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Her eyes narrow into slits as she glares at Lyndsey, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. “This man does not know how to handle a woman’s heart!” she yells, clutching her chest in anguish.
A solitary tear escapes from the corner of her eye and rolls down her flushed cheek. She hastily wipes it away with a delicate hand before tipping Vince’s coffee directly into his lap.
“Oops,” she quips before turning on her heel and walking away.
“What was that?!” Allison exclaims as I grope around for napkins.
“Nothing. I’ll get you another coffee,” I tell Vince.
When I return with a fresh cold brew, Vince is regaling Allison with the tale of Eve’s disastrous appearance on this tour.
“So, I didn’t know what else to do, so I asked Lyndsey to pretend to be my girlfriend,” Vince explains.
“And she said yes?”
“Well, she looked at me like I asked her to fork over a kidney, but yes.”
“That’s because we’d known each other two weeks, and you were like, ‘help me! Let’s make out!’”
“Was this all part of your master plan to win Lynds over?” Allison asks.
Vince blushes. “A bit, yeah.”
I turn to him, “You never told me this!”
“Well, I knew I liked you. I knew I wanted to kiss you. I knew I wanted Eve out of my hair. I was trying to be utilitarian with my problem-solving skills.”
“You, sly bastard,” I say, shoving him in the ribs.
“Wait, when did you know you liked me?”
“That first day, when you came to the studio, and you were all business with your color-coded folders with everyone’s riders,” Vince admits.
“What?” I’m shocked, but Allison is grinning like a Cheshire Cat.
“Love at first sight. Damn, Lyndsey!”
I’ve been avoiding my mom’s calls for three days.
The week before I returned to California, she texted me a photo of the cleaned-out guest room. She put new sheets on the bed and everything.
My initial plan to conceal the fact that Vince and I are dating is faltering. Moms always know, especially when they’re as nosy and invested in celebrity gossip as Mikki Vynse.
It doesn’t help that Vince has been practically begging to meet her.
Two days later, at breakfast, my phone buzzed for the third time in two hours. Vince sees the word ‘MOM’ flash across the screen.
“You’ve gotta let me meet her!” he begs.
“Let me pick up the phone first,” I say.
“So, is that a yes?”
“A firm, maybe.”
Vince looks hopeful, but the truth is, I’ve never brought anyone home to meet my mom. I get up and leave the table to give us some privacy.
“Hey, Mom, what’s up?”
