by Sienna Ciles
It was a white house with dark trim, a low, rambling porch and a huge front window. The driveway seemed to have been renewed with fresh concrete within the last year or so. There was a little pathway from the drive to the porch, with brick pavers and a few low lights--probably on the same timer as the porch light--picking it out of the early winter darkness. I pulled in behind Bethany’s car and shut off my engine, feeling weirdly drowsy in the heat of my car’s interior.
I got out and the cold air hit me, waking me right back up. I took my backpack from the back seat, slinging it over my shoulder, and then I watched as Bethany hauled a suitcase out of the trunk of her Prius. Considering that she had only come into town for the long weekend and I’d been on the road for weeks, you’d think that her luggage wouldn’t be so much more than mine, but I’d found that I could survive for a pretty good, long while with little more than a backpack, a wallet, and a passport.
I followed Bethany up the pathway and to the front door, and watched her unlock the house. “It should be pretty warm, since I think my parents probably set the heat to come on automatically a few hours ago, for when I got into town,” she said.
“Not bad, remote temperature control,” I said, eyeing Bethany up and down quickly. She rolled her eyes at me and opened the door. Sure enough, the house was a good ten degrees warmer than outside, maybe fifteen. It was just as normal-looking, neat and tidy on the inside as it had been on the outside, and I wondered if Bethany’s family was house-proud or if they’d hired someone to take care of everything while they were out of town, just so that they would come home to a nice place.
“They set it just so the house wouldn’t be freezing when I came in,” Bethany said, shrugging it off. “Besides, remote access is energy-efficient.”
“I’m sure,” I agreed, following her into the house. The furniture in the living room didn’t look brand new, but it did look like someone took very good care of it, along with the rug on the hardwood floor.
“The guest bedroom is right over here, next to the stairs,” Bethany explained, gesturing to a door there. “My parents’ and my rooms are both upstairs.”
“That doesn’t seem all that convenient for you,” I pointed out. Bethany shrugged.
“They figured that whoever was over as a guest would be better off in the downstairs bedroom. More privacy, their own bathroom access, all that,” she said absently. “I’m going to go change out of my work clothes and into pajamas. The kitchen is over there if you want something to drink, the bathroom is right here on the other side of the stairs...and just, um, I guess make yourself at home.”
I nodded and watched her hurry up the stairs for a moment before turning my attention back onto the house itself. I wandered into the kitchen and looked around a bit, taking in the fully-stocked fridge, the organized pantry. I immediately got the impression that Bethany’s over-organized life probably came from her mother. There were two sets of dishes in the cabinets, one pretty obviously the “company” dishes and the other--one or two plates bearing chips, the pattern a little less complicated--the “family” dishes. Same with glasses, and when I found the silverware drawer, it was the same there, too.
The guest bedroom was clean and neat, and I was pretty sure Bethany’s parents--or their maid service--had gone through right before they left town. The bed was made with a matching duvet and thermal quilt and pillow covers, and I could smell the kind of fabric softener-like smell of carpet cleaner, mingled with the candy-lemon smell of wood cleaner for the dressers and tables. There wasn’t anything overly cute about the room, but it was still rather feminine in its own way.
I took off my belt and shoes and took my wallet out of my pocket, and then decided to just go all the way and put on a pair of pajama pants. There were two pairs of slippers next to the guest room door--one obviously for a guy and the other obviously for a woman. I chose the men’s slippers and stepped out of the bedroom to see if Bethany had come back down yet.
She had, and looked kind of adorable in a pair of fuzzy, thermal pajama pants and a tee shirt, along with slippers, standing in the kitchen over the electric kettle.
“You guys are really into slippers, aren’t you?” I asked.
Bethany turned around to face me and I saw that even without makeup she was pretty good-looking.
“Mom’s and my feet get cold,” Bethany admitted, smiling slightly as if she’d just confessed something shameful.
“It’s thoughtful to have some extra pairs of slippers for visitors,” I said.
“Mom wants to cover all the bases. When you go into the bathroom, you’ll see it’s fully stocked, too,” she told me, shaking her head. “I never really have visitors so I don’t have anything like that at my place.”
“I would never have guessed you don’t have visitors,” I said drily.
Bethany blushed and turned back to the kettle. “I was making some tea if you want some.”
“Nah, not much of a tea drinker these days,” I replied.
“There’s beer in the fridge, I think, if you’d rather have that. And bottled water, and other stuff,” Bethany added.
Why is someone as cute as she is so incredibly awkward? It just didn’t make any sense.
“I’ll get some water in a bit,” I said.
I watched as Bethany moved around the kitchen, getting some kind of tea and making it, trying to figure out the awkwardness she was putting across. Surely she wasn’t like this in her work life? She couldn’t have gotten so high up in the agency hierarchy as she apparently was if she was this awkward.
“Sorry I’m being a little weird,” Bethany said then, as if she’d been reading my mind. “I just…” She shrugged and turned to face me, blushing slightly.
“You just what?” I had to admit I was getting more and more curious about her by the moment.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been alone with a guy and I wasn’t really thinking that part of things through,” Bethany said. “Besides, it’s just occurred to me that I invited a stranger to stay at my parents’ house for a long weekend, and I feel like I probably should have done some more intensive background-checking before taking the plunge.”
I laughed. “I swear to you I’m not some drifter who hooks up with random successful women in the hopes of murder-raping them in their parents’ homes,” I said.
Bethany’s blush intensified and she bit her bottom lip, and I could tell she was torn between laughing at my comment and feeling offended by it.
“Whatever. Just don’t make me regret making this choice, okay?” She raised an eyebrow at me and smiled slightly, and looked, for a second, like she was all of sixteen again: cute, fresh, young, and sweet.
“I am not going to trash the house and I’m not going to do anything illegal,” I said, more seriously.
“Good to know,” Bethany said.
I snorted, shaking my head. “Go drink your tea and get some sleep,” I suggested. “You look like you’re running on caffeine and nerves and that’s not a good way to go into your big reunion weekend.” I stepped out of her way and Bethany gave me a quick look before walking past me, toward the stairs.
I looked in the fridge again, and made a mental note or two about what was on hand. Bethany’s parents clearly had good taste; there was plenty of good stuff to eat and drink available, and I had to think they hadn’t necessarily gone out of their way. Or maybe they had--hoping that their daughter would have friends over at some point? Whatever the case, I thought I had a good idea for breaking the ice with the weird, cute woman, and maybe shaking some of her awkwardness loose.
Chapter Five
Bethany
I woke up the next morning with the instant apprehension that I’d made a huge mistake. Had I really invited a person I’d just met to stay in my parents’ house, after hiring him to pretend to be my boyfriend for several days? Is the reunion really worth that kind of a risk? I’d planned--originally--to interview people for the “position” of my boyfriend but had chickened out at the
last minute, thinking it was just too pathetic.
I got out of bed quickly, throwing on a robe I’d left behind the last time I’d visited. I opened the door to my bedroom. As soon as I did, the smell of coffee and breakfast greeted me, and my stomach informed me that in spite of the big meal I’d had the night before at the diner, I was hungry.
I hurried downstairs and into the kitchen, to find Ransom standing over the stove, making pancakes. He’s making pancakes. I looked around, still shocked, and saw bacon, eggs, and even a big bowl of cut-up fruit set up off to the side, ready to be eaten. I’d been worrying about whether I’d invited some kind of serial killer into my parents’ home, and Ransom had gotten up to make breakfast--and not just breakfast, but what looked like an actual breakfast feast.
“Good morning,” I said, still locked in confusion at the sight I’d walked in on.
“Oh--hey, I figured you’d be up soon,” Ransom said, sounding utterly and completely at ease.
“So, you made a giant breakfast,” I said, still not quite awake enough to fully form the question.
“I thought you’d probably be hungry, and with everything so well-stocked and all, I figured it’d be a nice way for you to wake up,” he said with a shrug.
“I guess…” I shook my head and stepped across the kitchen to the table, where I saw my parents’ big French press filled and ready to go. I poured myself a cup of coffee and went back to the fridge for milk. “This is kind of a lot,” I pointed out, gesturing to the big, already-prepared meal.
“It’s really not,” Ransom said.
“A meal like this would take me probably about a good hour to set up,” I pointed out. Looking at it more closely, it all looked absolutely perfectly cooked, as well.
“I used to spend a lot of time hanging out with a chef friend, who taught me a few things,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Oh,” I said, more for the sake of saying something than anything else. I looked at Ransom’s back, taking in the lean-muscled frame, the tattoos I could see on his arms, and remembering the general vibe I’d had about him the night before. How did a guy like that have a chef friend? I thought of asking, but pushed the idea out of my mind. Why can’t a guy just randomly have a chef friend? I mean, it isn’t like that’s a rare job. It didn’t jibe with the impression I’d had with him, but in fairness I didn’t really know almost anything at all about him.
“So what’s on the agenda for today?” Ransom flipped the last of the pancakes onto a plate and turned to face me. His hair was looking much less styled than the night before, but still looked messily good--and I pulled my robe around me a bit tighter, wondering how I looked, fresh out of bed with my hair messed up and no makeup on.
“I guess we eat breakfast and start working out our cover story, so we can be prepared for the first event tonight,” I said, sipping my coffee.
“What’s happening tonight?” Ransom began bringing the plates and platters over to the table and I got up to help him. The fact that he apparently was already completely comfortable in my parents’ kitchen--that he seemed to know it at least as well as I did--unsettled me a bit, but I pushed the thought away again. Focus on what’s important.
“There’s a big dinner and mixer type of thing at the school. I’m assuming it’s going to be catered, because I really doubt anyone will want to eat cafeteria food, no matter how nostalgic they were feeling,” I explained.
“What are the other events?”
I shrugged. “It’s like a kind of homecoming week thing--themed events with dress-up stuff and a fair of some kind, stuff like that.”
“Sounds like fun--and then at the end of the whole deal, there’s some kind of dance?”
I nodded and started helping myself to eggs and bacon.
“It’s supposed to be like a callback to prom, I guess,” I said. I’d bought an expensive dress for the occasion, and it only just then it occurred to me that I had no idea what Ransom would wear. “We need to get you a suit or a tux or something.”
“I know where I can get one--I’m set,” Ransom said.
That tickled my curiosity again, but I decided to let it go.
“So we need to figure out what our cover story is going to be. How we met, all that kind of stuff,” I pointed out.
“Well, the important thing to come up with first is how long have we been dating?” Ransom sat down across from me and started serving himself coffee and juice and pancakes.
“That’s a good question.” I ate a forkful of eggs--still somehow perfect, enough so that I had to wonder just how Ransom had managed it--and thought about that for a moment. “I feel like longer than about two years would be weird, but shorter than six months would, too.”
“Yeah, I feel like you wouldn’t invite a boyfriend you’d been dating for a few months to your reunion,” Ransom agreed. “Why would longer than two years be weird?”
“Because showing up with a boyfriend that long-term would be a question of why no one ever heard about you,” I pointed out.
“Oh, right,” Ransom said, nodding after a second. “So why not say like...a year? Wouldn’t that be long enough to be an established relationship?”
“I guess. It’ll still open up some questions about why nobody knows about it, but not as many,” I agreed.
“So, we’ve been dating for a year, getting kind of serious--which will definitely also give everyone the idea that you’re successful in all parts of your life,” Ransom goes on with a little playful grin at me.
“That is the point,” I told him.
“How would you have met someone? Do you do online dating?”
I shake my head, dismissing the idea completely. “I don’t want it to be some boring story about meeting someone through Tinder or something.”
“Or is it actually that you don’t want people thinking that you were trawling Tinder for hookups a year ago?” Ransom raised an eyebrow at me and I felt my cheeks heating up with a blush.
“If you’re going to be my fake boyfriend, we might as well have a good, fake meet-cute,” I pointed out. “That’s half the fun of a sham relationship.”
“I could be a big donor to your agency,” Ransom suggested, just as I took a sip of juice.
“No,” I said, once I’d cleared out my mouth and throat. “No, that would never work.”
Ransom raised both eyebrows at me.
“Why not?” He almost sounded offended.
I gestured up and down along the shape of him.
“Tell me how many people would believe that a tattooed guy with 1950s bad-boy hair is a super donor for an adoption agency,” I pointed out.
Ransom chuckled. “Hey--people with 1950s bad-boy hair can be wealthy and have diverse interests.”
“They can, but they usually don’t,” I countered.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover, Bethany. Besides, what did you have in mind?”
I thought about it for a few seconds, realizing--too late, again--that I hadn’t actually put all that much thought into my plot to have a fake boyfriend at my reunion.
“I definitely think it should be through work,” I said slowly.
“You’re not going to be my boss--that’s just too rom-com,” Ransom told me.
“No, I wouldn’t want to be your boss anyway--that would sound incredibly unprofessional,” I agreed.
“So, what’s something that could have brought us together, but where you’re not my boss?”
I thought about it as I ate some bacon and some fruit. “You could have been someone working with the agency on an event.”
“Like one of your banquets or donor drives or something?” he asked.
“Yeah--like we have a bunch of events throughout the year to get donors to give money,” I explained.
“Like any non-profit,” Ransom agreed.
“You could be an independent contractor or something--someone doing something to help make one of the events happen,” I said.
“I could be a chef,” Ransom offere
d.
I snorted. “Just because you had a chef buddy and know how to make an awesome breakfast doesn’t mean that you could pretend to be a chef professionally for a whole weekend. Besides, how would you have worked with the agency as a chef?”
“I mean a chef-caterer,” Ransom explained.
“Go on,” I said, curious in spite of my initial rejection.
“Maybe I’m a chef in charge of a catering company that your agency used for some big banquet type event or dinner for donors,” Ransom suggested.
“And we met because I was in charge of that event,” I added.
“Over the course of a few weeks I seduced you with my delicious food and exceptional professionalism, and after the event was over, we started dating,” Ransom finished.
I set my fork down, considering that as our cover.
“That actually works,” I said. “I mean, it’s a little cheesy but still in the realm of possibility. It’s something that people could actually believe.”
“And it plays to your strengths as someone whose life revolves around her work,” Ransom said.
I scowled at him, torn between feeling offended that he’d pegged me so accurately and amused that he was confident enough to make the comment--I had, after all, admitted I didn’t have much of a social life. “You’re going to make about a million jokes about me being a workaholic this weekend, aren’t you?”
Ransom grinned slowly. “A million and one,” he said. “And what kind of long-standing relationship would we have if I wasn’t able to do that?”
“Fair enough,” I said. “But only if I can make playful digs about...food. Or something.”
Ransom snorted. “Maybe let me take the lead in the playful digs,” he suggested.
“Whatever. We’ll make it work,” I said.
“Now we need to come up with a name,” Ransom said. “I’m sure as hell not going to be Ransom for this.”
“How about James? That’s...a name I’ve always liked,” I suggested. It was a first name that had belonged to one of my biggest college crushes.
“James is fine. I can remember that,” Ransom said.
