Big Rock(20)

I shrug and clap him on the shoulder. “Don’t know. That’s why you, my man, are the writer. It’s your job to figure out how the Os fit into the show. Speaking of storylines, I need a little help with something,” I say, getting to the heart of this quick detour I’ve made to see him this afternoon.

He sets down his club, and crooks his finger. “It’s called the G-spot. You find it inside a woman. When you hit it at just the right angle, she comes harder than she ever has before. Need anything else?”

I pretend to bang a drumstick as soundtrack to his punchline, then I tell him about my new temporary relationship status.

After he laughs, guffaws, and chuckles over my predicament, he asks, “Is this your way of asking me to be your best man? Will the wedding be fake, too?”

I laugh and shake my head. “There won’t be a wedding. Ever. But this is what I need. When we have our softball game next weekend, my dad will be there, and his buyer will be there. All I need is for you to act like you knew I was into her. If it comes up, don’t act surprised or suspicious.” My dad runs a mixed-age softball team sponsored by Katharine’s, and he recruited both Nick and me for his team this year. Nick’s softball swing is worlds better than his golf swing.

He nods several times, like he’s taking in my directive, then he strokes his chin. “Let me get this straight. What you’re saying is, I should behave like I’m perfectly capable of backing up the latest bullshit of yours. Okay. I think I can do that.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s why I depend on you. The bottomless well of sarcasm.”

“It matches yours,” he says with a smirk.

“I need to take off, since I have this dinner thing tonight. I’ll catch you later.”

I start to head out, when he calls out to me. “Does this mean I can’t put the moves on Charlotte now?”

My shoulders tense for a moment and that fiery burst of possessiveness returns with a vengeance, like a red-tailed hawk swooping down from the sky, big-ass claws brandished. I remind myself he’s joking. That’s what he does. And I’m not the least bit jealous or possessive. The hawk turns into a dove. “Just for the next week or so,” I say. “Then she’s all yours.”

But those words feel all wrong coming out of my mouth. Even if she’s not mine, she can’t be his. And I’m not a motherf*cking bird of peace.

“I always thought you two would make a cute couple,” he says in a sugar-sweet voice.

As I walk off, he makes mock kissing sounds. I’m pretty sure he’s singing the kissing tree song, and it’s definitely my cue to put him in the rearview mirror.

Besides, I need to get in character for tonight.

Because this is all an act.

Nothing more.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


The steak is delicious, the Caesar salad tasty, and the red wine smooth.

Like the conversation.

So far, so good. It’s been jewelry, private schools, softball leagues, and how great the weather is. Can you spell getting-away-with-it?

Oh, and after we arrived at the restaurant, the Offermans all bestowed their requisite ‘congratulations’ on my bride-to-be and me, as she flashed her ring, and the women oohed and aahed. My sister, too. Her congrats was the biggest of all; so was her hug, as she pulled me into her loving, sisterly vice and breathed, barely audible, in my ear, “You can’t fool me. But I’ve got your back.”

Guess you can’t trick a magician. She’s been trained to detect sleight of hand, and she spotted mine in seconds.

“Thanks. I owe you.”

“You do. Especially since I still haven’t forgiven you for the Santa Claus incident when I was ten,” she hissed, before breaking apart and flashing a smile for the camera.

But the reporter from Metropolis Life and Times didn’t seem to catch on, nor did he last for long here at the private room in McCoy’s. I suspect he was an intern, which confirms this will be some sort of puff piece. A young guy, he lobbed a few questions at my dad and Mr. Offerman, about the handover of the family-owned business, then snapped some pictures of the clan and took off. Probably so he doesn’t miss his bedtime.

Easy as pie.

Now we’re finishing our meal at this midtown steak restaurant that exudes class and ambiance with its crisp white tablecloths, oak tables, soft lighting, and waiters in suits. I slide my knife through the filet mignon and do a double take at something in the corner of my vision. Mr. Offerman’s oldest daughter, Emily, is seated across from me. She twirls a strand of her long black hair and looks at me.

Uh-oh.

I recognize that stare. It’s the kind women give from across the bar when they’re flirting with you. Worry shimmies through me. Is she batting her eyelashes, now?

Averting my gaze, I take a bite of the steak, chew it, and swallow roughly. I grab my wineglass and down more of the red liquid. Something slides across the toe of my shoe.

Something that feels distinctly like Foot of a Young Lady.

No.

No f*cking way.

Is Emily playing footsie with me?

My chest tightens.

I yank my foot away.

My sister laughs out loud.

The stinking little prankster. She’s sitting next to Emily.

My mother turns to Harper and smiles brightly. “Something funny?”