Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(2)

He stares for a beat longer, jaw slightly unhinged like a bug headed straight to a zapper, before he blinks quickly and blushes.

Blushes?

No. Surely he’s not blushing. Weather’s hot, that’s all.

“Pictures,” he stammers. “None with the bride before the wedding, but me before the wedding. Wow. That cake has eyes. That cake didn’t have eyes last night, but it has eyes today.”

He slides a look at me.

I lift my hands in innocence.

He laughs awkwardly and steals a look at Mom again.

Is it weird here, or is it the wedding cake?

Mom seems to be wondering the same thing. She gently clears her throat and slides her sunglasses down from the top of her head to cover her eyes. “It’ll make for memorable pictures.”

“Memorable. Yeah. Did you see my parents? They’re down at the lake. Fretting. Everyone frets. Did you know everyone frets? But it’s a wedding. Of course they do.” His laughter comes out high-pitched and panicked, and I’m glad I’m already wearing sunglasses. “Luca. How about them Fireballs? Good season for a team that almost got sent back to the minors last year. Guess that’s you playing for them, huh?”

“It’s all of us. You doing okay, Jerry? Need a drink or something?”

“Is it too early for a Long Island?” He snort-laughs, tugs his collar, and gazes at Mom once more.

She gingerly tucks the sweaty tissue back into her clutch and takes a half-step back. “We should go find our seats and stop distracting you from your groomsly duties.”

“No, you’re not—wait.” He looks between us, his pupils dilating more, his chest practically convulsing because he’s breathing so fast. “Can we talk for a minute? Privately?”

Dread slogs through my veins.

Mom and I share a look, and even with both of us in sunglasses, I know she’s thinking the same thing I am.

We should run.

Fake coming down with temporary insanity, go jump in that lake behind the country club, streak through the small crowds of guests gathered as everyone waits for the ushers—something, anything other than going somewhere to talk to Jerry privately.

Mom smiles brightly at him. “We can talk after the wedding, sweetheart.”

I swear he turns purple. “No, really—now.”

“Well, of course, anything for the groom.”

I glare at my mother as my stomach rolls over. She glares back, like she’s saying, you’re the one who insisted he was your best friend for all those years. And yeah, you can feel the glare through the dark lenses, because it’s that kind of glare.

“This way.” He tugs on my arm, and Mom and I hustle after him as he leads us around the corner of the country club, inside the chilly entrance, and then shoves us into the coat closet.

Mom lifts her glasses. “Well, this is lovely.”

Since it’s the peak of summer and there aren’t any coats hanging in here, save for a lone fur number that’s dangling like it’s about to fall off the hanger, there’s almost enough room for all three of us.

But there’s not enough room for the body odor. Especially as Jerry leans closer. “Remember when you left Emily?”

My stomach bottoms out and my skin breaks out in goosebumps while a surge of heat floods my veins and makes my face go hotter than the sun. Voices from somewhere outside the closet drift in, and I wish I was with that group, whoever they are, instead of in here.

Mom shoves me out of the way. “Jerry, sweetheart, that’s not what you want to think about on your wedding day.”

He peers around her, and is he—is he sniffing my mother? “But it made me think—you remember that Thanksgiving after, when we hit the course for eighteen, and you said—you said love is something people say they’re in so they can manipulate each other.”

Mom turns raised brows on me, and my toes start to go numb as the voices get louder. Is that door made of paper?

“Jerry. Shh. I was talking about—” About people richer, more famous, and in better shape than you.

Hell.

I can’t say that to a guy on his wedding day, no matter how much I hate these damn rituals.

Not that it matters what I say. He’s rambling, and getting louder, and he’s raking his hands through his hair and making it stand on end, and why didn’t his photographer tell him he still has a piece of toilet paper stuck to his chin where he clearly nicked himself while shaving?

“It’s like, every time my mother says she loves me, I know. I just know she’s only saying it because she has to. And then I think about Henri, and her cat, and the way she loves Buffy the Vampire Slayer even though it’s like, old, and her weird glittery tea mugs, and about how some days she forgets to shower, and—”

“C’mon, man, you know you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have real love with her.”

“Do I? I don’t know if I love her that way. But you’d know, wouldn’t you? How do you know?”

Christ on a manicotti, he’s going to make me spew lies.

I hate lies.

I hate lies almost as much as I hate weddings, but I stay neutral. I don’t encourage or discourage people from getting married.

Bad press if you do, plus, who the hell am I to punch a hole in someone’s fairy tale? Live and let live. I speak quietly, in the hopes that he’ll follow my lead. “You just…know.”