by Remy Rose
“Damon. You’re late.”
He bends down to give her a quick peck on each cheek. Very European. “You know as well as I do that these events have a leisurely start time, Mother.”
She’s staring at him frostily, and I realize she hasn’t even acknowledged that I exist. My palms are clammy, and I’m trying to figure out if I can discreetly wipe them on my dress before I have to shake her hand.
Damon doesn’t wait for her to respond. “I’d like you to meet Delaney Brewster. Delaney, this is my mother, Gloria Cavanaugh.”
I pretend to smooth out my skirt in a subtle attempt to dry off my hand. Gloria turns to me, her eyes meeting mine almost reluctantly.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Cavanaugh.” I tell her, plastering on my winningest smile as I reach out my hand.
Her upper lip curls as she closes her fingers around the ends of mine for just a second and then takes her hand back. Her eyes flick from one side of my face to the other, and I’m quite sure she’s looking at my stupid naked earlobes. “I take it you haven’t been here before. What do you think of the place?”
“It’s beautiful. Elegant. I’m glad Damon invited me,” I say, feeling a bit daring as I slip my arm through his.
“I suggested it. I thought you might feel comfortable at this sort of event, where it’s for charity.” She bares her teeth as I clench mine, trying to ignore the fact that she just insulted the crap out of me. Side note: Smiling Gloria is almost scarier than Sullen Gloria.
Damon’s arm slides around my waist as I square my shoulders. “What was it you always used to say, Mother? Something about how you liked donating to the homeless because it was a good way to get rid of your expired food.”
If looks could kill, Gloria’s son would be six feet under right about now. “Oh, Damon...let’s not give away all my secrets to your new friend.” She stabs her cold eyes at me. “I could use a drink. Why don’t we all go to the bar, and we can continue chatting?”
I glance up at Damon. His perfect mouth is set in a hard line. For the first time, I’m feeling sorry for him, having a mother like this—and I’m also feeling less guilty about being paid two hundred and fifty grand to put up with this Tyrannosaurus Rex in heels.
We follow her over to the antique bar which is equally as elegant and beautiful as the rest of the place, with hand carvings in the dark wood. There’s an assortment of small white plates with different pairings: champagne and oysters, wine and cheese, tiny corndogs and beer, French brandy and truffles. Even though the drinks are in small cups, I’ll need to be very careful, because Drunk Delaney would be no match for Glowering Gloria.
We each take a plate. The fringe on my shawl keeps slipping into my food, so much so that Damon asks if I’d like him to take it to the coat room. I smile, but my eyes are telling him don’t you dare fucking leave me alone with your mother, and apparently my fake boyfriend is a good eye-reader because he stays put.
Gloria, who has ordered a martini to make her own pairing, steps closer to me. “Delaney...tell me, what is it you like about my son?”
I cast my gaze innocently to Damon, who lifts his eyebrows and gives me his own silent optic message. “How much time do you have?” I say sweetly.
“Highly amusing, dear, but I’d like to hear specifics.”
This is going to be difficult, because I mostly can’t stand him and could give her plenty of reasons why. I also don’t want to add to his already lofty view of himself, but I do need to come across as crazy about him and convince his mother that I know him fairly well, even though I don’t.
“Well, obviously, I was first captivated by his good looks, the way he carries himself with…” I clip off the word arrogance just in time. “...confidence.”
His mother is looking at me smugly. “Somehow, I’m not at all surprised that you’re focusing on the superficial.”
“Damon’s appearance was what first drew me to him. But even though I haven’t known him very long, I can already tell there’s more to him than this.” I feel my faux boyfriend’s gaze on me, his surprised anticipation swirling around me like smoke. “He’s funny and witty and charming, and there’s a warmth and sensitivity to him underneath that I could feel right away.”
There is a silence among the three of us. Gloria is undoubtedly plotting ways to kill me. I’m less sure of her son’s reaction—maybe that I’m worth the two fifty grand, or maybe his mega-healthy ego has just expanded to the size of this great room.
Or maybe he’s wondering how much of that I really meant.
And honestly? He’s not the only one. I surprised even myself, because those compliments came out quite easily.
Gloria is the first one to speak. “How very, very nice, Delaney. So it must not bother you, then, that he’s well-known for being a perpetual bachelor and has had many women before you...and undoubtedly will have some during you?”
Damon steps close to me then, draping his arm around my shoulders and making the skin on the back of my neck prickle. There is a distinctly gritty edge to his voice. “Delaney doesn’t need to worry about other women, because I’m not interested in anyone else. If you’ll excuse us, Mother, I think we’re both done being insulted by you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
And just like that, he steers me away from seething Gloria, to one of the love seats in front of the fireplace.
“Great job, Ms. Brewster—you handled yourself very well.”
“Do you think she’ll try to talk to us again? She seemed pretty pissed off.”
“She’ll get over it. She knows she’s crossed a line.” He stretches his arms across the back of the love seat as I try not to notice his white shirt tightening over his chest.
“She’s definitely more intense than I was expecting.”
“Sorry about the digs she got in. It’s not you—she’s just hell-bent on me marrying who she wants.” Damon leans closer to me, lowering his head like people do when they want to be more intimate. I can smell his cologne and brace myself. “So...those things you said about me.” His eyes are a warm golden brown.
I swallow. “Impressive, huh?’
“Yeah. You almost had me believing you meant them.”
“Then mission accomplished, because that’s what you’re paying me for.”
He holds my gaze with his, so hard that I’m scared he can see right into me to find out things I don’t even know. I’m aware that this room is filled with color, classical music, conversation and laughter and aromas of warm food, but my senses are on overdrive taking in the man beside me.
Suddenly, it’s too much to be sitting here like we’re a couple. “I’m starving,” I tell him. “Why don’t you take your fake girlfriend over to get some more real food?”
There it is again—that intense look, pinning me down with his eyes till I almost forget how to breathe.
He breaks the tension with a quizzical grin. “Okay, Sprite. I can do that.”
After a few drinks, I find I can relax a bit, especially since Gloria is keeping her distance. I catch her staring at me a few times, followed by a look of pure distaste if she sees Damon holding my hand or putting his arm around my waist. I’m trying to get more used to him being physical, but it’s like a branding iron every time he touches me.
For the rest of the evening, we gorge ourselves on the pairings, bid on a few silent auction items, and Damon introduces me to some people. I meet Bill, the vice-president of Cavanaugh Yacht, and a very attractive, dark-haired woman whom I learn went to high school with Damon. She’s maybe had a bit too much to drink, and you can tell her husband is a little uncomfortable with how she keeps touching Damon’s arm and giggling, and I wonder if she and the Payor ever had a thing in the past. Or if they want to in the future.
I use the restroom, touch up my face with a little bronzer and lip gloss and snag a couple of breath mints. When I come out, Damon’s waiting for me, looking as relaxed as he’s been tonight.
“My mother just left.”
“I
take it you’re glad?”
“Ecstatic. Want to get out of here?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
I’m a little surprised he doesn’t take my hand as we head out the door. Then again, now that we’re out of view, we’re also out of character, so I guess that make sense.
It’s a beautiful, clear night with a smattering of stars tossed across the sky. Damon opens my passenger door—still playing the part of a gentleman—and I climb in, feeling quite content. Full belly, comfortably buzzed, and I made it through opening night relatively unscathed.
Before Damon gets in, he takes off his tux jacket and hangs it on a hook in the car, then removes his bow tie and unbuttons the top of his shirt, and oh, look...a person can see the bulge of arm muscles and the outline of pecs underneath that shirt, if that person wants to. As we drive off, the heater in the Range Rover is blowing gently, and the car is filled with the undeniably delectable scent of the driver’s cologne. God, I wish he didn’t smell so nice. Look so good. Sound so sexy. Et cetera.
“How did you feel about tonight?”
I’m not exactly sure how to answer, mainly because I’ve been analyzing that same thing myself. “I was glad to get that initial meeting over with. I thought it went all right.”
“Good.” He lowers the volume on the radio. “You were jumpy tonight, whenever I touched you.”
I shift a little in my seat. “Sorry.”
“I’m not looking for an apology—just trying to figure out why, or if it was something I did.”
“It’s not you.” Truthfully, part of it is him. “It’s me.” I hesitate, not intending to open the door here, but something inside me leans on it hard. “I haven’t been touched by a man in a long time.”
“I have to think that’s your choice, because a guy’s got to be fucking blind or crazy or both, not to want to put his hands on you.” Damon says this matter-of-factly, his eyes on the road, thankfully oblivious that he’s got my vagina’s attention. “Have you had many relationships?”
“If by ‘many,” you mean more than two, then no.”
“Seriously? Wow. Again, guessing that’s also your choice. I can relate to the not being in relationships, though—I prefer being single. But being touched—different story. Yeah, I’ve got to have that.” He gives me a dazzling grin that tugs at my pelvis. “So why have you taken yourself off the market? I’m thinking you must have a good reason.”
All of a sudden, I have the crazy, totally fucked-up idea of wanting to tell him the whole story, which makes absolutely zero sense because I don’t discuss this with anyone—not even Maddie. Thankfully, rational thought prevails, and I shrug and give him a partial-truth of how I don’t want to complicate my life right now.
He’s nodding. “That’s exactly how I feel. Simple and single, baby, all the way.”
“So you don’t do relationships.”
“No. I’ve had a few short-term ones, but nothing serious.” He tilts his head to smile at me. “You’ll be my longest commitment. Imagine that.”
“Yes, imagine.”
“Just until Portia goes back to England.” He grimaces. “I have to pick her up at the airport Thursday.”
“Maybe you’ll fall madly in love with her.”
“Highly doubtful. I don’t think I’m built to fall madly in love with anyone.”
“That woman tonight, with the dark hair who was so into you...were you ever in a relationship with her?”
“She was actually the first girl I slept with, in high school.”
“She acted like she wanted to relive it.”
Damon chuckles. “The first time is always memorable.”
And not always in a good way.
“Want a fun fact about your fake boyfriend, Sprite?”
“Probably not.”
“Sure you do. I make every single time memorable for a woman. I figure, someone’s sharing her body with me. I don’t take that lightly. I reward a woman in many ways for allowing me to be intimate with her. And I’m talking many ways.”
Sweet baby Jesus. I lean forward and slide the heat control toward cool as he chuckles.
“I can be cocky as fuck and I’m far from a saint, but there are more layers to me than that. Just like with you—you’re more than just gorgeous and feisty.”
“Are you saying that underneath, I’m a homely wimp?”
“I’m saying you’re gorgeous and feisty, but there’s a part of you that’s about as delicate as wings on a hummingbird, and if anyone wants to truly have you—all of you—then they need to understand and respect that.”
I turn my head to look at him. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, and his face is smooth and calm as though he didn’t just unravel a thread in the fabric of my soul.
“What are you thinking, Sprite?”
“I’m thinking that sometimes, you are absolutely nothing that I expect.”
“Good.”
We cross 176 into Surry, the stretch of road that hugs the ocean before you get to Ellsworth. We’re about ten minutes from my apartment.
I am utterly amazed to have mixed feelings about this.
“So...to get back to my earlier question about you being jumpy when I touched you.”
“I’m sorry about that. I’ll try to be better next time.”
“Stop apologizing. I was thinking I could maybe help you with it.”
My heart flutters and flips. “I don’t know how you’d do that.”
“It’s very simple. Touch you more—off-stage, so to speak—so you’d get used to it. Change your perspective from being jumpy to wanting me to jump you.”
“Hmm...I don’t know, Demon. I’ll need some time to think that over...consider it from all angles...annnd there. Nope. Nice try, though.”
His chuckle is warm, deep and rich. “Something tells me you’ll revisit this later. Maybe tonight, in bed.”
It’s probably best that there are only minutes remaining for me to be in the car with him, because the more he talks...laughs...glances...breathes, for God’s sake, the more I feel my stance weaken. I strengthen my voice and hope the rest of me will follow. “Do you enjoy talking like this to all women?”
“Only the ones I’m attracted to. I had initially decided I didn’t want to get involved physically with you, but that seems to have changed. And this kind of talk is nothing for me, Sprite. I’ve actually been holding back.” He reaches over the center console to take my hand. “There are a lot of things I’d like to say to you, believe me.”
“About…?” FUCK. Why did I let that slip out? I’m supposed to be stamping out the fire, not adding fuel to it!
“What I imagine you’re thinking. What I’d like to do to you.”
His voice has changed—it’s no longer playful, but serious. Low. Husky. There’s an instant throbbing between my legs. I fear for his leather seat. Where the hell is my apartment, and why didn’t someone have the good sense to build it closer? I have to get out of this car before I respond in a way I shouldn’t. Something in me has changed—there are small cracks in the protective walls I’ve so carefully constructed around myself over the past several years—cracks that could turn into openings that a Damon Cavanaugh could fit through, if I don’t watch it.
He isn’t saying anything more—probably waiting for me to—but he’s still holding my hand as we pull into my driveway. He puts the gear shift in park and starts to take off his seat belt.
“No. Don’t walk me in.” I’m practically begging as I slide my hand out of his grip. “Please, just don’t walk me in, okay?”
Damon looks at me in surprise, his lips curving into a small, rueful smile. “Okay, Delaney,” he says gently. “Listen, I didn’t mean to stress you out. I just thought that maybe I could get you to relax and enjoy yourself, and we could have a little fun with this. But it would have to be mutual fun, or it’s a no-go. Maybe you can just think about it. No worries, though, and no pressure, okay? Have a good night.”
I can feel his eyes on
my back as I walk quickly to my steps and unlock my door. I’m trembling, and I’m glad Damon can’t see. I’m not scared of him, specifically...more like scared of the feelings he’s bringing out in me. How he’s affected me since the first time I saw him.
I pull the drapes across the picture window, feeling a little pang watching the taillights of the Range Rover get smaller and smaller as Damon pulls away. I want to change out of my dress, get comfortable so I can relax and try to process all of this. I’ll have to text Maddie tomorrow—tell her I had a date with Malibu Ken. I didn’t want to tell her before because I was already keyed up enough, but now I have to, since Damon and I are going to be a couple. She’ll freak, and I’ll have to deal with feeling like total crap because it’s a lie.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave…Walter Scott definitely knew what he was talking about.
Curling up in my bed with a wine cooler and my favorite fleece throw, I flick on the TV and find season six of Friends on Netflix. I’m feeling calmer, but there is a distinctive ache pulsing inside me. The question is, what am I going to do about it? I’m locked in to the deal now—there’s no turning back, especially since I’m going to be the proud owner of the corner of Main and School Street.
I just never imagined that this faking act would also include faking it with him...pretending he’s not getting to me, pretending I don’t imagine his kiss, his touch, and more. The goal is for me to be believable as his girlfriend, but I was never supposed to see myself in those terms. Ironic.
There’s a lot of things I’d like to say to you, believe me.
I want to know what he would say.
Like really, really want to know.
I drink the rest of my wine cooler and glance over at the iPhone on my nightstand. There is a way I could find out what he would say.
Do I really want to go there?
I’m picking up my phone, finding him in my contacts and starting a text message, so I guess that would mean yes, I do. Who knew my thumbs would be so reckless and bold?
