Page 5 of Santa Baby

Her expression underwent a great change. That undercurrent of mischief was replaced by pure, unadulterated delight as she hurried to greet the guests now funneling into the restaurant. She made introductions, playing the perfect hostess, like I picked her out of a holiday catalog from the nineteen-sixties.

Maybe Colin was onto something when he recommended her. He said she was a good actress.

I stepped toward the group now walking toward the table, nodding my hellos but keeping my mouth shut. Fia was doing all the talking, and so far, that was enough. But then, he arrived and my breathing stopped.

Eyes identical to mine swept the room before landing on mine and dropping to the woman now standing at my side.

Fia glanced at me, then at him, and recognition bloomed across her face. “You must be Mason’s dad. I’ve heard so much about you! It’s so good to finally meet you! I’m Fia Webster.”

Dad held my gaze for a second before giving Fia a polite but dismissive smile. “Robert O’Leary.”

This would be her real test.

Convincing my father that this charade was real.

3

FIA

This was going to be a piece of cake.

Mason was exactly what I thought he’d be. He dripped wealth and acted like it, but in a conservative way that only accentuated his loaded pockets. Stern and on the quiet side, Mason was the kind of guy who was used to having what he wanted come his way like it was the most natural thing in the world. I could work with that.

All he needed from me was to smile and laugh with the wives of his board members, to lightly gossip in the way his real, equally as rich, and connected girlfriend would, and to look pretty. I checked all of those off the list before the guests even took their seats, and before I knew it, Thanksgiving dinner was in full swing.

I didn’t like whiskey, but it was being served by the gallon. Whiskey straight. Whiskey on the rocks. Whiskey cocktails. I choose something on the sweet side to lessen the bite but still winced around my glass, stealing a glance down the table at my fake boyfriend.

Maybe it was the whiskey fumes, but Mason had a sort of glow around him that held me captivated. He was handsome in a tall, dark, and mysterious kind of way, with broad shoulders and a chest I wanted to curl up and take a nap on. His eyes were a deep blue that caught the light of the candles on the table, and every so often, they glanced over at me, making my heart beat faster every time.

This could be worse. I could be fake dating an old, stinky, gremlin of a man.

We weren’t seated together, of course. That wouldn’t be appropriate for the level of dining tonight. Instead, I was seated between Abigail Edgewood, the wife of a billionaire philanthropist who had a small share in Mason’s business, and Darcy Mires, the socialite wife of Rodney Mires, but I wasn’t totally sure where he fell in Mason’s rankings. Darcy couldn’t be much older than me. She was exactly what she should be for the role she was playing tonight—beautiful, blonde, and dripping in diamonds. Good for her, I thought, sipping my drink.

“It’s so like Mason to not even mention he was dating anybody.” Darcy giggled around her Whiskey martini, which should be an illegal concoction. Her cheeks went a little pink after a sip, and she cleared her throat, hating it as much I hated my own drink. “I apologize. I tend to stick to gin.”

I gave her the smile I’d practiced all morning during a research study in Central Park. I sat on a bench on the east side of the park, watching the rich wives take their daily after-Pilates-and-before-brunch walk. I studied how they moved, how they talked, and how they dressed to prepare myself for this dinner.

Darcy confirmed that everything I assumed about the upper echelons of New York City was correct, and now, I was killing it.

“He wanted to keep things private,” I said in a lifted version of my own voice, summoning a character I’d hashed out on my way to this dinner. “The tabloids can be ruthless, I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh, completely.” She waved her hand, giving me a knowing smile. “When I married Rodney, we were all over the news. It was insanity. Before then, nobody knew. It was so hush-hush. I’m honestly shocked you’re going public without a ring on your finger.” Her ginormous diamond ring glistened in the light of the chandelier above us in emphasis.

“It’s his decision. I’m just along for the ride.” I smiled at her over the rim of my glass and choked down another sip. It started to taste better, to drink easier, but I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

A trio of waiters brought out the main course an hour into the dinner. At the other end of the table, Mason began to speak as the turkey was laid at the center, his voice slightly dry and definitely monotone. “It’s glazed in our new Honey Whiskey that we age in charred bourbon barrels.”

His dad, who looked like a more snotty, aggressive version of Mason, wrinkled his nose. Mason’s expression fell almost imperceptibly but I noticed, since I was watching him so closely. My brows furrowed in concern.

I was still in the dark about why exactly Mason needed a date. I figured it had something to do with his business, perhaps wanting a more conservative look that favored family values. Having a woman at his side while he spoke to investors over the holidays at the many, many parties outlined in the insane schedule of events he sent me made perfect sense in that regard. But seeing him with his father made me wonder if there was more to this.

Darcy continued to talk to the people seated around us but my focus honed in on Mason instead, watching as he conversed with his dad in low, emotionless tones. Did either man ever smile?

I glanced at Colin next, who was seated near Mason, engaged in conversation with the men and women seated directly nearby. Even Colin seemed on edge.

I narrowed my eyes at Mason, willing him to look at me, as if he could telepathically tell me he needed me to intervene to save him from an increasingly uncomfortable conversation. From my vantage point at the other end of the table, I was too far away to do anything without shouting.

I picked at my food for the next half hour but not because it wasn’t delicious. If Mason had anything to do with the menu, I owed him a gold star because it was the best Thanksgiving dinner I’d ever had in my life. Something was missing, though. It was evident as the guests began to disperse, leaving the main table to nibble on bite-sized desserts and taste more whiskey at the bar in a more intimate setting. This could have been any other dinner party. I didn’t feel like I just ate Thanksgiving dinner. I wasn’t fighting over who got to take leftovers home or whether canned cranberry sauce was better than the homemade version. Nobody even argued about sports or politics.