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The cameraman exits the restaurant in a scamper, but I don’t look away from Layla. I can’t help the anticipation I feel as I watch her return to her meal. I don’t want to think about how affected I am by the kiss we just had.
Chapter eleven
Layla
The sun sets low over the ranch as I drive up the gravel driveway, dust settling like a shroud of uncertainty. As I pass through the open gate toward the familiar, weathered main house, the air smells of livestock and hay. My parents sit on the porch, Dad with a cigar and newspaper, Mom with an open book, both unfazed as my car nears.
“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” I say out loud in my car as my fingers tighten around the wheel.
My mind returns to the kiss from this morning, and my hand touches my lips. The memory of Tristan’s tongue pressing against them lingers and floods my mind. Any day now, the paparazzi will publish the picture with a scummy headline. Before I tell them, I can’t risk my parents finding out about the arrangement.
If they will be disappointed, at least let them hear it from me.
My boots hit the graveled floor with a thud. Mom and I are dressed alike. My green dress from earlier is gone and replaced by a red flannel shirt and a baggy pair of blue jeans. Every trace of makeup from earlier is also gone, but my hair remains in the Japanese bun.
I nod greetings at the passing ranch hands as I make my way to the porch. My heart beats loudly in my throat as Mom’s eagle eyes study my every move. Dad’s eyes stare at me blankly over the top of the printed paper.
“Erin,” Mom says, her thin fingers caressing the cover of her book. “You didn’t call.”
“I have to?” I sit on one of the porch steps and stare at my parents.
“Yes.” Mom looks at me like I asked a stupid question. “Were you wearing makeup?” her eyes narrow, then she hisses.
“Nonsense. You don’t have to call, but it’d be polite to,” Dad says quietly, smoke billowing from his mouth with every word.
Mom looks over at him, her lips parted like she’s about to say something to him, and then she decides against it. She scratches her hair with a finger and raises a hand to me as if to say well?
“I gave him the whiskey, but I don’t think he drank it,” I explain. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Don’t tell me you’re here for money.” Mom scoffs.
My face flushes red with anger, but I struggle to keep my tone even. I can’t get mad at Mom. That never ends well. Dad notices my face but remains silent.
“When have I ever come to you for money?” I ask, my eyes on Mom.
“Well, you never had to ask. Your presence was enough to make us spend continuously on you.”
I didn’t ask to be born!
My hand clenches into a fist, but I keep silent, gazing at the ranch. The sun descends rapidly, casting long shadows, and ominous dark clouds obscure it, making the air feel relaxed as if a storm is brewing. Memories of happier days flood my thoughts, when Deanna and I would play around the ranch after rainy days, chasing horses and catching bugs. Simpler times.
“Well?” Mom’s taut voice breaks my reverie. “Why are you here if there’s no update? We rented you an apartment, so you won’t have to be here during this whole thing.”
Dad grumbles some words to himself but doesn’t say anything coherent.
“The hit pieces you mentioned to me, you remember them?” I turn to look at Mom, the wooden step creaking under my weight.
“What about them?” Dad answers, his eyes narrow with curiosity.
“Well, Tristan wants to arrange a planned engagement with someone to give the public and his board some semblance of stability in his life,” I say slowly, looking at Dad instead of Mom.
“I don’t think I understand. An arranged engagement?” Mom’s eyes burrow into mine. “He’s going to pay someone to pretend to be his fiancée? To get his board off his back?”
“That’s the gist of it, yes.” I nod slowly, carefully watching her face.
The words hang in the air. The disapproval on my parent’s face tells me everything I need to know. Their hatred for Tristan is growing, and it might pass on to me when I finally tell them I’m the lady pretending to be his fiancée.
“He’s a son of a bitch, but this plays for us,” Mom says, nodding slowly like an idea’s forming in her mind. “We can use this in court. We can twist it that he’s so unstable that he has to hire someone to play the role of a wife. It can’t be the nail in the coffin, but we can use it once you get the evidence we need.”
