The Last Eligible Billionaire(17)

Case in point?

Fifteen seconds ago, when a perfunctory knock sounded on the door, he sighed heavily, put away the phone he’s been staring at non-stop while I’ve been needling him for information so we could pull this off, looked at me, and said, “I hope you’re half as good with parents as you are at annoying me,” then walked to the foyer, swung the door open, and said, “Mother. What a surprise,” in that way that says it wasn’t at all a surprise to see her.

And now, I’m staring wide-eyed at three of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen in person in my entire life.

Giovanna Rutherford leads the pack. Hayes’s mother is one of those women who reminds me of a bird. If I wanted to stay as skinny as she is, I’d have to live on a daily diet of three chickpeas, a shot of vodka, and four hours of being yelled at by a personal trainer named Guy, then two hours of therapy to get over the four hours of being yelled at. She has fewer crow’s-feet in her seventies than I do in my early thirties—and don’t ask about how flawless her white skin is, without even a hint of a single sun spot—her pantsuit looks like it was woven by angels and fitted by Tim Gunn or the Queer Eye guys, and her chin-length hair is such a lovely shade of silver that it could be braided into a chain and used as a necklace.

Or possibly I’m having an irrational girl-crush reaction to being within inches of Jonas Rutherford’s mother.

I wonder if Hyacinth is picking up on my freak-out over our twin radar.

Not that I have time to worry about that. The two women behind Giovanna are giving off major diva vibes.

The first is a stunning dark-haired, brown-skinned woman with more curves than a mountain road and more poshness in her pinky nail than I have in my entire body. The second is a striking alabaster-skinned redhead—and I mean a natural shade of red, unlike mine—who has lust written all over her expression when her brown eyes shift to Hayes.

Giovanna gives me a once-over, then hands me her gloves as she plucks them off her hands.

My fake boyfriend’s mother has traveling gloves, while I’m standing here dripping in sweat from running around picking up and changing sheets, my hair glowing fuchsia, and with a streak of what I hope is dirt and not paint from an undetermined source swiped across my left boob.

It’s probably a good thing I opted to not wear my Artists Do It In Full Color T-shirt.

“See to it that my luggage is taken to the guest quarters upstairs and make Amelia comfortable in the room down the hall,” Giovanna orders me. “Charlotte will take the en suite in the basement.”

“Carry your own luggage, Mother,” Hayes says. “Begonia isn’t here to serve you.”

“Ah, my sweet boy. So cranky when you’re tired.” She pats his cheek, turning her back on me like I’m the hired help, which would make a lot more sense than what I signed paperwork agreeing to. “Have you had anything to eat today? That never helps either.”

“Neither do uninvited guests.”

“Hayes.”

“Mother.”

“I realize you’re old enough to take care of yourself, but it’s been a difficult two weeks, and you shouldn’t be by yourself right now.”

I fling myself between them and grip Giovanna’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically, because oh my god, I’m touching Jonas Rutherford’s mother. “Mrs. Rutherford. Hi. I’m Begonia. It is so good to meet you. Hayes hasn’t told me much about you, but then, you could probably say the same about what he’s told you about me, couldn’t you?”

She smiles at me, but it’s one of those patient smiles that I give my students when they try to convince me that a blank canvas is art just because they didn’t want to do the assignment.

Or possibly like that smile my mother gave me when I told her I was divorcing Chad.

“I’m sorry, I have no idea who you are,” Giovanna says, smile still in place, patiently letting me continue pumping her hand without pulling away.

I wonder if this happens when she visits the Razzle Dazzle Village amusement parks. Strangers accosting her and shaking her hands and telling her thank you for being part of the family that runs their favorite vacation spot.

“Relax, darling, I’m quite all right with it if she doesn’t like you.” Hayes slips an arm around my waist, his fingers resting above my hip. It’s an intimate gesture suggesting we’re much more acquainted than we actually are, and it should make me uncomfortable—I don’t need another overbearing man in my life, even if I’m mostly game for fake-dating a billionaire—but instead of my common sense reminding me that this is pretend, my vagina reminds me that it’s been somewhere between twelve and eighteen months since a man’s touched me for anything other than a handshake or a hug among colleagues or family. I don’t remember the last time Chad and I had sex, but I do remember it wasn’t any more memorable than a handshake, which is the only thing that made it memorable.

“Begonia, meet my mother, Giovanna. Mother, this is Begonia Fairchild. My girlfriend.”

My mom looks nothing like Giovanna Rutherford.

But I know that disappointed mother face.

I know it very well.

It disappears nearly as quickly as it appears though, which makes me wonder if Jonas got his acting skills from this side of the family.

“Ah, again?” she murmurs, fake smile still plastered on.