Sexy Mother Faker

by Remy Rose

  Maddie shoulder-bumps him, laughing, and I allow myself to slide my gaze over in Golden Boy’s direction just the slightest bit. I can’t help it.

  He’s standing just inside the doorway with another guy...hands on hips, sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, scoping out the bar. His hair is the color of ripened wheat—it’s thick, shorter over his ears, neatly-combed. He’s wearing a soft-looking, sage green sweater, faded jeans and classy-looking, loafer-style shoes. Doing that romance novel, oozing-wealth thing. And oozing testosterone. Definitely, testosterone.

  The guy beside him is decent-looking—has hair, wearing some clothes—really, that’s all I’ve got for a description, because my gaze snaps back to Golden Boy. The two of them are looking around, presumably for a place to sit, and I’m just about to force my eyes away from him before he catches me staring...when he catches me staring.

  Shit.

  My heart starts to gallop. I try to rein it in. Just like last time, I’m wondering why the hell I’m having this strong of a reaction to someone I don’t even know. Especially with the way I view men, and how I live my life.

  “Have you decided on an appetizer yet?” Our waitress, showing up like an angel from heaven with our drinks, standing directly in front of me and blocking Golden Boy. Even though I am not a lesbian, I want to kiss her.

  “Um, sure,” I say quickly, nodding at Maddie, then at Jack. “We have, right?”

  Maddie’s eyes are soft and a little anxious as she offers me a smile, which makes me just the tiniest bit annoyed, honestly, because I’m a big girl. I can deal with this. “Yes,” she says. “Nachos and crab cakes.”

  “And the bruschetta,” Jack adds. “We might be having two more join us.”

  WHAT. Christ, is he serious? I shoot a glance at him, and he flashes me his ridiculously charming grin.

  “I hate you,” I tell him. “A lot.”

  “You know what they say, Lane...there’s a fine line between hate and love.”

  Now that the waitress has walked away, my view is golden...so to speak. He’s looking at me, and my heart flops as a smile drags across his face, kicking his hotness factor up about ten thousand degrees. He is all sunshine and beach sand on this raw March night, and I have to look away again, because staring at the sun is very dangerous.

  I am going to drink alcohol. Perhaps heavily. I need something to quell the renegade feelings that are trying to sneak out of the lockbox I keep them in. I lift my Cosmo to my lips and sip. Let Golden Boy see that I’m busy with my friends and am not interested in his ripened-wheat hair or his fancy shoes or whatever it is he has in his pants.

  Jesus, where the hell did that come from?

  I take another, bigger sip.

  “This band’s really good, huh?” Maddie looks at me from over her glass, smiling encouragingly. She seems a little keyed up, and I’m not sure what that’s all about.

  “They sound awesome,” I agree, as my goddamned traitorous eyes slide over again toward the door.

  Only he’s not there.

  Relief mingles with disappointment. Trying to be subtle, I sweep my gaze around the bar.

  “If you’re looking for Hot Blond Guy,” Jack says, “he’s sitting over in the back corner behind us.”

  “I am not looking for anyone,” I tell him firmly. “Except our waitress. So I can get another Cosmo, because this one is….” I raise the glass, tip my head back and down it. “Gone.”

  He’s chuckling. “You crack me up, Laney.”

  “I believe her,” Maddie says loyally. “And even if she was looking for Hot Blond Guy, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”

  “Except I wasn’t.” I’m feeling slightly less stressed out, thanks to my friend Cosmopolitan. Golden Boy is in the corner, and I am over here, and that is going to be just fine. This is a public bar where people can come in and sit down and no one has to talk to anyone they don’t want to, or look at perfect blond men who make you feel their smiles way down low in your belly.

  The apps are served, and we all dig in. The conversation turns to Jack’s latest renovation project—an in-law apartment in Blue Hill and the issues he’s run into with working on an old house that’s not level. I am not particularly interested in this, but it’s saving me from talking about the person in the corner. I do not take a long time drinking my second Cosmo and ask for a third. I don’t usually have more than two drinks, and with me being on the small side, it doesn’t take much to give me a good buzz. Madeline cocks an eyebrow at me. Jack gives me a fist bump. The band starts an awesome rendition of Moves Like Jagger, and couples get up from their seats to go dance. Maddie starts swaying a little in her chair.

  “Either you have to use the ladies’ room, Callaway, or that’s a really pathetic hint that you want to dance.” Jack nudges Maddie playfully with his shoulder.

  I start to giggle. I feel all bubbly and fun and floaty inside, and I’m so glad not to be stressing like I was before. “Go dance, you guys,” I tell them. “I’ll watch you and try not to gag at how cute you are.”

  Mads is laughing, but her eyes look concerned. “You sure you don’t mind, Laney?”

  “Nooo. I mean, yes, I’m sure. Go. This is a great one to dance to.”

  They get up from the table, Jack clasping Maddie’s hand loosely as he leads her over to the dance floor. God, they are just so effing perfect together. I love them. I’m watching as they dance, thinking how one of Jack’s many awesome qualities is his sense of rhythm, when I’m aware that someone is standing behind me, and I know this because I smell him. It is a very, very good smell—the kind of smell that you want wafting over you in a more private setting than a club. The kind of smell that makes you want to take your clothes off even when you are absolutely opposed to taking your clothes off. It’s clean, masculine, woodsy, and I’m just about to turn around and see who this smell is attached to when I hear a voice. “Hey there.” Just two words, but the voice sounds as good as the smell smells.

  Olfactory test score: 10/10. Vocalization test score: 10/10.

  I’m feeling inebriated enough to want to see if the visual stacks up. I turn my head as the person steps closer.

  Ohh, yesss, the visual most definitely stacks up, because this is Golden Boy. Even more gloriously golden up close and personal.

  I tip my head back, first and foreskin because his crotch is at eye level. Shit...I mean first and foremost. It’s just that when you’re making eye contact with someone’s penis, you get a little flustered, and it makes you think penile things.

  He’s smiling down at me—looming, actually, and making me feel small and kind of stupid. But the two and three-quarter Cosmos I’ve had are giving me liquid courage, so I keep looking, doing a quick above-the-belt assessment. Not a strand of hair out of place. Brown eyes that make you think of warm caramel on top of ice cream, thick lashes and neat, light brows, straight nose, square jaw line, clean-shaven. Broad shoulders, and the sweater is loose-fitting, but I’m betting on sculpted abs.

  And that’s as far south as I dare to go.

  Golden Boy is still smiling, and I realize I haven’t spoken yet, so I fix that. “Oh...hi.”

  Brilliant response, Delaney. My armpits are starting to feel sticky, and I don’t like this, especially since he smells so good and I don’t want to smell...arm-pitty. Then again, what does it matter? It’s not like I’m going to see him again after this, right?

  “Both of us seem to have lost our companions.” He tilts his head in the direction of the bar, and I look to see the guy he came in with talking to a curvy brunette. “My buddy Tommy saw a girl that caught his eye.” He pauses and winks, his lips in more of a smirk than a smile. “And looks like I did, too.”

  Well, there’s the line. I knew it was coming. I quickly turn around to drain what’s left of my Cosmo and set the glass back down, not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that. A simple thanks? Or a cleverly modest oh, really? Where is she?

  Fortunately, I don’t have to make that dec
ision, because he speaks again. “Okay if I sit down?”

  Before I even get a chance to reply, he’s pulling out Maddie’s chair. Just a little arrogant, maybe?

  “What if I was going to say no?” The words are out of my mouth before I can think. Most likely the vodka talking, but I’ve been known to speak my mind straight sober.

  “I knew you wouldn’t.”

  Correction: a lot arrogant. Jesus.

  “I’m Damon Cavanaugh.”

  He reaches out a hand, and I tentatively take it, feeling a little anxiety slither into my belly, along with other equally-unsettling sensations below. Just the simple act of his fingers against mine gets to me, so I quickly take my hand away and put it under the table where it’s safe.

  “Delaney Brewster.”

  “Interesting last name. Like ‘rooster’ with a B.”

  “Yes. That’s zzzactly what it’s like.” Whoops...I’m slurring. From the corner of my eye, I can see Maddie on the dance floor looking in my direction. I both want and don’t want her and Jack to come back, and the don’t want is freaking me out.

  “Cock-a-doodle-do.” Golden Boy—Damon—raises one neat, blond eyebrow as I try not to think about the fact that he just said cock. Not only said, but emphasized.

  For some reason this strikes me as wildly funny, and I giggle. Damon chuckles along with me.

  “ANYYYYway,” I arrange my face into a frown and change my tone, talking sternly, like I’m a librarian and he’s an unruly student. “Why did you come over here, Damon Cavanaugh?”

  “Because I think you’re hotter than hell.”

  I snort. “Hell is pretty hot. I hear it is, anyway...I haven’t actually been there. I mean, I’m not DEAD.” I start giggling again.

  “Somebody’s been drinking, huh?”

  “Yeppers.” I raise my empty glass to show him. There’s a new song playing, and Maddie and Jack stay out on the dance floor.

  “I’d like to get to know you better, Delaney.”

  I take the last nacho and scoop up some salsa with it. Maddie has a little of her Cosmo left, so I finish it off for her. “How do you know someone else isn’t doing that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  I finish crunching the chip, roll my eyes and sigh deeply. I speak a little louder so he’ll understand. “HOW do you KNOW someone ELSE isn’t doing that?”

  “I guess I just assumed you were single because you’re here with that other couple.” He nods toward the dance floor, where Jack and Maddie are holding hands. Jack bends down to kiss her, then looks over and winks at me, and I shake my head, laughing. “They seem pretty happy together.”

  “They ARE. Very, very happy.”

  “We all should be so lucky, right?”

  Something in his voice pierces through my boozy bubble. He really is so unfuckingbelievably handsome. He’s cocky, but it’s not obnoxiously cocky. Not really.

  “So...back to the getting to know you thing, Delaney. Are you seeing anybody?”

  “Nope. I don’t see people.”

  “Well, I have an idea I’d like to talk to you about. You might find it intriguing.”

  “An idea?”

  “Yes. This isn’t the time or the place, but maybe we could set up a time to meet?”

  My brain is fuzzy. What the hell is he talking about? It doesn’t sound like this is your typical guy sees girl in bar, guy asks girl out situation. I’m about ready to tell him I’m not interested when he leans in close, and that lethal smell floats into my nose and heads straight for my crotch. I find myself looking at his mouth—the very well-defined Cupid’s bow in his top lip—and the no thanks I’m planning on morphs into a why not.

  “I’m hoping we might be able to help each other out. I’m not going to explain now, but I’ll tell you about it when we meet.” His warm brown eyes crisscross over my face, down to my chest and back up to my eyes where he lets his gaze linger.

  I can’t keep looking at him, so I turn to watch the dance floor. I’m sweating again.

  Things—my feelings, my thoughts, my life in general—get blurry, and for some reason I think it’s perfectly fine to exchange cell phone numbers and possible times and places to meet. And smiles. We exchange smiles.

  As Damon Cavanaugh says goodbye and walks over to his friend at the bar, I realize I’m going to have to tell Maddie what just happened, and that’s going to be really effing weird, because she knows I don’t get involved with guys.

  What’s even weirder? Trying to find an answer as to why this time, I am.

  chapter 7 / Damon

  I’m driving to meet Tommy at the gym, feeling a little guilty about the nooner I just had with Eva at her apartment. That’s a new thing for me. Not the nooner—the guilt. Eva is young and eager, and that’s part of what makes her sexy as fuck, but those are also two things that bring on the guilt, even though I’ve made it crystal clear that I’m not into long-term relationships. I don’t want her to get too caught up in me, seeing as her internship will come to an end in a few more weeks. It’s been fun while it’s lasted, and from the moans and gasps she gives when I’m on top of her, it’s obvious she’s enjoying the sex as much as I am. My mantra in the bedroom has always been that the woman comes first—figuratively and literally. That’s the goal, and then and only then do I focus on my wants.

  So I try to be considerate and giving and make sure that everything’s on the table so no one gets the wrong idea or has hurt feelings. I’m definitely less of an asshole than I was in my college years, and I suspect as I get older, I’ll improve even more. I read some study about how the male brain isn’t fully developed until the age of twenty-five, and how men mature about eleven years after women. Makes total sense to me. I wasn’t thinking with my big head in my early twenties, that’s for fucking sure.

  On the other hand, I must be quite a ways away from full maturity if I’m trying to find a fake girlfriend to fend off my mother’s plan to fix me up. Christ. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and since Portia Bellamy is soon to arrive, I need to act quick. And that’s the reason I set up a meeting with Delaney for tomorrow, so I could make the proposal...replace will you marry me with will you make-believe with me? I’ll have to go to plan B, or C, or D—whatever it takes—if Delaney isn’t interested.

  Jesus, I really hope she is. I’ll find out for sure tomorrow, but I think she has the potential to be an ideal candidate for my plan. I didn’t want to walk away from her last night. I had to, though—didn’t want to put too much pressure on her because even though she was pretty hammered, I could tell she had some major league anxiety going on underneath. I got her to agree to meet with me, and that was all I needed. Like I said, though—I didn’t want to walk away. This girl looked beautiful from a distance when I first saw her in October, but up close...she was even more attractive. Delicate, refined face..high cheekbones dusted with pink, sparkly blue eyes, and a mane of blonde hair curling at her shoulders. She’s tiny, too—the kind of girl you could lift up easily, have her wrap her legs around your waist. I like those kind of girls. The blouse she had on was open at her neck, a blue that looked like it was reflected in her eyes. I could see under the table she was wearing white pants, but I couldn’t really see her ass. Believe me, I tried. Tomorrow, though, hopefully.

  I hit the gas on the Range Rover as I cruise down 102 toward Herrick Road and Harbor House Fitness Center. Tommy and I joined a few years ago and try to coordinate the days we work out, although it doesn’t always happen. He’s one of my best friends from high school and took over the family car dealership of European luxury vehicles about five years ago when his dad passed away. Tommy was all over my ass about Delaney last night. I wouldn’t tell him much...all I said was that I got her number, and then I changed the subject by asking about the girl he was hot for.

  It’s a good thing I’m working out today and can burn off some of this nervous energy. Afterwards, I plan to visit my secret happy place—that always calms me down, gets me centered.
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  One major hurdle is getting Delaney to say yes. Then all I have to do is convince the eagle-eyed woman who’s known me since birth that I’m in a legit, serious relationship with a woman I just met last night.

  Piece of cake.

  I find a parking spot at Harbor House. Looks pretty busy today...people taking advantage of the weekend and wanting to get in shape for spring, and seeing as it’s cold and windy today, it’s better to work out inside. A sea of colorful spandex and sports bras is much easier on the eyes than jogging on dull gray tar and looking down to avoid puddles and potholes.

  I say hi to Melly at the front desk and go to find Tommy. He’s over at the free weights, benching an impressive two seventy-five.

  I set my gym bag on the floor and wait for him to finish his set. “Hey, dude. Working off some sexual frustration?”

  “No need, my man. I got laid last night.” He sits up, pulls at the top of his t-shirt to wipe his face with it. “I’m guessing you might need to spend a couple hours on the treadmill, though, since you didn’t go home with Blondie.”

  “Good things come to those who wait, my friend. We’re meeting tomorrow.”

  When I was cooking up this whole faux girlfriend scheme, I thought of how I’m going to handle being with a hot woman for four months without actually being with her. It’s like having a slice of three-layer chocolate cake with buttercream frosting on your plate and not letting yourself eat it. And I really like cake. But I also like my lifestyle the way it is—contrary to what Gloria Cavanaugh wants for her son, I don’t do long-term relationships, and at this point, I don’t plan to fuck things up with the faux by, uh, fucking. That could definitely complicate things.

  I also realized that this arrangement has to be convincing to everyone in my inner circle, which kind of sucks, because this means lying to my best friend, and I’ve never lied to Tommy. Except for that one time in high school when he got his heart stomped by Angie Sutton, and I told him I heard that her father was a real dick and threatened to cut off your McNuggets if he found out you touched her.

  “I’m gonna do the treadmill, Cav. You going to lift, or do you want to run first?”