and if this plan has a chance at working, I need her on my side.
“This all looks incredible,” I muse. “It’s really too much.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “What sort of hostess would I be if I didn’t make sure there was adequate lunch for our guests?”
I bite my tongue against a sarcastic response towards our different definitions of the word ‘adequate,’ as she reaches for a bowl of fruit and offers it to me. I take it, eager to scoop a helping of fresh berries and colorful melon balls onto my plate.
“You mentioned your daughter. Will she be joining you for the festival?”
“Yes,” Cheryl answers, “Trinity will be home this weekend, but only just in time. It’s been strange gearing up for everything without her. She loves Lavender Days.”
I nudge Noah, offering the bowl, but he barely registers, taking it from me while still engaged with Tom’s animated story.
I miss whatever the punchline is, but the two of them burst into deep belly laughs.
I’m pleased they seem to be getting along.
Cheryl shakes her head with an eye roll that reads “men, am I right?” and pushes yet another salad bowl into my hands.
“You have a wonderful set up here, Tom,” Noah says, his smile sweeping to me and then Cheryl. “Your home and the warm welcome you and your wife both offer speaks highly of the type of man you are. The kind of man we want to partner with at Flourish.”
Tom raises his hands to stop him, but Noah surprises me by insisting.
“Please. I know my partners at Flourish have made some mistakes, but I want you to know that we’ve taken this seriously.
While he’s always been a little bit on the wild side, this was unexpected even for Brad, and he is seeking help for the problems that led to his front page adventure.
I want you to know that my being here”—he pauses, flashing a smile my way and my stomach flips—“our being here is more than a show of good faith. I hope it is the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership.”
Tom regards Noah with a look I can’t quite read, almost like he’s also unsure about the man spouting on about the future of their companies. I can’t say I blame him; I’ve had the same kind of reservations. Then, he turns to me.
“Is he always full of such flattering and laudatory praise?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You think he would have landed me if he wasn’t?”
Tom bursts out into another boisterous laugh and I breathe a sigh of relief.
He seemed like the type to appreciate a well-timed joke, but it wasn’t until this moment I confirmed it.
Noah’s hand slides to my thigh and he squeezes once, twice, three times.
My insides explode—confetti bursting from my belly and along the length of my spine.
What happened to no PDA?
Then, as quickly as it appeared, his palm lifts and he reaches for his wine.
My insides continue to flutter, my focus harder to manage with his handprint seared into my skin.
Noah Graves just touched my thigh. No, he grabbed my thigh.
We’re at a fucking luncheon with our business partners and now all I can think is how much I wanted his hand to stay, and maybe inch a little higher . . .
“Charlotte,” Cheryl’s voice cuts in, interrupting my daydream.
I huff out a stiff breath and stab at a grape rolling around on my plate. “Yes?”
“I know the boys will have plenty to discuss and while you may want to join in a little, I did hope you and I might get some girl time in. It’s a tradition for me to visit the spa before the festival kicks off.
It’s a little self-indulgent reward for all the prep that goes into this wild week. Would you like to join me tomorrow?”
Stunned into silence at both her forethought in thinking to invite me as well as the offensive misogyny, I chew the single grape into pulp while I think.
This would be a perfect time for me to impress Cheryl and maybe even learn a little more about Scented Acres without the pressure of a business meeting.
But it’s all so self indulgent and sexist. Let the boys talk shop while we play spa day? Gross.
“Noah,” Cheryl calls. “Help me convince Charlotte to visit the spa, and maybe even do some shopping in town tomorrow.”
Noah looks right at me and either doesn’t see my hesitation or ignores it. “You should go. I know you were worried about how to fill tomorrow,” he lies. “You can find a dress for that dinner on Saturday.”
I narrow my eyes, sending every ounce of my frustration through the glare.
Part of the itinerary we received before our trip was a dinner at some fancy winery with Tom and Cheryl, as well as a few other Scented Acres executives.
I hadn’t mentioned needing a dress, but Noah’s lie sounds so reasonable, I’m afraid of countering.
Realizing they are all still waiting on my answer, I break into a beaming smile.
“If you’re sure it wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I admit, I have been anxious for a spa buddy since Trinity left for school. It’s just not the same without someone to chit chat with while we get our nails done and she won’t be back in time to join us.”
I actually hate the idea of spending an afternoon gabbing and primping with a stranger, but in the name of closing this deal, I lie my fucking face off.
“That sounds wonderful. I’d love to join you.”