She slipped her arm through his and let him lead her to the door. “You should know I don’t put out for fake engagements.”
“You wait until the fake wedding?”
She sighed to herself. “A girl has to have her standards.”
Chapter Ten
Lucy almost killed a man during dinner.
It was her nerves. They were shot. Completely gone. And when Lucy got nervous, she got fidgety. It was a curse she had been born with. In first grade during the final round of the spelling bee, Lucy was given the word violin. Anxiety dueled with her limited understanding of vowels and consonants, and so she panicked, knocking over the microphone and giving little Johnny Rodriguez a black eye. Then there had been the science fair in the eighth grade when she’d passed out in front of everyone and broken her nose. But had it been her fault that Rachel Akin had done an experiment involving fake blood knowing the very sight of it made Lucy light in the head? Lucy had earned a C on her project and a trip to the ER.
Throughout dinner at the Peninsula Grill, she had felt the same unease gnawing on her insides like rabid butterflies desperate for freedom. As Alex had casually made small talk and taken nice even bites of his filet mignon, the enormity of what she had agreed to played out in her head like a late-night movie. And the butterflies only flapped harder. In her defense, it wasn’t Lucy’s fault that the waiter reached for the breadbasket just as her knife slipped. Or that she knocked the water pitcher out of his hand in an attempt to help him. Or that he slipped on the ice and carried the whole tablecloth down with him.
Not her fault. Not her fault at all.
Lucy sat in the passenger seat of Alex’s black Mercedes and tried not to give into the threatening tears. She had survived much worse than this. Such as . . . well, she couldn’t recall anything more horrible right now, but surely there was something. She tried to focus on something else. Like the words she would give to Matt, cutting out his heart and forevermore ruining her future.
“The waiter will be fine.” Alex’s deep voice interrupted her self-pitying thoughts. “Didn’t you hear the maître’d say the bleeding had stopped?”
“No. I didn’t catch that.”
“Must’ve been when you had your head between your knees.”
“I don’t deal well with blood.”
“I wasn’t sure who to take care of first—you or the bleeder.”
She heard his laugh and turned to study his face in the dim lights of the car. “I’m sorry.”
“I believe you’ve said that already.”
“I just wanted to say it again.”
“Fifty times was more than plenty, Lucy.”
“I just . . . I have a lot to think about right now.” She pressed her forehead to the slick surface of the window. God, when I open my eyes, can it be tomorrow?
Alex adjusted his stereo until he found a classic rock station. “This isn’t easy for me either.”
“It was nice of you to pray for us at dinner.”
He made a quick glance in her direction. “You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I am,” she admitted. “I thought the only person Alex Sinclair worshiped was himself.”
There was no anger in the look he gave her. Only mild amusement. “I know who’s in charge.”
“I’m sure he’s real proud of us right now.” Alex had no response to that, so Lucy decided to change the topic. “Where are we going next?”
“Performing Arts Center. Some Russian ballet dancers are doing Swan Lake.” He maneuvered a turn and kept his eyes on the road. “There are some important people in attendance tonight.”
“The ballet?” She reached for his hand on the armrest. “Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I were. The Stingrays have a game, and I’d much rather be there. Do me a favor—only wake me up if I’m drooling. A light slumber is totally fine. But the whole mouth open, snoring thing is probably a bit much for tonight’s audience.”
“I’m not dressed for this sort of thing.” Her fitted sweater and 1950s cigarette pants were fine for running about town, but not for an evening of ballet.
“You look fine.”
Men. What did they know? “The Russian Ballet is a big deal.”
“It’s people in tutus. Men in tights twirling around.”
“Oh yeah, because football is so much better.”
“Don’t make me pull this car over.”
“A game where you’ve been the cold cut in many a man sandwich.”
She heard his deep, slow intake of breath. He was probably counting the reasons he had chosen the wrong fake girlfriend.
“You have to pretend you like the sport,” he finally said. “It’s in our contract.”
“Is that so?”
“Page seven. Item number four.”
She was pulling that blasted document out when she got home.
“Do you even know anything about football?”
She wiggled her captive toes in her flats. “You toss a ball around and throw people to the ground. What else is there to know?”
She could almost hear those perfectly white teeth grinding. “Okay, then, what’s a birdcage?”
Considering this, she tapped a finger to her lips. “The name of the bar where you met your last girlfriend?”
“A cut?”
“A fantasy I have involving your throat.”
His tan hands tightened on the steering wheel. “A hot receiver?”
“Um . . . a mistake you made in college?”
He unclenched his jaw and slid her a look. “You are one bitter woman, Lucy Wiltshire. I hope your hostility doesn’t rub off on our future fake children.” He signaled and made a left turn. “Are you also aware you have to call me Mr. Amazing Hotness for all dates involving artsy crap?”
“I most certainly do not.”
“Yep.” He pulled into the arts center parking lot. “A minimum of five times. Out loud. With lots of sighing.”
Though she tried not to, Lucy found herself smiling. She supposed laughing at his jokes didn’t mean that she liked him any more or imply any sort of surrender on the old grudge.
Alex parked the car, and Lucy opened her door.
“Shut that,” he commanded.
“Excuse me?”
He rolled those eyes that had no doubt caused many a female fan to swoon. “It’s my job to open the car door for you. Haven’t you ever dated a real man before?”
“Haven’t even seen one in days.”
He pulled his lithe form out of the car and reappeared at her door. “Take my hand like I’m the light of your life or our next date is at a sports bar with stale pretzels and ESPN.”
She slid her fingers through his. The warm night air whipped around them as they walked toward the arts center, and she inhaled the scent of him as it floated on the breeze. He smelled as enticing as he looked. It was a good thing Alex was the farthest thing from her type. She could see how easily a girl could fall for his charms. But she knew the real Alex. He was just a spoiled overgrown kid. One who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. And she would do well to remember that.
Lucy gasped as they entered the grand foyer. Little black dresses here, sequined formals there. She was surrounded by elegance. “You told me to dress nice,” she hissed. “You didn’t say this was a fancy event.” It was like God had delivered her back to high school again.
He waved to a man across the room, but his voice was just for her. “You look fine. It’s just a ballet.”
Lucy read a nearby sign. “The United Way benefit? You brought me to a rich person’s event?”
He smiled and spoke through gritted teeth. “Wipe the frown off your face, sweetheart. We’ve got people watching.” He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. “Governor,” his voice boomed. “Good to see you.” Lucy stood in mute silence as introductions were made. As she eyed the first lady’s sapphire-blue cocktail dress, she realized the scene at the restaurant hadn’t been all that bad. Things co
uld always be worse. Like now. When she got Alex alone, she was going to strangle him.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Ms. Wiltshire,” Governor Trenton said. “We’re so glad to have our favorite football player back in this great state full time.”
Alex’s grip on her waist tightened. “Yes,” Lucy blurted. “No one is more pleased than I am that he’s making his full-time home here once again.” It was so hard to carry on charming sweet talk when all she wanted to do was call Matt and beg him to understand. All afternoon she had rehearsed what she would say to him. She had to speak to him before the media ran the first photo of her on Alex’s arm.
“Lucy runs Saving Grace right here in Charleston.” Alex gazed down at her with something that resembled adoring pride. “You might’ve heard of it, Governor Trenton. She’s done incredible things to help girls who’ve aged out of the foster-care system.”
The governor’s wife entered the conversation, describing her own initiatives for teenagers. As Lucy told them about her program, she caught Alex’s eye. He gave her a slow wink and ran a caressing hand down her shoulder.
Oh, he was good.
As Alex led her by the hand to their seats, Lucy couldn’t get over the stares and murmurs he caused. He created a ripple of awareness everywhere he went. Alex stopped, muttered something under his breath, then lifted his hand in greeting to a couple she recognized as his parents. Lucy swallowed back the old familiar pangs of bitterness as she met the curious faces of Donna and Marcus Sinclair. They were the Hiltons of the South and made money in their sleep. Minus the large yearly donation, these were exactly the type of people Lucy had spent her adult years staying away from.
Alex made quick introductions. “I thought you two were out of town.”
“We had a little trouble with Finley,” his mother said. “Your sister has gone from seventeen to twenty-five in one month. It’s this new boyfriend. We had to cancel our weekend plans. And theirs.”
“Did you get my e-mail?” Marcus Sinclair asked his son. “I have to go to Orlando to check on a hotel remodel. Come with me—we can hit the greens.”
“Still not interested.” Alex stared straight ahead, his hand still on Lucy’s. “I need to work.”
His father leaned over. “You’re going to wake up one day and realize all you have is work.”
“Marcus, not tonight,” his wife admonished. “Alex, I’m setting a place for you for family dinner Sunday. You know you can’t turn down my mashed potatoes and gravy.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Alex’s face softened as he looked at the elegant woman. “I’m in campaign meetings all day. Except for lunch with Lucy.” Alex moved their joined hands to his thigh. “My schedule’s jam-packed, but she talked me into it.” He sent her a look that could melt the caramel off a Twix.
Donna Sinclair leaned across her husband and thwacked her son’s knee. “If you want my vote, Congressman, you better show up at my dinner table. Don’t make me throw around my influence.”
Marcus nodded. “Her garden club can be vicious.”
“You have to eat,” Donna said. “I’ll bet your competition spends time with his family.” Donna looked at Lucy. “We’d love to have you join us.” Lucy was caught off guard by the kind eyes looking back at her. “Maybe you could get Alex to spare some time for the family?”
Marcus glowered at his son. “Your mother cries in her sleep.”
Donna leaned over again, her expression serious. “You’re my son,” she said quietly. “And I miss you. This is a time for our family to draw together, not drift apart.”
Though Alex’s face was its usual picture of devil-may-care, Lucy could almost touch the grief swirling around him. “We’ll discuss this later,” he said.
“Your sister needs to see you too.” Marcus lowered his voice. “And we have to make some decisions about your brother’s apartment in Atlanta. Some of his assets.”
“No.” Alex snapped open his playbill. “Handle it without me. I’m sure whatever you choose to do will be fine.”
The lights dimmed three times before plunging the auditorium into complete darkness.
Lucy felt Alex’s breath on her cheek. “Keep your hands to yourself tonight,” he said. “I don’t want my parents to think you’re one of those girls.”
She turned to meet his hooded stare. “And by those, you mean every other girl you’ve ever dated?”
“Don’t tell me you read those trash magazines too?”
“You say trashy. I say enlightening.”
“Remind me to get you a new subscription to something more mind-enriching.” Alex shifted in the seat, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Like Sports Illustrated.”
Chapter Eleven
By the time intermission came, Lucy had decided ballet would be better if more full-sized women were allowed to participate. An entire stage full of perfectly shaped dancers was more than any woman should have to look at. Especially while sitting next to a man who had models on speed dial.
The theater came alive with the sounds of swishing dresses and rustling jackets as the house lights came up.
“Alex, I want to talk to you about the Fourth of July.” His mother blinked twice as she adjusted to the lights. “It’s important that we have a big celebration as usual—for Finley’s sake. Your sister needs things to be as normal and festive as possible.”
“I’m traveling on that day,” he said. “I’ll get back with you.”
“But it’s your birthday—”
“Lucy wants something to drink.” With a look she couldn’t decipher, Alex reached for Lucy’s hand and gave her a nudge. “We’ll be back.”
As he led her through the lobby, she wanted to stop him. To ask him about his brother. About the hurt his mother wore beneath her smile. About Alex’s own pain. She settled for a safer topic instead. “Aren’t you going to let your family in on our little game?”
“Of course not. Just don’t get too cozy with them and things will be fine.”
“I’ll try to put away my dreams of a country club lunch with your mother.”
“You’d probably bore her with your Trekkie talk.”
He got her a bottled water and himself a seltzer. “I’m going to go remind some people why they love me,” Alex said dryly. “Can I leave you alone for fifteen minutes?”
She tried to ignore the way his hand lightly rested at the small of her back. “Of course. I’ll just stand here and try to make up some good things to tell them about you.”
“Guess I better give you more than fifteen minutes.” His eyes lingered on hers. “It’s gonna take you a while to list my many fine qualities.”
“Like humility?”
His eyes lit with one of those looks that made a woman think of backseats, hurried hands, and foggy windows.
“Behave while I’m gone.” Leaning toward her, he slowly pressed his lips to her cheek.
She squirmed from his touch. “I’ll count the seconds you’re away.”
The low rumble of his laughter followed him as he went to join a group of men across the lobby.
Lucy reached into her purse and fished out her phone. She had to talk to Matt. By tomorrow morning, pictures of her with Alex would be all over the Internet.
The phone rang twice. “Hi, you’ve reached Matt Campbell. Leave a message . . .” Stifling her frustration, she tried two more times. No response.
“That’s some man you have on your arm tonight.”
Lucy turned to find a woman beside her. She knew they had been introduced earlier, and Lucy struggled to remember her name. “Yes, he’s . . . something else.”
“I was really intrigued by Alex’s health care ideas in the Gazette’s interview last week.” Large diamonds swung from her ears. She looked to be about Donna Sinclair’s age. “What do you think of Robertson’s counterattack?”
Lucy checked her front teeth for lipstick with her tongue. “Um . . .” It sure was warm in this place. And so many people. So sparkly. “I must’ve missed that,
um, attack. I’ve been so occupied with my own work lately.”
Heavily lined lids went wide. “But everyone’s talking about it.”
“Right.” How much longer until the ballet? Or a good fire alarm. “That counterattack. Well, clearly he’s no match for Alex’s ideas on health care.” Whatever those were. Lucy had been too busy keeping her girls off the streets to keep up with any politics.
“He has some very edgy ideas about insurance,” another woman said as she joined them. “As a doctor with my own clinic, I’m very interested in how that’s going to play out.” She turned to Lucy. “What do you think?”
“Well . . .” Was it rude to fake unconsciousness and fall to the floor? “I am really proud of his ideas on health care for children.” Yes. That sounded perfectly safe.
The doctor lifted a hand to her short bob. “He hasn’t outlined any measures for children.”
“Oh.” Lucy swallowed. “Then I guess I can’t talk about those right now. But children”—she nodded lamely—“he likes them. Them and their health care.” Shoot me now. Someone just put me out of my misery.
“Nice to chat with you,” the doctor said. She and the other woman walked away. Whispering.
Lucy pinched the bridge of her nose and took five deep breaths. If she was going to be Alex’s fiancée, she had some homework to do. She did know he didn’t represent anything she was spiritually or ethically against. Except looking like total man-dessert in that suit. Why couldn’t he be homely? Or at least average? She was not going to fall under his spell like every woman in America. And probably a few misguided men.
“Lucy Wiltshire.” The governor’s wife waved from her post next to a framed oil painting. “Join us.”
Great. The woman was standing in a sea of social piranhas. Beside her stood their leader—Clare Deveraux.
First Lady Trenton patted Lucy’s shoulder. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to Alex Sinclair’s friend. This is—”
“I hear someone bought you a present,” Clare said, watching Lucy a little too intensely. “Your home is saved after all.”
Save the Date Page 8
