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I bop a rosebud. “Well, I owe you a new dress, so whatever you pick out is on me. You can even put your personal shopper skills to use and find my tux. But only if you have the time.”
“You want me to dress you?” she asks with incredulity. “And hold on, we never agreed we were going to the gala.”
“You’ve attended every year you’ve received an invite, and after everything that happened last night, you aren’t going this year without me beside you. If there was anything on my calendar, my priorities have changed.”
“To protect me? Enough of other people will be there. Sloan and Carver. Holly and Cary. Gavin will be there, Jake! I can’t flaunt this!” Her hands move in every direction and Paisley comes close to stabbing me with the chopsticks. “My mother will be there. I can’t take a spectacle of myself after putting my mom through the wringer when I called off the wedding.”
I hum in agreement with everything Paisley has said. She can’t. And we won’t. And I’ll match Carver’s fat donation to ensure all parties take my girlfriend’s dedication seriously.
“I’d like to meet your mother.”
“You would?” She looks shocked.
“Of course, it’s only right that I meet her when you’ve met mine.”
“But I haven’t—”
“Caroline wants to meet you and I’ve put her off long enough. If we’re going to continue to pretend we’re stuck like glue, the devil is in the details. It’s time we level up and meet the parents.”
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16
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Previous flames have introduced me to their mothers before, and putting my best foot forward has been relatively easy. However, what exactly is the appropriate attire when meeting the mother of your rebound guy/con artist/fake boyfriend when said mother is a former stripper?
After emptying the contents of my closet onto the bed, I’ve concluded that I have zero to wear. Nothing.
Me. The boutique shop owner.
“Why did I agree to this?” I lament. Talking aloud to myself is something I do far too often.
The reason that sticks in my head above all else is that Jake spent an entire day making me feel squishy inside. Not only when he handed me the roses and apologized but also when he said he’d listen and then got me all hot and bothered. When he put the brakes on, Jake still made me feel crazy beautiful with my bandaged hand, messy hair, and frumpy pajamas. He also took care of me. I’ve been doted on during hospital stays. Except, no one has had the patience to feed me a whole container of food since my mother spooned prunes into my mouth as an infant.
By the time Dusty called to ask Jake if I wanted to go downtown and inspect the new store window, Jake convinced me that he was looking out for my best interest by escorting me to the gala.
It’s flattering to hear that Caroline Ballentine knows who I am.
Me. The fake girlfriend.
Though, suppose everyone in Brighton is well aware of the story about the local runaway bride and whose arms she was caught in. So it would be hard for Mrs. Ballentine to miss that those were her son’s arms, now wouldn’t it?
I slump on my bed and the pile of clothes slides onto the floor. I kick it with my foot and the hangers become tethered between my toes. I lift my foot, deciding that the garment that sticks will be the one I wear.
The top of the simple white cotton dress has a crew collar with small capped sleeves. The bottom ruffles flare. It’s a super cute look leftover from my inventory last spring, and it still has the tags on because I haven’t found any place to wear it. I guess meeting Jake’s mother today is as good as any occasion.
The concession pays off. Twirling in the mirror, the short flirty hem spins like a ballerina’s tutu. I pair it with flats in case the afternoon goes south and I have to make a hasty exit. Don’t accuse me of not learning from my mistakes.
And while I’m on the subject, I hope finding my Jimmy Choos lying on the sidewalk turned around Valentine’s Day for whoever it was who found them, and that they are in love with those shoes.
Jake arrives and anxiety still grips my stomach in a solid knot. He’s the type of man who uses the word “date” as a euphemism for “sex”. Before I landed on Sweet Caroline’s doorstep, this guy—who I keep kissing without a care of what I might catch—datedthe way people exercise: daily. I probably need an abacus to tally the number of partners I assume he’s had. Yet I’m hopeful I’ll make a favorable impression, instead of being perceived as his newest, and uptight, fuck-buddy.
Not that we’re fucking, nor will we. I mean, unless Jake endures an honest discussion about his status because I’m clean. But again, fooling around isn’t fucking and I’m not planning on having sex with Jake Ballentine, so why I don’t know why thinking about this even makes a difference.
“Nice jeans,” I quip when he arrives.
Although casual, Jake is dressed as dapper as always. Damn, the man has style.
