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“Are you able to ration her? That was some enthusiastic dancing.”
“I probably can’t.” He sighed. “Never mind. It was worth a try.”
“Why don’t you call her now to tell her we’re coming and can’t get tequila but your sister can?”
Mason frowned. “I think Kirsty’s already at the restaurant.”
I motioned between the two of us. “I think she owes you.”
His eyebrows slowly raised as he got what I was saying. “And this is how you’ll take over the world, Lauren. Not with a murderous rage, but with cleverly thought-out revenge plots.”
I locked the apartment door behind us. “Mostly. Every four weeks I’ll change it up to keep people on their toes.”
“Why every four weeks?”
I hit the button on the elevator and gave him a sly half-smile. “Because I once read a story where a woman got away with murder by claiming insanity when she was on her period. There’s something the English kings didn’t have on their side: Shark week.”
He didn’t say a word until we got into the elevator. “Should I be worried about being in a windowless box with you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. This dress is way too nice to get bloodstains on.” I paused. “Probably.”
“Hard work,” he muttered. “Such hard work.”
I grinned.
***
Pru Jackson’s house was the weirdest place I’d ever stepped foot in. Nothing here matched, and the only theme was chaos. A large Persian rug was spread across the wooden floor in the living room. A dark, L-shaped leather sofa took up most of the room, and it was scattered with an array of brightly-colored throw cushions and an afghan that had seen better years, never mind better days.
The walls were a vibrant turquoise that crashed with the sunny yellow curtains at the windows, and on the wall above the marble fireplace was a stuffed fox’s head.
Yep.
Some people had deer horns.
She had a fox’s head.
I was beginning to understand the tequila and line-dancing. She was the kind of woman who’d run out of fucks to give by her fifth birthday and couldn’t care less what anyone thought about that.
There was a chance we could be friends.
I regularly found myself lacking in fucks.
Unless I stubbed my toe, then they all came pouring out.
“She’s very pretty.” Pru looked me up and down, her dark blue eyes peeking out from behind bright purple spectacles. “What’s she doing pretending to be your girlfriend? She’s too pretty to be your fake one, never mind your real one.”
Mason took a deep breath. “Ask your great-niece. She’s the one who put us both in this situation.”
Pru met my gaze. “You couldn’t tell him no?”
“He wore me down,” I said dryly. “I got the feeling he wasn’t going to let it drop.”
She nodded begrudgingly. “He does do that. A bit like a teenage boy playing with his tackle. Won’t give it up until the cannon shoots. I wish he’d be more like a virgin boy, to be honest. Give up the second the submarine docks in the harbor.”
It took everything I had not to laugh. That was the single strangest analogy I’d ever heard for having sex in my life, and my friends were total weirdos.
“We should get going,” Mason said, grabbing my shoulders and spinning me toward the front door. “That’s enough about me.”
“It’s never enough about you, boy. I’ve got a list of grievances, if you’d like to hear them.”
“Why don’t you keep them up your sleeve for now, Aunt Pru? You never know when you’ll need them.”
“Quite right, quite right. I’ve been saving them for my speech at your wedding, but I’m starting to think you’ll never get married. Mind you, staying single forever and faking your dates for the rest of your life is better than marrying that other hussy.”
Aha. So she didn’t like Claudia either. At least I was in good company.
“Mason, why do you have this godawful truck? You know my knees aren’t what they used to be.”
“Oh, give it up. We’ve all seen you line dancing, Aunt Pru. Get in the truck.”
She huffed but did as she was told, climbing into the backseat with only a little steadying help from Mason. She buckled herself in and leaned forward as he walked to the driver’s side. “It’s the line dancing,” she said conspiratorially. “It makes me feel fifty years younger.”
“I’ve seen a video. I think you’re great,” I replied.
Mason groaned.
She clipped him around the side of the head. “Let the girl talk. She’s smart. I like her. Better than—”
“That other hussy,” Mason finished for her. “Yes. Everyone is better than Claudia. If she’s the measuring stick for female standards, it’s not set very high.” He glanced at me before he pulled out. “No offense.”
“What if I’m offended?” I replied.
“What?”
“Sounds like you’re saying I’m not much higher than Claudia on the standards.”
He flicked his gaze toward me. “How do you figure that out?”
