Page 68 of Not Home Alone

“Well, this is very disappointing,” Wyatt says. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” He reaches for the manila envelope.

“I’m afraid not. You’ll have to go back to the office for a Zoom meeting with a client right now. It definitely requires you to return to the office. For at least two or three hours.”

“Damn. But I have to drive Dianah home.”

“I just ordered her an Uber using your account,” Joy says. “It’s outside waiting for her.”

I share a look with Grant. There’s literally only one Uber driver in all of Holly Grove in the winter, so they must have booked him at least three hours ago.

“Okay, well. I am so disappointed that I have to cut our date short because of this urgent work matter, Dinorah, but it was fantastic getting to know you tonight. Let’s walk her to the Uber, Joy. Good night, all. Happy holidays.”

I wave to Joy, who will definitely be getting a text later. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she and her boss had a thing, but I know for a fact that they don’t. “You need to give your friend some acting lessons,” I say under my breath to Grant.

“What do you mean?” He seems to genuinely not know what I’m referring to.

“I mean, you’re so much better at pretending things. You know…” I gesture between him and me. “This. Us.”

He winces like he’s been stung, but in a flash, the sting is replaced by stoicism. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve been good at pretending for just over a decade.”

Now that stings. I put my plate down on the table. “Wow.”

He looks like he hates himself so much more than I hate him right now. He puts his plate down too and places his hands on my shoulders. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did. It was true.”

“Not in the way you think,” he says softly. He curls an index finger under my chin. “Hey. I’m sorry I said that.” He leans down to kiss me, but just as his lips are about to touch mine⁠—

“There he is,” a man says. “Over here, Dad.”

Grant curses under his breath and wraps his arm around my waist.

The man is several years older than Grant. Again, he has the same hair color, the same hazel eyes, but he’s stockier. And drunk.

“Hello, Todd. What a delight. Merrily, this is my brother, Todd. This is my girlfriend, Merrily.”

“Watch out for this guy, Mary Lee,” he says. “Nothin’ but trouble since the day he was born. Hey, kid,” he says, giving Grant what I’m sure is meant to be a playful punch to his biceps, but it has some real passive-aggressive force behind it. “You made up your mind yet about the job or what? Because you might not care, but Dad’s going to sell our company to that snake over there if you don’t.”

Grant and I follow Todd’s gaze to a truly reptilian-looking middle-aged man in an expensive suit. He doesn’t look like he’s from around here, that’s for sure, but he’s chatting with Quinn’s father. Mr. Whitmore does not appear to be enjoying the conversation. I can feel Grant’s entire body tensing up. “Who is that?” I whisper.

Grant’s jaw is too clenched to speak, apparently.

“That, Mary Lee, is Patrick Voss,” Todd tells me. “And he’s bad news for any town he buys up. But your boyfriend here isn’t taking responsibility for⁠—”

“Let’s not talk about it right now, okay, slugger?” Grant says through gritted teeth.

Ava and Mr. Moody approach us slowly, and it feels almost menacing, the way his family is closing in on him.

“Why is he here?” Grant asks his father.

Robert Moody is almost the same height as Grant, but he slouches, with his hands in his pockets. His features are more angular, but he looks so much more tired in real life than he does in his headshot on The Moody Group website. “If you’d rather he didn’t hang around Holly Grove,” he says to Grant, “just give me an answer.”

This conversation is clearly above my pay grade as a fake new girlfriend, but I do not like the way they’re talking to him. It’s one thing for me to give him a hard time—I’m hilarious—but they’re just being condescending and mean to him.

“Ugh,” Ava says, with her hands on her hips. “When would be a convenient time for you to let us all know what the rest of our lives are going to look like, Grant? Honestly, Daddy, are you sure you think he’s CEO material? He doesn’t do anything.”

“What is wrong with your shirt?” Todd laughs at the faded wine stain. “He’s not even cater-waiter material!”

“Excuse me,” I say, stepping between Grant and Todd and holding my hand up like I’m some dragon lady wife. “I’m sorry, but Grant does all kinds of things. Good, important things. He fixed the CD player in my dad’s van even though no one asked him to, and he didn’t even take credit for it. He does that kind of thing all the time,” I tell them. “Important things. For a lot of people. And no one knows…”