Chapter 17 White Lies and Road Trips
I’m alone again when I wake the next morning, and I take my mug of coffee out into the garden to walk the path and soak in the sunshine before it gets too hot. I’m bent over a row of peonies when Noah comes huffing up, sweat soaked and flushed from his run.
“Morning,” he says, bowing his head as he cuts through the gate. I swallow hard, and take a sip to keep from giggling like a schoolgirl at the sight of him.
“Morning.”
He’s nearly to the door when Cheryl comes clamoring out of the main house. “Noah! Charlotte!”
Seeing the woman, frantic and waving her arms reminds me of the blatant lie I told last night.
All I need is for her to mention anything other than preparing for the festival and my story will unravel.
Noah steps back into the sun and takes three long strides to stand behind me as she approaches. God, even sweaty, he smells good.
“I’m so glad I caught the two of you. I am sorry to say, we won’t be much of a host couple today.
” She rolls her eyes. “Tom is still out of sorts after yesterday on the course and has a nasty sunburn to boot. I’m afraid my time will be spent soaking him in aloe and making sure he hydrates before our dinner tomorrow.
I swear some days, I could just . . .” She lets out a grumble and then takes a breath, as if realizing who she’s talking to.
“I’m happy to lend a hand however you need me,” I say, hoping the sentiment toes the line between Noah’s thinking I’ll be helping her and Cheryl’s ignorance to my excuse for not accompanying him.
“Oh, don’t be silly, dear. You needn’t worry yourself with our troubles. I’m happy to set up a tour of the farm if you’d like, or if you’d rather spend the day out of the heat you’re welcome to use our library.”
I smile, and Noah gives me an amused glance, confirming my lie has been discovered, before looking to Cheryl.
“I actually meant to tell you. My mom has been pestering me for a visit, so this is a nice happenstance.”
Fuck you, Noah. I grit my teeth into a smile before turning back to Cheryl. “So you see, I’m completely free. Please, put me to work.”
She frowns. “Heaven’s no. I wouldn’t keep you from visiting Noah’s family. Surely she’ll want to see you too.”
“Oh I don’t think—”
Noah slings an arm over my shoulders and I’m lost to the smell of juniper and sweat. “She did invite us both, babe.”
I’m going to throw up.
My teeth ache from clenching and pasting a smile to my face, but it’s all I can do. Not only have I been caught in my lie, but I’ve been roped into meeting my fake boyfriend’s mom. At the very best, this will be an awkward day.
Cheryl claps her hands. “How serendipitous! You can borrow Tom’s car for the drive. I’ll have Lance pull it around to the front so it’s ready for you. Have fun you two!”
I raise my mug to her with the last of my smile as she turns back towards the main house. Before she’s fully inside, I slip out from under Noah’s arm.
“What the hell was that?”
His look of surprise makes me want to shove him backwards into the bed of flowers. “I beg your pardon?”
“I told you I didn’t want to go with you,” I say, stomping towards the cottage.
“Actually,” Noah clarifies, his tone grating on my last nerve. “You told me you had to help Cheryl. Which she doesn’t seem to remember.”
“She had a lot of champagne at the nail salon,” I grumble, pouring another cup of coffee.
Noah holds his hands up and my eyes inadvertently drop to his chest, and then lower to the v disappearing into the elastic waistband.
“Hey,” he says, pulling my attention back to his face. “If you really don’t want to go with me, I can leave you here.”
I take a deep breath and run my hands through my hair. “No. It’s fine. I’ll go. It will be easier than talking my way out of why I didn’t go. There aren’t a lot of ways to explain not wanting to visit your boyfriend’s famous mom.”
I cringe, realizing I didn’t call him my fake boyfriend, but Noah doesn’t seem to notice. He shrugs, his face sympathetic. “That may be true, but if you really don’t want to go, you don’t have to.”
He says it in a way that if it were any other person, it would come off as a passive aggressive guilt trip. But I’m learning that with Noah, nothing is ever meant to be manipulated. He says what he means and I know that if I were to say I didn’t want to go, he would figure a way around it.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I suppose I can wrap my head around meeting Vivian Graves.”
His face breaks into a wide grin as he starts backing up towards the bathroom. “Excellent. I’m going to shower and then we can head out.”
I raise my coffee mug at him, fighting the urge to picture him in the shower.
I am unsuccessful.
About forty minutes later, armed with my favorite skirt and a scallop-neck tank, I’m standing by as Lance gives Noah the rundown on ‘Mr. Barker’s car’. It’s a little black sporty thing, sleek and extravagant, and probably worth more money than I make in a year.
Lance finishes his spiel and disappears into the garage, leaving us standing on the driveway.
“Shall we?” Noah asks, opening the passenger door and motioning for me to get inside. Once seated, he closes the door and rounds on the car, giving me a few moments to run through my plan for surviving the day. It’s really just two steps:
1. Keep it professional.
2. No fangirling.
The only thing left to discuss is how Noah explained my presence to his mom. I assume he would have explained the whole business trip side of things, but I’ve been wrong before and last time I assumed, I ended up faking my way through a barely believable relationship with my boss.
Noah gets in and starts the engine. It purrs to life and he flashes a smile.
“This car is incredible.”
I make a face, running my eyes across the interior. It all whispers of finery, but cars have never been my thing. To me, it looks about the same as any other. But Noah, dressed in a tight black t-shirt and impossibly fit jeans, sports a grin fit for a kid on Christmas.
We’re about twenty minutes into the drive when my careful consideration of how to bring up the inevitable introductions turns into a tumble of words, falling inelegantly between us.
“Your mom doesn’t think we’re a couple, does she?”
I wince at the inadvertent tone of accusation. But Noah, ever cool and uncomplicated, just smiles.
“No, she doesn’t. I wasn’t sure how you wanted to handle that, so I’m grateful you brought it up.”
How I wanted to handle it? I’m his employee; is there another explanation he’s offering?
“So she thinks I’m . . .”
“A colleague.”
“Which is what I am.”
“Yes.”
“And there is little risk of us running into anyone who would need to see us as being . . . together.”
Noah glances over at me, and I don’t know what answer I want until he says the wrong one.
“Right. My mother, as vast as her reach is, has little to do with the family owned farms of central California. And we’re visiting at her house where there is little risk of paparazzi or tabloid writers who could get a story back to the Barkers. There is no need to pretend.”
I nod, staring at the approaching horizon. The answer is clear: we aren’t dating, so what purpose would there be in pretending today? Bringing family into this business arrangement will only complicate things further. Even still, the wave of disappointment at this conclusion tugs at my chest.
“Then I’m your colleague. I mean, I always was, but you know there is no need to pretend I’m anything more. Different. Anything different.”
Noah’s lips quirk up in a half smile and I blow out a long breath. I hate how on edge this is making me. I’m almost thirty years old for god sake. The time for school yard crushes, and boys who make me nervous, is long gone.
“Fair enough.”
As I justify it away, my mind wanders along the thread of defeat I thought I heard in his voice.
Was Noah enjoying this game? No. Of course not.
This may have been a mess of his own making, but it was still a mess.
Noah is doing what he thinks is best for Flourish, just as I’m doing what is best for my future. My future with Nan’s.
“Do me a favor?”
His voice breaks my thought spiral and I glance his way, hating myself for how eager I am to agree already.
“After meeting my mom, try to remember I’m the Graves you liked first,” he says, fiddling with the air conditioning controls. I raise an eyebrow.
“Who says I like you?”
“I knew you liked me the night we met. You couldn’t stay away.”
I scoff, nearly choking as I throw my head back. “First of all, bumping into you in the hallway was purely coincidence, and we’ve already established you were an ass. Second, outside the bar it was Kara who approached you first. I wanted to ignore you.”
“But you didn’t.” He leans over on his elbow, and though his eyes are trained on the road, I can feel the intensity of his would-be stare. “You couldn’t stay away.”
The repeated sentiment burrows down in my belly and swirls, pulling goosebumps on my arms. He’s not wrong, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. I clear my throat and tug at the hem of my skirt, smoothing it towards my knees. Keep things professional.
“I was doing my civic duty to keep my best friend out of more trouble than she could manage.” Then, deciding to use his own words against him, I continue. “If you misconstrued it, that’s on you.”
He flashes another grin and the light in his eyes dances with amusement, but he adjusts to sitting up straight again, his hands placed firmly on the wheel.
His forearm flexes, and his knuckles go white.
I pull my attention from him, repeating my mantra over and over until it's nothing but jumbled sounds rattling around my brain.
Keep things professional.
Driving into upper society neighborhoods brings a breath of fresh air, which is promptly stifled by a heavy dose of anticipation.
The same negative voice I’ve been fighting all weekend comes rushing forward and screams about all my insecurities as we pass rows of mansions and groups of power walking L.A.
county housewives. Is this skirt really what I want to be wearing when I meet the Vivian Graves?
Why didn’t I have my hair blown out at the spa yesterday—or spend more time taming the wild frizz monster before jumping into the car this morning?
The insecurities intensify as we turn off the main road and onto a long private drive.
Tall palm trees line the perfectly manicured lawn and are broken only by the occasional decorative shrub.
The car slows as we approach an impressive iron gate, and Noah rolls down his window.
He pushes the call button and a voice crackles over the speaker.
“Is that the infamous Go-go?”
“Hi, Paul,” Noah says, a warm red rising on his cheeks.
The speaker buzzes and the gate swings open. With a raised eyebrow I turn to my companion.
“Go-go?”
“Paul’s been with the family for years,” Noah says, as if it explains anything.
“So, he’s who I should see about your dirty little secrets.”
“No need. You can ask me anything.”
The simplicity of the statement raises the hairs on the back of my neck and kills my next joke about his childhood nickname.
So far, aside from not telling me about the misunderstanding with Tom before it was too late, and the credit card debacle, Noah has been open with me.
But something about him committing to always being that way sets my skin on fire.
Thankfully, the moment is stolen by the house rising up ahead of us.