My Big Fat Fake Wedding(35)

Which is why I didn’t tell Dad to fuck off with his ultimatum. He’s right to a small degree, as much as I absolutely hate to admit it. He has been a great example for me, as a loving husband and father and as a businessman. But he’s also a lot to live up to.

Which is also why I don’t gun my Camaro’s engine as I pull up out front, parking in the crushed gravel semi-circle driveway. At a glance, I’d say I’m the first to arrive, but it’s all good.

“Mister Ross,” Karl, the butler, says. “How is Geoffrey?”

I swear Karl gets a kick out of my ‘digital assistant,’ or maybe it’s professional jealousy. Either way, he always makes a note to ask. “Currently having dinner with Cortana,” I joke. “He just stole her from some plumber named Mario.”

“Very funny, sir. Your parents should be home soon. Your mother had a charity meeting she needed to clear this afternoon. The caterers are already here, and dinner will be ready promptly at eight.”

“Excellent. Thank you for coordinating dinner tonight on the fly.” He nods deferentially. Leaving the foyer, I make a quick check of the dining room where I see the extra place laid out, then the kitchen, where the caterers are doing fine. I went all out, with Dad’s favorite of beef Wellington, Mom’s favorite Shiraz wine, and sides that reflect everyone’s favorites. I even had Abi send me Violet’s favorite dessert, which of course, is tiramisu.

Everything’s ready.

“Miss Abigail Andrews and Miss Violet Russo,” Karl announces from the foyer, and I turn around, only to stop short when I see Violet.

How can this be? She’s even more beautiful than she was last night, dressed in a midnight blue dress with white accents, slightly demure while still being so sexy that I immediately feel bad about jacking off in the bathroom a few hours ago.

Not because my cock isn’t swelling—it’s already threatening to strain the compression boxers I’m wearing for just this purpose—but because all I can think of is all that wasted cream that could be coating the twin swells of her breasts.

“Violet—” I begin, but before I can say more, the rumble of Dad’s classic Jag comes through the door, and Karl steps out again. “Okay, show time.”

Dad shows up with Mom on his arm, the two of them casually chatting about their day when Karl announces them. “Well now, Ross, I do hope . . . Violet?”

“Hello, Mr. Andrews,” Violet says politely, offering her hand. True to form, Dad ignores the hand to give her a quick but warm embrace before stepping back for Mom to do the same, this time with a kiss on both cheeks.

“Oh, hush with that ‘mister’ stuff,” Mom says, smiling. “You’ve slept over here enough times, and I’ve made you enough cocoa, that you don’t need it. Please, just Morgan and Kimberly?”

“I’ll try . . . Kimberly,” Violet says, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “How are you doing?”

“Just fine, dear. I heard about your newest design success. Apparently, you got through to Lydia Montgomery? She’s been positively raving about you. Well done, dealing with her. She can be a bit of a battle axe . . . sharp and lethal.”

Violet chuckles, saying conspiratorially, “Good to hear. Although, please don’t call her that. I don’t want to have a slip of the tongue at work.”

“There are much better uses for tongues,” I interject, making Violet blush and Mom and Dad give me withering looks. They probably think I’m trying to make fun of her, and I guess I am . . . but not in the way they expect.

“I must say, Violet, while it has been too long since you’ve been to the house, your coming to dinner is unexpected,” Dad finally says as we all leave the foyer and head toward the living room. “What brings you by?”

“A surprise,” Abi says, saving me with an innocent smile. I swear, she’s looking forward to this . . . which is all the more reason not to trust her.

We settle into the comfortable chairs and sofas that ring the living room, and I spring my first little ‘test’ on Violet. When she goes to sit down next to Abi, I clear my throat and pat my own knee. “Violet?”

I love the way her eyes flash fire, her tanned skin flushing just a little as I basically silently order her to perch on my knee, something I know she’d never do willingly. I’m on edge, so curious whether she’s going to obey. Mom and Dad both give us confused looks while Abi looks about ready to spit nails at me.

Violet debates internally, her eyes scanning me, and I know I’m going to pay for this. Funny thing is, I’m looking forward to it. Seeing what she can come up with to keep me on my toes is an exciting change of pace from my work-sleep-fuck-repeat life cycle.

Finally, she tosses her head, flipping her hair in a dark ebony wave over her shoulder before starting to sit down . . . only to slide past my knee and onto the cushion of the loveseat next to me. Her smile is pure saccharin.

Ooh . . . so close. That was a good one, leading me to think she was going to actually obey and then doing exactly whatever the fuck she wants at the last second.

The funny thing is, I like this attitude from Violet. If I were actually looking for a wife, I’d want one who could match me strength for strength, who’ll give as good as she gets.

The thought is unsettling, something I’ve never really considered in my work-focused life. A wife, a marriage, and especially a family, have always seemed like far-off, long-term goals. Not something to worry about now. And even if I had imagined it late at night, I’d always pictured being married to a debutante-socialite type. Not because that’s my preference but because they’re easy and everyone knows the score. Keep them well-kept and go on with life while they go on with theirs. But that’s not a marriage. It’s a contract.