This is me, meeting Dave on a new level. Connecting on a new level. In this moment, he doesn’t see me as the flashy, take-no-prisoners businessman, but rather, someone he can ask out for a beer and talk through his worries about becoming a father.
This might very well be exactly the kind of in I needed. A little chitchat, an acute white lie that isn’t going to hurt anyone. He doesn’t have to actually meet this imaginary girl. He doesn’t even need to know much about her. Just the idea of her makes me that much more appealing.
Huh, maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Maybe this was actually pure brilliancy at its finest.
Mark my words—by this time tomorrow, he’ll be calling me up, no longer willing to sit on my offer, but more likely willing to take it.
Huxley Cane, you’re an absolute genius.
“Dave, wouldn’t it be absolutely divine to have Huxley and his fiancée over for dinner?”
Ehhh, what now?
Dinner?
Ellie clasps her hands together and continues, “It would be so lovely to talk with people in our same situation.” Leaning forward, Ellie says, “Family has been less than thrilled about us waiting to get married until after the baby is born. My parents are quite traditional.”
Sweat breaks out on my upper lip as I try to keep my face neutral.
A dinner date.
With my “fiancée.”
Oh . . . fuck.
Abort, Cane. ABORT!
“That would be wonderful,” Dave says with a jovial smile.
FUCK!
“How does Saturday night work?” he continues.
Saturday night?
Double fuck!
That’s four days from now.
Four fucking days to not only find a fiancée, but a pregnant fiancée.
Huxley Cane, you’re no genius, you’re an absolute moron.
“Oh, give him a second to talk about it with his girl,” Ellie says. I’d say thank God for Ellie, but the anxiety-ridden dinner date was her idea. “Why don’t you get back to Dave and then let me know if it’s a go. I love cooking. I could make us a real southern meal if you’d like.”
My mind is already formulating excuses as to why my fiancée and I won’t be able to make Saturday work.
“And maybe we can talk about the deal some more,” Dave says with a genuine smile.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Can’t say no, now. Not at the risk of securing the deal.
Christ.
Despite the desert that is my mouth, I swallow hard and nod. “Yup.” My voice cracks. “Saturday sounds great.”
“Wonderful.” Ellie claps her hands. “Oh, I can’t wait. I’m going to make my best peach cobbler and collard greens. Dave will exchange information with you.”
“Perfect,” I say with a shaky smile. What the hell am I getting myself into?
“Oh, babe, we’re going to be late. Let’s stop by the deli after our class—that okay?” Dave asks.
“As long as I can get double the pickles,” Ellie says while pressing a kiss to Dave’s lips.
The PDA makes my stomach roll. It’s not that I find them repulsive, but it’s a stark reminder of the hole I just dug for myself.
“Okay, we’re off to Lamaze class. Talk soon,” Dave says with a wave.
I give them a wave in return, hoping my hand doesn’t look shaky, and without going into the deli, I turn around and head back to the office, my mind swirling with how to get out of this fuck-up.
Huxley Cane, you’re a complete and utter moron.
Chapter Two
LOTTIE
Hands on the steering wheel, I stare out at my childhood home and also current place of residence, a small bungalow that has been in the family for years. I mean . . . years. Grandma Pru bought it back in the fifties and passed it on to my mom, who raised me and my sister, Kelsey, all by herself.
The white stucco has faded over the years and looks more cream than anything, and the red clay tile roof needs more repairs than what Mom can afford despite her live-in boyfriend of thirteen years, Jeff, wanting to replace it for her.
Speaking of Jeff, he’s out in the front yard in his oversized jean shorts and classic white undershirt, pushing his mower. Jeff always has an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, because even though he doesn’t smoke it, ever, he finds comfort in knowing that he could if he wanted. Don’t ask me about the psychology behind it; he’s great to my mom and he’s been a wonderful sounding board over the past ten years for me and my sister as well. So, if a cigarette dangles from his mouth, so be it. Could be worse.
But Jeff being in the front yard creates a flaw in my ability to bring my box of office things into my room without questions. And I don’t want any questions from Jeff or my mom. They can’t find out about Angela firing me. That would be a debilitating disaster.
No, they can NEVER find out.
Why?
Well, because they were the ones who begged and pleaded for me to find another job that wouldn’t include me working for someone with whom I’ve shared a toxic relationship for years.
But you know how it goes. Parents know nothing, we know everything, and then we have to eat our freaking words later on when we realize . . . should’ve listened to said parents.
Ughhh.
Not wanting Jeff to become suspicious, I get out of my dilapidated VW Bug, leaving the box in the back, strap my purse over my shoulder, and plaster on a beautiful smile that I know will bring joy to Jeff’s day.
“Hey, Lottie Bug,” he says, using the nickname Mom gave me years ago.
“Hey, Jeff.” I wave as he turns off the mower and adjusts his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “Yard is looking great.”
“Thank you. I think the beautification committee will have to notice us this year.”
Oh, Jeff, always so hopeful.
You see, we live on the border, and I mean, one street over, from The Flats in Beverly Hills. And every summer, there’s a committee that walks from house to house, picking out the best yards in the neighborhood and awarding them prizes. We’ve always walked through The Flats, taking in the fabulously manicured lawns curated by professional landscapers, not the actual owners. It’s a bloodbath the week before the judges take their walk, including here at our house, because the last house on the route is across the street, and in order to see the house, you see ours, just past the bushes, and Jeff is bound and determined to be noticed.
“You’ll have to get Mom to fix the roof if you want any shot at it.”
There’s a fat chance in hell that our yard would ever be noticed. The beautification committee is made up of a bunch of rich snobs who would never look across the street. But it’s nice to give Jeff hope, especially since he works so hard.
His shoulders slump in defeat. “I told her that. I need the roof to be pristine. Those broken shingles will never get the win. I think I’m going to call the boys over one of these days and fix it while she’s at work. Act first, ask for forgiveness later.”
“Very smart approach.”
“How was work?”
I pause in my pursuit of the front door. Keeping my smile in full force, I say, “Great. Just a typical day.” Yup, a typical day of meandering around the streets of Los Angeles, killing time before I could return home, knowing full well my mom and Jeff are aware of my schedule and if I arrived home any earlier than normal, they’d be suspicious. And luckily for me, during my meandering, I was told to go buy some pantyhose by an endearing homeless man who scowled at my bare legs. I bought some consolation mint ice cream, which fell victim to the summer California sun and ended up dripping down the front of my white blouse, and, to top it off, I tripped over a street grate and tore a heel off my two-seasons-ago Jimmy Choo shoes, which is why I’m walking barefoot into the house.
It’s been one of those days.
“Promotion is in a week, right?” Jeff asks. “Are you excited? You can finally find a place of your own.”
Insert the deep sigh here.
I give him a thumbs up. “Super pumped.”
Without another word, I open the door to the house and immediately smell Mom’s homemade fish sticks. Lord Jesus, not again.
This girl can’t catch a break.
“Jeff, dinner is almost ready.”
“It’s me, Mom,” I say, heading to my room, but before I can get too far down the hallway, Mom peeks her head around the doorway to the kitchen.