A Not So Meet Cute

Mom: [picture] Here’s a picture of Jeff and me, naked, in the living room. Spared you with a pic from the neck up. But we’re living a free, breezy life.

“Why, Mom? Why?” I ask as I cringe and set down my phone.

“What?” Kelsey asks, fumbling with one of my boxes.

“Two hours after I moved out and they’re already naked in the living room.”

Kelsey makes a gagging sound. “I’m all for expressing your true self, but there are things she doesn’t need to share with her two daughters.”

“Agreed,” I say, while leaning against the wall of Kelsey’s small studio apartment. “And we still have to sit on that furniture when we go to visit her.”

“I’ll be standing from now on,” Kelsey says, grunting as she shoves one box on top of another.

The space here is, let’s just say . . . lacking. “Kels, I’m starting to get anxious.”

“Because of the dinner you have to go to tonight, the contract you just signed, or the fact that we’re going to have to make a box castle in order for you to live here too?”

Yup, that’s right, I signed a contract, binding myself to Huxley Cane until all contractual obligations are fulfilled.

And, yes, I’ll be acting like the doting fiancée tonight.

Not to mention, there’s absolutely zero walking space in Kelsey’s apartment. Why did I think it was bigger? Why did I think this was big enough for two people?

“All three,” I answer. “Do you think I made a huge mistake?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Kelsey lets out a heavy breath. “I think there are risks and rewards with everything. It’s a huge risk being contractually obligated to hang out with this Huxley guy until he secures the deal. But think about the rewards from it all—and I’m not just talking about where the business could go. Think about being debt free from your student loans.”

“Yeah, I still don’t feel right about that.”

Kelsey stacks one of my boxes of clothes on top of a box of shoes. “Think about it this way. Huxley is probably making a lot of money off this deal, or else he wouldn’t have gone to the lengths that he has to secure it, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, just treat the student loan payoff as your commission for helping him.”

“Huh, I guess I could think about it that way.”

“See?” She hoists up another box. “These will have to go here until I can figure out the perfect storage system for us.” She points to my bed on the floor. “Are you sure you don’t mind sleeping on pillows? I can trade with you every other night.”

I wave my hand at her. “It’ll be fine. And look at how cute you made the bed too. It’ll work.” I sigh. “Thanks for taking me in.”

“What do Mom and Jeff think you’re doing?”

“They think I moved in with Huxley.”

“Uh, what are you going to do when they ask to visit your new place?”

“We’ll set up a time, I’ll take over some personal effects, and then I’ll pretend I’m living there. It’s not as if they’re going to check the bathrooms to make sure my tampons are locked and loaded.”

“True.” Kelsey laughs. “Didn’t imagine that. Well, it seems as if you have everything planned. What about tonight? Are you ready? Do you have your story straight?”

“What story?”

“You know, how you met, how he proposed . . . how far along you are?”

Oh God, we don’t have a story.

Nothing was in the contract.

And I’ve only heard from Huxley once since he left my house the other day, which just makes things that much more comforting.

Can you sense the sarcasm?

Because it’s heavy.

My anxiety peaks as I realize we haven’t talked about any of our backstory. The only thing we’ve spoken about to each other is the contract and if I signed it or not. I had a lengthy conversation with his lawyer, who basically threatened my life with an NDA. I asked him if Kelsey counted in that NDA, and once discussed separately with Huxley—I was left out of the conversation—I was told no, she didn’t count, but then they made her sign an NDA as well. It’s been an ordeal.

“We haven’t talked about any sort of backstory.” I nibble on my finger, attempting to tamp down the bile starting to rise in my throat.

Kelsey cringes. “Ooo, I’d text him, see what time dinner is, when he plans on picking you up, and what your story is, because I doubt he’ll be thrilled about any slipup on your end. Didn’t he say something in the contract about committing to character?”

“Did he? Oh God, I should’ve read it better.”

“Did you not read the contract?” Kelsey asks, horrified.

“It was twenty pages, Kels. That’s far too much legal jargon for one sitting.”

“Jesus, Lottie. You signed your life away without reading it?”

“I got the gist of it.”

“Clearly not.”

I can taste the bile on my tongue now. “You’re not making my anxiety any better, you realize that, right?” I reach for my phone and shoot Huxley a panicked text.

Lottie: What’s our story? How did we meet? How did you propose? How far along am I? Should I be showing? Are we having a boy or a girl? What are the names of the people we’re having dinner with? Why on earth did I sign that GD contract?

I toss my phone down and sit at the two-seat oak bistro table. “This was a bad idea,” I say. “I promised to stay in character, and I don’t even know what the character is. I signed a contract, Kelsey.”

“Yeah, not going to lie, I have secondary anxiety for you.”

“That’s not helpful.” I pin her with a stare.

Knock. Knock.

“That’s the food,” Kelsey says, bouncing toward the door. “Put a pin in that anxiety. Spring rolls don’t go well with it.”

Does anxiety go well with any main dish?

As the door opens, I rest my head against the wall, but only for a nanosecond, because Kelsey’s startled gasp draws my attention. Frightened by what might be on the other side of the door, I hesitantly lean forward just in time to see a man carrying a few dress boxes and bags full of shoe boxes into the apartment. He sets them on Kelsey’s twin-size bed and then leaves as Huxley steps forward, looking rather expensive and quite serious. When his eyes meet mine, I’m met with a frown. Why the hell is he frowning at me?

“Can I, uh, help you?” Kelsey asks.

He turns to Kelsey, and his frown lightens as he says, “You must be Kelsey.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Huxley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, dear God,” Kelsey says, shaking his hand. She looks over her shoulder and whispers, “You did NOT say how handsome he is.”

I whisper back, “You might be whispering, but he can still hear you.”

Huxley chuckles and shuts the door behind him. His eyes roam the quaint four-by-four space. His neutral expression slowly changes into a displeased scowl with every second that goes by. He doesn’t seem too happy.

“This is where you plan on living?”

“Is there a problem with that?” I answer.

He steps in farther, and his critical inspection falls to the pillow bed on the ground. He toes it with his shoe. “And this is where you’re sleeping?”

“Isn’t it nice?”

Not answering me, he shuffles past the box tower, which precariously sways. “And where do you plan on putting these boxes?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Kelsey is going to organize everything. She’s a pro, remember?”

That judgmental cast of his eyes extends over our space one more time before he says, “No insult to her profession and skills, but I’d like to see how all of this is going to fit into this tiny apartment and the space still be livable. I see that Kelsey has already used some of the heights these taller ceilings have to offer, but I’ve seen your room and the disaster you’re capable of.”

Well, he came in fired up, didn’t he?

“Kelsey, care to put him in his place?” I ask casually. If anyone can figure out this debacle, it’s Kelsey. She’s a modern-day marvel when it comes to organization. She sees storage in ways other people don’t. If anyone can make it work, it’s her.

“Well, I didn’t think you were going to bring over this many boxes,” Kelsey says, looking less confident than me. “And then who knows what’s in those boxes and bags that Huxley just dropped off?”

“Kelsey.” I sit tall. “This is what you specialize in.”

“I know.” She twists her hands together and says to Huxley, “I don’t want you to think I’m not good at what I do, because I’m really good, but sometimes you also have to admit that a purge is necessary in order to make things work. I’m a minimalist, and I think we might have to purge some of your things first, Lottie, in order to make this work.”

“Purge?” I ask, flabbergasted at the mere notion of doing such a thing. “Do you realize I only brought the bare minimum with me? I didn’t even bring all of my clothes. This is what I need to survive.”

“I’ll take care of this.” Huxley pulls out his phone and starts typing away. “I’ll have Andre come retrieve your boxes.”

“What do you mean, retrieve them? What’s he going to do with them?”

Huxley glances up from his phone, one brow lifted, those sultry eyes burning through me. “Take them to my house.”

I shake my head. “No way, nope. Not a chance. I told you I wasn’t moving in with you.”

“Don’t be absurd. I have a seven-bedroom house. You could have a room for each of your boxes.”

“I’m not rooming with a man I don’t know.” I fold my arms over my chest.

We stare each other down, a line being drawn between us.

Would living with Huxley be easier? Sure, probably, but I don’t know the guy. What insane person would just move in with a complete stranger?

Not me.

And my sister would never allow it.

“You know, it might not be a bad idea,” Kelsey says.

Excuse me while I pick my jaw up off the ground.

Excuse me?

Not a bad idea?

“Kelsey,” I whisper in shock. “What on earth? You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am.” She gestures to the boxes. “But one weekend of this and we’re going to hate each other. And look at him, he seems nice enough.”

“Nice enough?” I ask, completely floored. “Is that all the qualifications you need? Nice enough?”

“And he smells heavenly, and we know who he is, so if he tries to do anything, we can report him, and that would ruin his reputation. It’s obvious he’s going to great lengths to avoid that.”

There’s some truth to that, but still . . .

“What am I supposed to do—just live at this guy’s mansion?”

Kelsey smirks. “Uh, yeah. Seems like a dream to me.”

Leaning toward Kelsey, I whisper, “I don’t even like him.”

Whispering back, she says, “He can hear you.”

“You don’t have to like me to do business with me. Remember, this is nothing but a business transaction. The sooner you start thinking of it that way, the easier it will be to take the emotion out of it.”

I scowl at Huxley, who looks far too casual, rocking on his heels, hands in his pockets.

“He’s right,” Kelsey says. When I don’t respond, she continues, “What about this? Try it for a week, and then if you want to come back, my studio apartment is open to you, pillow bed and all.”

“You’re serious? You don’t want me to stay?”

“He’s not going to hurt you,” Kelsey says.

“That’s what you say now, but tomorrow in the news, missing-sister reports circulate the Interweb.”

“You’re being ridiculous. We know everything about him. He tries one thing, and his reputation is ruined. Trust me, I’m good at reading people. He’s not stupid.”

I can’t believe I’m even considering this, but when I look between the two of them, I feel myself leaning further and further toward a yes. Not because of the mansion aspect, but because I don’t want Kelsey to hate me, and I know after a few days in this tiny apartment, she very well might disown me. Living here is one thing, but working and living here in this apartment is a whole other ball game.

Sighing, I say, “Fine, but I request the farthest room away from yours, no funny business.” I point my finger at him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says casually before going to the bed, where he shuffles the dress boxes. Kelsey snorts and covers her mouth while I steam.

“Well, don’t you . . . flatter yourself either,” I say.

“Ooo, burn,” Kelsey says mockingly. “You really got him with that one.”

I rub my temples. “Kelsey, I would appreciate it if you were on my side.”

“I am, that’s why I’m encouraging you to try harder with your comebacks. Think before you react, hit him back where it hurts. You know, something like . . . your, uh, hair . . . well, no, that’s nice. Maybe, that suit . . . hmm, it’s impeccably tailored. Wait, that’s a compliment. Oh, I know, your jaw is so tight . . . it’s actually quite symmetrical. His whole face, very symmetrical. Just an absolute specimen.”

“Wow.” I slow clap. “Thanks, Kelsey, super-helpful insults.”

Huxley looks between the two of us. “Are we done with the pitiful attempts at comebacks?”

“You’re pitiful,” I shoot back and then look to Kelsey for approval. She gives me a solid thumbs up and a head nod. Ha, got him good.

His jaw ticks. “I need you to try on outfits.”

“You could ask in a nicer tone.”

“This is business. I’m not trying to win you over or woo you. I’m your boss in this moment, therefore, you respond to my commands.”

Anger bubbles up inside me, while Kelsey fans her face.

“Wow, should she call you Daddy after that domineering speech?”

“Kelsey, for the love of God.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Could you please keep it in your pants?”

There’s another knock at the door, and she says, “Now, that must be the food, unless you have someone waiting for me behind that door.” She wiggles her eyebrows and then straightens. “Man, I really do need to keep it in my pants.” She goes to the door, accepts the food, and then brings it to her galley kitchen.

Huxley flips open the boxes and holds up a beautiful, green maxi dress with an empire waist and flowy dolman sleeves. The plunging neckline is lower than what I’d normally wear, but the fabric looks luscious, so, you know . . . I’ll try it on.

“Put this on. I want to see you in it.”

I stand from my chair, snag the dress from him, and say, “You know, a please wouldn’t hurt you.”

When I’m in the bathroom, I quickly slip out of my clothes—which I just kick to the side, Kelsey will be horrified—and then put on the dress, letting the smooth fabric fall over my curves.

“Wow,” I whisper, while taking in the dress in the mirror. It fits like a glove, it accentuates my waist, and my boobs look spectacular. I guess money really can buy everything, because I’ve never been able to buy this kind of silhouette before.

Time to show the “boss.”

I open the door and walk out of the bathroom, feeling awkward. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I hold them demurely in front of me. “Is this what you were looking for, master?” I ask him.

His facial expression doesn’t change, nor does he show a flicker of appreciation. In a stern voice, he says, “It’ll do for tonight.”

Might as well be the farmer from Babe. Pat me on the head and say, “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”

Sheesh.

At least he’s setting expectations right now. This is business. This isn’t some sort of fairy tale where he plucks me from rags and turns me into a princess. Not that I want something like that. I truly want to earn my way through this life, but, you know, a little decency or acknowledgement of my usually lacking cleavage would be nice.

“These other dresses are for different occasions. There are notes in the boxes on when to wear them and how, as well as which shoes to pair with them, but now that you’re going to be living with me, I’ll be able to give final approval before you walk out of the house.”

“Final approval?” I ask. “You realize this is my body, right?”

“Very much aware that’s your body. But you also signed a contract that stated I get final approval of all outfits before we attend a business event.”

“I thought that was just, you know, semantics.” I wave my hand about.

“Nothing about a contract is just semantics,” he shoots at me. “That’s something you should learn right away, especially if you’re going to be working within the admin side of your sister’s business. It would behoove you to become quite familiar with legal jargon.”

“I am familiar,” I shoot back. “Don’t assume I know nothing.”

“When you pass off our contract as semantics, I’m going to assume you need to be educated, especially when taking on your sibling’s business that they’ve built from the ground up. You don’t fuck around with that.”

“I’m not fucking around with it.”

“You need to take it seriously,” he says in that commanding voice.

“I am taking it seriously.”

“This isn’t just a game, Lottie. This is an opportunity to seize, to jump to the next chapter in your life, to level up, and if you’re just going to fuck around—”

“What the hell makes you think I’m fucking around?” I spread my arms wide. “I’m standing here in a dress you want me to wear, and some man is going to come here and move my boxes to your house, at your request. I’m going to attend a dinner tonight that, frankly, I’m terrified of attending, just for the mere fact that if I slip up, if I say something wrong, then I fuck everything up for you. And for some odd reason, I don’t want to do that.” I close the distance between us and poke him in the chest. “So don’t accuse me of fucking around. Do you understand me?”

A munching sound fills the silence, and at the same time, Huxley and I both turn toward Kelsey, who has a container of lo mein in hand, chopsticks in the other. She’s midbite when she smiles at us and says, “Oh, sorry . . . just enjoying the show. Lo mein?” She offers the canister.

Annoyed, I spin on my heel and return to the bathroom, where I disrobe once again, but this time, I sit, half naked, on the covered toilet.

The nerve of that man. It really is time to read that contract.

THE AIR CONDITIONER in the car is doing nothing for the burning inferno that’s ripping through my body.

I know this is business, I’m not looking for anything other than a business transaction, but would it have killed the man to at least acknowledge the lengths I went to, to curl my long hair? Granted, he asked me to curl it and demanded I go with a natural look with my makeup, but a nod of approval would be nice.

Do you think I got one?

When I stepped out of the bathroom—looking damn fine, mind you—he said nothing, other than “Let’s get moving.”

Kelsey gave me a hug of encouragement before I left and told me to call her if I needed to come back to her apartment. From the anxious look on her face as we were trying to figure out what to do with all the boxes, I’m going to assume the invitation is an empty one.

Huxley drives the car into a quiet street and pulls up next to a large white house that resembles the house from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, with the grandiose pillars and large, dangling light fixture.

I reach for the car door handle, but he asks, “Where do you think you’re going?”

I look over my shoulder at him. “I don’t know, arriving obnoxiously early to a dinner date?” I point to the clock. “Honestly, who shows up an hour early? Is that a rich thing us peasants are unaware of?”

“Cutting the snark out of your tone would be helpful.”

“Cutting the asshole out of yours would cut the snark out of mine, so . . . the ball is in your court, Huxley.”

The animosity between us seems to be strong, and I can’t quite pinpoint when it happened. Somewhere around the time he came to Kelsey’s apartment and demanded I try on a dress. Whenever it was, it’s now filtered into the vibe between us.

The tension is fierce, that’s for sure.

His jaw clenches and he carefully turns toward me, his large frame adjusting to the compact space of the car. “This isn’t their house. Dave lives down the road more. I figured, for your benefit, we could talk through some of the questions you texted me, but if you want to show up early, looking like a dysfunctional couple, then, sure, let’s do that.”

I point my finger at him. “That’s not cutting out the asshole tone.”

“I’ll cut it out with the asshole tone when you take this seriously.”

“I am taking this seriously,” I yell at him. I flip my hair in his direction. “Do you realize the kind of effort it takes to curl this hair? I rarely do it, but while you were enjoying lo mein with my sister, I was sweating like a beast in the bathroom, trying to make myself presentable enough to be on your arm. I’m sorry I’m not Page Six material, but you chose me to help, so deal with what you got.”

His eyes remain stern, his facial expression stoic, and for a second, I’ve an urge to poke his face, to see if he’s frozen without me knowing it. But he drops his eyes to his phone and grabs it from the console. He flips through it and says, “You want to know how we met.”

So, we’re not going to address how long it took me to do my hair? Okay, just making sure that’s the case. Insert eye roll here.

“It might be helpful, because I’m sure it’s going to be asked. Are we just going with the whole ‘ran into him on the sidewalk’ story? Because, although lacking in luster, it’s an easy one to tell, but in my version, you’re a dick. Let me guess, I’m a shrew in yours?”

“Close,” he mutters and then says, “We met in Georgia.”

“Georgia?” I ask in a shrill voice. “Why the hell did we meet in Georgia? I’ve never even been there.”

“You haven’t?” he asks, as if he can’t comprehend such a preposterous idea.

“It’s not as though I’m a Californian who’s never been to Disneyland. I just haven’t happened to fly across the United States to randomly visit Georgia, when Nevada is the furthest east I’ve been.”

“How is that possible?”

“Not all of us can drop everything and fly somewhere on a whim, Huxley. Also . . . you’re old. You’ve had more time to explore.”

His lips twist to the side. “Research me?”

I glance down at my nails, examining the wonderful job I did while painting them earlier. Matte white, in case you were wondering. Totally hopping on the trend, and I’m loving it. “Thought it would be helpful. Didn’t expect to see you were a cradle robber. Seven years difference really is quite up there.”

“I have associates who are married to women twenty-five years their junior. Seven years is nothing.”

“Twenty-five years? Jesus, they could be their father.”

“Why do you assume it’s a man?” he asks.

“Well . . . I don’t know,” I say, thinking that he’s right. “Men, I just assume, like perky things.”

“And older women like stamina in the bedroom.”

Yeah, I mean, I wouldn’t turn down stamina either. “So, they’re women? A bunch of cougars.”

“They’re actually men.”

I toss my hands in the air. “Jesus Christ. What was the point of all of that?”

“To educate you to never make assumptions, especially in business. It could bite you in the ass.”

I exhale sharply. “Dear Jesus, please help me through this nightmare predicament I put myself in.” After a few moments of collecting myself, I sit back up and smile at him. “So, sweetie, please tell me how we met in Georgia.”

“Don’t call me sweetie, I don’t like that. If you must have an endearing name for me, you may call me Hux.”

“Inventive.” I give him a thumbs up.

“I told Dave my grandma lives in Georgia. Peachtree City, to be exact. You grew up just north of there.”

“Grew up?” I ask in shock. “How in the hell am I supposed to talk about growing up in a state I’ve never been to before? Can’t we just go with the sidewalk story? Why involve a different state? I don’t even have a southern accent.”

“Because I already told them my grandma introduced us while we were visiting in Georgia.”

I fold my arms. “Well, that was idiotic.”

“The interaction was unhinged from the beginning. We can make up for it, though, and say that you were visiting Georgia, family and whatnot. You moved to California when you were ten. It’ll help with the no-accent thing, and then you can also be more familiar with California. But we were both visiting family when my grandma introduced us. She’s best friends with your grandma Charlotte, and they thought it would be ideal since we both live in Los Angeles and were both visiting them at the same time.”

I nod. “Okay, that could work. What happened when we met? Were you taken aback by my beauty?”

“Yes,” he says, his eyes not straying from mine. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how captivating your eyes were.”

Hmm . . . that’s the second time he’s mentioned my eyes. I’m beginning to think the demanding asshole might actually think they’re pretty.

Not that I care.

But, you know, never hurts to know you have a pretty set of peepers.

“Just my eyes, nothing else?” I ask, batting my eyelashes.

“If you’re reaching for compliments, you’re not going to find them here.”

“Jeez,” I say. “What happened to the pleasant guy I had Chipotle with? Or the fella who came over to my house and wooed my mother?”

“He’s an act, just like I put on for my business partners.”

“Wow.” I clap for him. “Well done. You really fooled me into thinking you were a genuinely nice guy.”

“I am nice, I just don’t need the pleasantries when I’m working. I like to get straight to the point.”

“I see.” I smile at him and say, “If you want this to work for you, I’m going to need some pleasantries. I understand this is business, but you don’t need to be a dick. Technically, we’re partners in this endeavor, despite this all being your idea. So instead of tossing out commands, let’s try something a little different, eh? Maybe a little please and thank you?”

He glances at his watch and then back at me. “We don’t have time for your nonsensical way of conducting a meeting. And we’ve wasted time just talking about it. Be quiet, and just listen to the backstory. Retain it. Add, if need be, but we don’t need this . . . fluff.”

Aw, look at this little ray of sunshine I’ve contractually attached myself to. Lucky me.

“Now, our backstory. Focus and listen up, because Ellie, Dave’s fiancée, is from Georgia.”

Groaning, I lean my head back against the headrest. “You’re such a freaking moron . . . you know that?”

When he doesn’t say anything in reply, I like to believe that he’s silently agreeing with me.

“BEFORE I FORGET . . .” Huxley reaches over me to the glove compartment and pulls out a small box. He hands it to me. “Here, wear it.”

Isn’t he romantic?

I open the velvet box, revealing the biggest diamond I’ve ever seen. It’s in a nest of more diamonds, and the diamond-encrusted band is in a beautiful rose gold.

Mouth agape, I pick it up and examine it more closely. “What on earth is this?”

“An engagement ring,” he says casually.

“Uh, this isn’t an engagement ring, this is an ice rink for a family of five.” I look up at him. “What the hell, Huxley? You expect me to wear this?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that—yes. No reasoning behind it?” I ask.

“Do you need reasoning?”

“Huxley, have you looked at this thing?” I hold it up, and I swear, it weighs at least a pound.

“Yes, I picked it out. Of course I’ve looked at it. I’ve studied it very closely to make sure there were no imperfections.”

“And you think this is an appropriate ring?”

He shifts his body and looks at me. “You’re fake engaged to a billionaire, Lottie. That ring is very much appropriate for what settles in my bank account; anything less would be a joke and unbelievable. Now put it on your goddamn finger and don’t take it off.”

Stunned by the edge in his voice, I set the box down and slip the ring on my finger. “Wow, wouldn’t have guessed this would be the immaculate proposal I’d get one day. Just ‘put it on your goddamn finger and don’t take it off.’ So romantic.”

He goes to open his car door, and I follow suit, but he says, “Don’t get out.”

“Don’t get out?” I ask, confused.

“Yes, don’t get out.”

“So . . . you want me to stay in the car the whole night? That defeats the purpose of the last hour.”

He drags his hand over his face. “Stay in the car so I can get the goddamn door for you.”

Oh.

Inwardly, I chuckle as he leaves, tension set in his shoulders. I want to call out a “sir, yes, sir” to him, but his door is already shut and he’s rounding the car. Something rabid crawled up his ass today.

When he whips open my car door, he offers his hand to me and demands, “Hold my hand.”

“You could say please.” His eyes murderously narrow in on me. Eep. “Or not.” I take his hand, and he helps me out of the car. I adjust my green dress, loving the fit of it, and he shuts the door behind me.

Together, we walk up to a grandiose stone house where vines climb the entire façade. When we drove through the gate, I almost felt as though we were transported into the English countryside, with the wispy, overhanging trees and stone wall that lines the gravel driveway. Very Secret Gardenesque.

“What do you think is the upkeep on those vines?”

“Please don’t ask questions like that,” Huxley says. “Makes you sound uncultured.”

“Have you forgotten how you found me? I was panning the streets for a rich husband. Scraping the bottom of the barrel, Hux.”

He glances down at me. “I’d hardly say you’re the bottom of the barrel.”

I clutch my chest. “Oh, a compliment. I shall cherish it throughout the night as I attempt to play your heart-eyed, pregnant fiancée.”

He leads me to the front of the house and rings the doorbell. He clutches my hand tightly, as if he’s afraid I’m going to run away. Trust me, I’ve thought about it. Many times, on the drive over here, I considered pulling the old “tuck and roll right out of the moving car,” but two things prevented me from performing such an action-hero move: one, I was worried about road rash, and two, the iron-clad contract I signed that holds me accountable. Basically, if I don’t follow through, I’ll lose everything, and so will my mom, Kelsey, and my unborn children, still chilling in my lady bits.

But I do wonder—is he nervous?

He doesn’t look as though he is. Then again, I don’t think he knows how to show emotion. He’s so stoic, completely different than the man I met on the sidewalk, and the man I had dinner with. Who is the real Huxley Cane? A part of me wants to believe this emotionless man holding my hand is all an act to protect what rests underneath that puffed and proud chest of his.

The doors unlock and a wave of nerves hits me like a tidal wave as the door opens, revealing two people who are the prime picture of wealthy suburban life. Dave stands there with his arm wrapped around Ellie’s shoulders, and she has her hand pressed against his chest.

Smiling. In love.

All dewy-like, with their perfect skin and teeth.

Ready to be published in Home and Country magazine.

Who opens the door like that, like there’s a photo opportunity on the other side? They look positively perfect.

Dave is incredibly handsome. He has that whole “blond hair, blue eyes, nerdy finance guy” vibe going for him, while Ellie is basically the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen. Highlighted blonde hair that’s curled in perfect waves, framing her face. Her makeup makes her glow, and her sweet little red capris with white flowy top just give her this angelic vibe that I’m totally digging.

“Welcome to our home,” Dave says with a huge smile. “We’re so glad you could make it.”

This is going to be an incredibly long night. I can feel it already.

Dinner in Pleasantville—pretty sure this isn’t the place to lie back, pat your belly, and say, “Boy, I couldn’t stuff another taco in my face.” And then quickly grab the last taco before it’s taken back into the kitchen.

I’m so used to eating dinner with Jeff with his napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt and Mom, who likes to give us the rundown on the latest celebrity gossip—which she claims she doesn’t pay attention to—that I’m not sure I’m going to remember my manners, like elbows off the table, small talk that doesn’t revolve around a surprise mole that was found on one’s back, or what kind of chicken bone was tossed over the fence by our grotesque neighbors.

“Thank you so much for having us,” Huxley says in a pleasant voice that nearly startles me out of my designer sandals. “This is Lottie. Lottie, this is Dave and Ellie.”

Dave steps up and offers me his hand. I take it as he says, “Lottie, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” I say, because that’s what people say in movies, when really, I have zero pleasure in meeting this man. It’s actually the opposite of pleasure. It’s . . . it’s . . . displeasure. Yup. It’s a displeasure to meet him. “And, Ellie, it’s so great to meet someone else who’s pregnant. All my friends are in a completely different stage of their lives.”

“I totally get it,” Ellie says, shaking my hand. “I’m in a bit of the same position. Come in, come in. We can talk some more.”

I turn back around to take Huxley’s hand and catch the smallest glint of appreciation in his eyes as we walk into the house.

Hmm . . . maybe he’ll be nicer to me now.