His father needed to hurry up and finalize his plans, because Brock didn’t know how long he’d be able to play loving husband-to-be without giving in to those strange emotions.
It was a dangerous game he was playing.
He hoped Erica wouldn’t feel out of her league here, considering what she’d had to say last night. This place was more upscale than where the two of them had dined the night before. Linen napkins and tablecloths and at least ten utensils at each place setting.
Ah, well, this was probably the last shindig she’d have to attend like this with him. She’d live. And she’d probably like the food here, in spite of how she felt.
They weren’t seated for long before his family began their usual bullshit. Brandon was quiet and sulking while Lisa tried to cheer him up with the baby. Bret was also acting typically sycophantic, trying to smooth things over with his parents while ingratiating himself, and Elle was already perusing the wine menu. And his mother and father were the ones causing all the waves, seeming to be completely oblivious to it all.
Of course, Bret and Brandon were in a pissing contest, not unlike ones he’d seen many a time, trying to one up each other.
As usual, he was being ignored. At times like this, he was fine with that.
But the trouble was brewing.
“I just wish you’d looked at the menu before reserving a table here, Brandon. You know Elle is gluten sensitive, and they don’t seem to give a damn about food allergies here.”
“That’s not true, Bret. Just because they haven’t indicated anything on the menu doesn’t mean they’re not willing to accommodate.” Brandon was acting like he was perusing the menu, but Brock could tell he was actually trying to find something on there to shut his brother up. “Besides, you knew I’ve been wanting to go here for years. If you didn’t want to eat here, you could have made the reservations yourself.”
“You agreed to do it.”
“That’s enough,” said father Ford. He snapped his fingers and their waiter appeared almost out of nowhere. It was a hell of a talent, Brock thought, and definitely a dying art. “My daughter-in-law can’t eat gluten. Do you have anything gluten free?”
“I can ask the chef.”
Elle, her voice low, said, “I’m fine.”
“But honey—”
“I’m fine.” The waiter was already gone when Elle added, “I’ll just have a little gastric distress for a while, but that’s okay. I need to purge a few pounds anyway.”
Jesus. These idiots were making a horrible impression on Erica. He glanced over at her and saw that she’d buried her head in her menu, scouring it as if she’d never eaten in a restaurant before.
Minutes later, the waiter was leaning over the table, pointing with his pen at menu items that Elle could eat that the head chef had indicated were gluten free. “The chef also said that he can convert some of the menu items to be gluten free, so if there’s something you’d prefer, we can put in a request.”
“No, that’s okay. I think I’ll have the quinoa and vegetables dish.”
“Perfect. So are we all ready to order then?”
The ordering process, followed by the big deal the waiter made over the bottle of wine and serving it, which was quickly followed by their appetizers, made everyone at the table focus on food and fun rather than petty bickering.
But that didn’t mean Brock couldn’t feel the undercurrent. It was coming.
Even he felt like giving Elle shit, though, because the appetizer—mini egg rolls with a variety of sauces—probably had gluten, and that hadn’t stopped her from eating a couple without even asking the waiter.
Lisa didn’t feel like holding back, though. “Elle, I’d be careful if I were you. I think the egg roll wrappers probably have gluten.”
Elle cocked her head and, even though her voice sounded as sweet as honey, there was no mistaking the venom behind it. “I’m pretty sure they use rice flour for these.”
“Well, what about all the dipping sauces? They might be thickened with flour…and I just thought you’d want to be careful.”
Ice couldn’t have been colder. “Ever hear of cornstarch?”
Erica must have been getting stressed by the ridiculous amount of tension, because she blurted out, “They are definitely delicious—hard to resist!”
Everyone seemed to pick up on the hint, because they all then began talking about how good the food tasted, focusing on that instead of one person’s dining habits. Then, when it got quiet at their table, Erica turned to speak directly to his father who was sitting at a diagonal from her. “Sir, since I’m going to be part of this family soon, I thought I should ask you if there are any Thanksgiving traditions with the Fords that I should be aware of.”
Brock’s father blinked twice while swallowing the last little bit of egg roll in his mouth. Then he looked down at the table as if contemplating before he answered. “You know, Erica, I can’t think of anything in particular that we do, aside from what we’re doing right now. We spend the weekend here in Vail and always have our Thanksgiving meal on Saturday. Why do you ask?”
“Well…my Aunt June has this cool tradition at her house—it was an idea she got from some movie she watched a long time ago, but I love it a lot and thought that Brock and I might want to do it with our family once we have children.”
“What is it, dear?” his mother prodded.
“Well, my Aunt June has a white pillar candle on her table—she calls it the Fire of Gratitude. Before dinner is served, she lights it, and before there is any eating, each person takes the candle and says something that they appreciate about one of the people at the table. They can mention more than one person if they like, and they’re encouraged to say something nice about everyone—but that’s not required. The idea is to inspire a feeling of gratitude through everyone before eating the Thanksgiving meal. She says it’s to make us feel like we’re supposed to on this special day.”
“I think I quite like that idea,” his father said. “We don’t have a candle like that one, but we can do something like that right now.”
Elle arched an eyebrow. “Maybe Erica can show us how it’s done.”
Brock was proud of her, because she didn’t miss a beat, even though he could sense the snark behind Elle’s suggestion. “Sure.”
His father said, “Well, I’m sure she might be hard-pressed to say something nice about all of us. She hardly knows us.”
“I’d be happy to try.” Erica picked up the tiny candle in glass on their table and said, “Here goes.” She turned to Brock. “I guess you’re first.” She inhaled deeply before looking Brock square in the eye and making him believe that she either truly felt the way she did or she deserved an Oscar. He realized it was all artful acting but, damn, she was good. “Brock, thank you for loving me, for asking me to be your wife. Thank you for giving of your soul selflessly, for trusting me, for realizing my true potential and nurturing it. I will forever be grateful to you for that.”
Brock didn’t have to act to beam from ear to ear—but he did have to stop himself from kissing her. Then she looked past Brock to Brandon. “Brandon, thank you for having enough faith in me to hire me at the firm. I hope to always make you happy with that decision. Lisa,” she said, looking at the woman who thought she was going to be her sister-in-law in the near future, “thank you and Elle,” she glanced across the table briefly, “for your generous spirits by letting me borrow your clothing tonight. And thank you for accepting me as your sister. Saffy, you make me smile. Keep being your cute little self!
“Bret, thank you for being a boss who’s fair although demanding. Thank you for your faith in me and for letting me begin working with Brock. And, last but not least, to my future mother- and father-in-law, thank you for doing such a fine job raising your sons. Brock is a good man, and any woman would be proud to marry him. I credit you with making him the strong, sweet man I fell in love with. And thank you all for accepting me into your family with open arms. I’m grateful t
o be here, and my future looks so bright now, thanks to you.”
Well, no one at the table would be able to top Erica’s performance, but he might as well try. She was waiting for someone to take the candle from her when the waiter came by to pick up appetizer dishes. The eldest Ford said, “Ask the chef to hold our food for a few minutes longer until we finish what we’re doing.” Then he turned his attention to the table. “Who’s next?”
Brock already had the candle in hand.
“I’ll go next, dad.” He went around the table, trying to pick out a positive attribute of each person there—and it was crazy, because even though these people drove him completely nuts and he could probably go the rest of his life without dealing with a good lot of them, they all had qualities he appreciated or admired. Even loved. Like Bret—the guy might have been a bit obsequious nowadays in terms of their father and the business, but he was still sharp—one of the smartest guys Brock knew…which was probably why his behavior in terms of their father was so annoying. And Brandon—although there was no sign of it today, even a year ago, the man had been a natural comedian. He had a great sense of humor and an unusual way of looking at the world. Having a baby and a social climbing wife had kind of snuffed all that out, but during this gratitude exercise, Brock began to believe that maybe those qualities were just dormant.
His parents? Well…despite the fact that they could have been better, there were all kinds of good things he could say about them: as a child, he’d never wanted for anything. After college, he had a job waiting for him—and his education was paid for, too, and he knew that was a huge deal.
The women, Lisa and Elle? Well, he didn’t know much about them—very little that he liked anyway—but he tried to see them through his brothers’ eyes. Elle? She was model beautiful, a sight for sore eyes. And her fashion sense was spot on…at least that was what all his previous dates had told him. One thing he knew for sure—she could wear a dress like no other. Lisa, on the other hand, seemed to be a good mother. Yes, she relied on her nanny a little too much and seemed overly indulgent, but there was no mistaking that she loved her child and wanted the best for her.
Wow. After finishing, he almost remarked that it had been a lot easier than he’d thought. Instead, he held the candle out to the next person.
By the time everyone was done, he was more than ready to eat…but everyone seemed to be in great spirits, the best he’d ever seen at their traditional Thanksgiving dinner out.
His father finished, giving a long speech, telling his sons with sincerity how very much he loved them and how proud he was to be their dad. Brock imagined that, had he been a lot more sensitive, he might have teared up at the sentiment. It was good enough that he believed it wholeheartedly, and when his dad said, “Okay, let’s eat!” everyone enthusiastically agreed. Smiles remained pasted on faces and dinner conversation was more enjoyable than he could remember—in recent memory anyway.
When they left, hearts and bellies full to capacity, Brock held Erica’s coat so she could slip it on and, from behind, he bent over and whispered in her ear. “What you did tonight was nothing short of a miracle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my family so happy—or grateful. Thank you for that.”
As she buttoned her coat and they began a slow walk toward the front while waiting for the rest of the family, she had a funny look on her face. She leaned forward and Brock got closer, sensing that what she wanted to say was for his ears only. “You have to promise not to tell my secret.”
“Okay…but I’d say you’re definitely one up on me. That makes you safe.”
Smiling, she whispered, “My Aunt June doesn’t really do that at her house on Thanksgiving.”
“She doesn’t?”
“Nope, but it worked, didn’t it?”
“Hell, yes.” And maybe, during the remainder of their little charade together, she’d manage to teach him a few more things about life—because, truth or not, that had worked. Brock could honestly say he didn’t hate his family members…and he hadn’t felt that way in a very, very long time, a feeling he was sure they could reciprocate.
And that made him all the more thankful for this woman, his pretend fiancée.
Chapter Eleven
ERICA HADN’T SEEN it, that little piece of black ice beside Brandon’s SUV. Once she took the tumble in those ridiculously high heels, she spotted it from a different point of view.
From eye level, as it were.
It had happened so fast, just as she was getting ready to enter after the baby had been secured in the car, and after, the other three adults were hovering over her, asking her if she was all right. “I think I’m fine, pride aside.”
“What happened?” Brock asked, holding her arm to help her up.
“Ice—just a tiny bit of it.”
“That’s all it takes. Does anything hurt?”
“I don’t think so. And I think your shoes are okay, too, Lisa.”
“Oh, I don’t care about the shoes, honey. I can always buy more. Are you okay? That’s what matters.”
Her candle trick had worked. Lisa had never been this kind to her, not that she’d ever been mean—but apathetic to her before, yes. Now Lisa was actually acting genuinely concerned. And that made Erica want to not think of it as a trick. It was an exercise, and it had made this family more human again. She hoped they would continue it for every Thanksgiving from here on out.
For now, though, she said, “I think so. My butt and right wrist hurt, but I think I’m all right.”
Brock was holding on to her, probably trying to make sure she wouldn’t fall again—and he didn’t leave her side until she was buckling herself in.
As they drove back to the condo, part of her wished it would snow, because the air always felt magical when the flakes were floating down from the sky—but inclement weather would make for a shitty drive back to Denver tomorrow, so the rest of her was glad there was no precipitation.
When they got to the condo and she got out, she felt a stiffness in her back. Brock joined her on her side of the car and asked, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m not going to have you pressing charges against the restaurant, Brock. I’m fine.”
They started walking toward the door, just a few steps from where Brandon had parked in the garage, and once inside, entering the kitchen, Brock said, “I’m not a sue happy lawyer, Erica.”
“Aren’t you the tort king at the firm?”
Bret, fetching ice out of the fridge, said, “He might not be king, but I don’t know what we’d do without him.” He lowered his voice and added, a teasing note to his voice, “Besides, his specialty really is criminal law. He just takes the occasional tort for fun.”
“Fair enough. And, while falling in the parking lot was unpleasant, I don’t think it was criminal.”
“You fell? What happened?”
Erica gave Bret a short account of how she’d hurt herself and, by the time she was done, Elle had joined them. “It started out with my butt and wrist hurting, and now my butt feels better, but my back has kind of locked up.”
Elle said, with a purr in her voice, “Oh, you should have Brock give you a backrub. He gives the best massages.”
Erica paused, glancing from Elle to Brock who had one of his typical smirks on his face, then over to Bret, who seemed completely oblivious to the fact that his wife had just implied that Brock’s hands on her body had felt better than anyone else’s.
Creepy.
“No, I’m okay. I’m just going to lie down and hopefully feel better in the morning.”
“You want an ice pack maybe or—?” Brock asked.
“Maybe an ibuprofen or two.”
“You got it. I’ll bring them up.”
So Erica headed up the stairs, glad the eldest Fords weren’t in the living room so she wouldn’t have to explain what had happened again. She decided to change out of the dress and shoes first, because she wanted to feel comfortable. Before, though, she locked the door in
case Brock decided to come in first.
She wasn’t changing into the gown this time, though, because Brock seemed to like it way too much. Instead, she had a t-shirt and sweat pants, and those would look a lot less appealing. She was pulling the pants up her leg when he knocked on the door. “Erica, it’s me.”
“Just a sec.”
Damn. Yeah, the more time passed, the more her back ached. She made her way to the door and unlocked it. Brock handed her a couple of rust-colored tablets and a glass of water. Once she swallowed the pain reliever, she said, “Can you give those black pumps to Lisa, please? And, if you could, let Elle know I’ll have her dress laundered and get it back to her when it’s done.”
“Sure will.” He started to turn but paused. “Do you need help getting into bed?”
“I’m not an invalid, Brock.”
Smiling, he said, “I didn’t say you were. I just want to help if you need it.”
He was right. He was being generous and kind, something that didn’t seem to come naturally to him. “Thank you, Brock. I mean it.”
“No problem.” He left the room and she took her time heading back to the bed before pulling the covers down and sitting. Every breath seemed to highlight the pain in her spine, so she gladly lay down to take some pressure off. It still hurt, but it was definitely better.
Brock came in the room a few minutes later. She was trying to go to sleep, knowing her back would probably feel significantly improved in the morning, but the ibuprofen hadn’t kicked in yet. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you.”
“Want to watch anything on TV?”
“No, not really.”
Brock sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m going to make another offer to do a backrub. You never know. It might help.”
“Yeah, or it might make it a thousand times worse. I’m afraid to have you touch it.”
“How about you give it a try? And if it hurts or makes it worse, I’ll stop. Sound good?”
Charade (A Fake Fiancée Romance) (Pretense and Promises Book 1) Page 12
