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I offer her a quizzical look. I’m not sure what to say right now.
“This is a mess,” she cries, her head falling into her hands.
I watch her, silently agreeing, while running through the situation in my head. This might be a mess, but somehow—and I really can’t believe I got so fucking lucky—the answer to my predicament just landed in my fucking lap. Or, crashed into me. Regardless, Astoria Bianchi, while a bumbling, impulsive oddity of a woman, has provided me with a spectacular opening that I have every intention of exploiting.
“I’ll do it,” I announce.
She looks up from her wallowing, hazel eyes meeting mine in confusion.
“I’ll be your boyfriend,” I clarify.
She continues to stare, her expression uncomprehending.
“How much have you had to drink tonight?” I grumble.
“Not much. Not enough for me to understand why a complete stranger is suddenly agreeing to something so crazy.”
“But enough for you to introduce said stranger to your mother, without any plans or considerations of what would happen in the aftermath.”
She pauses and swears under her breath. “Remind me to never drink tequila again.”
“I won’t.”
She looks at me then, her eyes clearer, studying. “I’m Astoria Bianchi. We might as well introduce ourselves.”
“I know who you are,” I tell her, holding out my hand. She places her smaller dainty palm in mine. “Carlo D’Angelo.”
She smiles, although it’s guarded. “I know who you are, too.”
I briefly wonder just how much she actually knows about me.
“Good. Now that the introductions are out of the way, let’s head back in,” I tell her. She looks alarmed.
“Wait, don’t we have to talk? Plan and whatnot?”
My eyes trail over her face. “We’ve been gone from the party long enough. There’s no time to plan.”
“But what will we say? My mom has most definitely told my dad what happened. And they’ll have questions.”
“We’re going to walk into the party hand in hand and head over to your parents. Leave the talking to me.”
She makes a noise of disagreement. “I’m not comfortable with that.”
“Well, I’m not comfortable with being dragged into half-baked schemes by drunk women, and yet…”
Her eyes narrow. “You just expect me to walk in there on your arm and smile like some dumbass while you tell all the lies?”
I nod. “Your words, not mine.”
She looks completely against the prospect. She opens her mouth to argue some more but I cut her off by grabbing her wrist.
“You want to sell this to your parents, don’t you?” She nods. “Then trust me.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“That’s fair. But I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. This arrangement could be mutually beneficial.”
“How?” she asks, hazel eyes wide.
