Begonia Fairchild might have passed an initial background check and signed the contract to play my fake girlfriend while never giving anyone the details under threat of financial ruination, but she’s also a tenacious pain in the ass.
Perfect for when my mother gets here.
Right now?
When I’d prefer to find a bed that her dog hasn’t shed all over so that I can sleep without waking up covered in hives and unable to breathe?
Right now, I’m considering the idea that a prison sentence for murder would also get me out of being attractive to the majority of the segment of the world’s single women who would like to snag the world’s last eligible heterosexual male billionaire.
Yes, only the majority.
I’m aware it wouldn’t solve my problem completely. Conjugal visits are apparently a turn-on in some circles, which was much funnier when I suggested that as the theme of a Razzle Dazzle movie to make my brother shut up after he won his Oscar.
“So if we’ve been talking on the internet for the past six months, that means we’ll know a lot about each other,” Begonia says as she dusts the bookshelves lining the fireplace. “Moby Dick? Really? Do you read it, or is it a conversation piece? There’s nothing wrong with reading commercial fiction instead of literary classics.”
She makes air quotes around classics, and I feel my face twitching. “The only story we need is that you find cranky assholes irresistibly charming.”
“That’s the plot of half the Razzle Dazzle films. No one’s going to believe it.”
“Quite frankly, Ms. Fairchild, I don’t need my mother to believe us. I merely need her to know I’ll make the family look bad in the press if she insists on presenting me with a parade of eligible women she’d like me to marry.”
She frowns again. “I don’t—oh. Oh. It’s not about telling your mom no, is it? It’s about the time and energy it takes every time she throws another woman at you. Or is it about disappointing your mother? Do you have mommy issues? I never thought I did until I announced I was divorcing Chad, and now I’m the disappointment.”
“Congratulations, Ms. Fairchild, you have confirmed that you do, in fact, listen three percent of the time.”
“My listening skills are fine. It’s your communication skills that need work. You had two options there, and you just said I listened. That’s not answering the question.” She waves the feather duster at me, sending particles floating into the shafts of light pouring in through the east-facing windows and making me flinch.
Billions of dollars in the bank, the majority of which I made on my own with wise investments as I took control of my trust fund, and then a bit of fun with bitcoin mining, and not a solution to be bought for basic environmental allergies. “One more thing you’ll be certain to tell my mother you find charming about me. Where the devil did you hide—”
The gate phone rings in the foyer before I can finish asking where she’s hidden fresh sheets. Begonia brightens, and her dog barks out on the screened-in porch, where he’s been locked away to cause minimal mischief.
“Oh, visitors!” Begonia tosses the duster onto the fireplace hearth and darts for the foyer. “Don’t worry, I’ll send them away. Unless they brought food. I definitely need to get over to town to get some food, since Marshmallow ruined everything in the fridge.”
“Don’t tell them—” I start, but she’s already answering the video intercom, which I haven’t upgraded to Bluetooth, because I like living in an old-fashioned world.
At least when I’m here.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Mayor Kristine Turner. We heard the owner’s back in residence. Just wanted to check and see if he needs anything?”
My shoulders creep up to my ears. “Tell her no,” I order softly, staying out of sight of the camera myself.
“Oh, no, we’re good,” Begonia chirps. “I’ll be coming into town in a little bit for supplies, but for now—”
“I can bring supplies,” the mayor interrupts. “Does Hayes need food? What about his favorite wine? My mom’s happy to make him her famous sponge cake. We know how much he loves that. Is he still allergic to strawberries and dogs?”
For god’s sake. I march into the foyer, stand to the side, and hit the button to hang up the connection. “I said, tell her no.”
“Hayes. That’s rude. Don’t hang up on people. How do I call her back?”
“You don’t. No one in town needs to know I’m here.”
“They already know you’re here. Also, you’re allergic to dogs? How does she know you’re…oh my god. Did she pretend to be your girlfriend another time when you were hiding from your mother here?”
The intercom buzzes again.
Begonia reaches for the button to answer, but I snag her hand—and then her other hand—before she can answer it. “Do. Not. Pick. Up. The. Intercom.”
She blinks up at me with bright green eyes under that glowing magenta hair. Her lips part, and her tongue darts out to sweep over her plump bottom lip. “Why?”
I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m holding onto her wrists, that her skin is smooth as silk, and she has three freckles—and only three—beneath the outer corner of her left eye. “Because I said so.”
“Someone who knows you love her mother’s sponge cake is clearly a friend, so what’s the big—” She cuts herself off, glancing at the small monitor showing Kristine standing at the gate, shifting back and forth on her feet, smiling hopefully. “You dated her, didn’t you? You seriously dated her.”
“Do not confirm for anyone that I’m here. Have I made myself clear?”
She nods, but there’s entirely too much going on in her expression. I’ve known a woman or two in my lifetime who’ve thought loudly.
Begonia doesn’t merely think loudly.
She uses a bullhorn.
And right now she’s broadcasting that she’d very much like a jumbo carton of popcorn to go with the tea I’m denying her.
I glower at her.
She visibly gulps and pulls her hands away. “There are fresh sheets in the laundry room. I’ll go fix up the bed. Do you know when your mother’s getting here? I’m great with parents, so if you wanted to go to sleep, you’re welcome to, and you can trust me to charm the pants off your mother. Which guest room does she like? I’ll get that fixed up too, and take the one in the basement for me and Marshmallow.”
“Your dog can sleep in the basement. You’ll be in my room.”
“I—”
“For the farce to work, Ms. Fairchild, you’ll be in my room.”
She looks at the video monitor once more, where Kristine keeps reaching out like she wants to hit the buzzer again, but keeps having second thoughts. “Can I at least tell the mayor I’ll let her know if I need anything?”
“No.”
“You’re incredibly unreasonable.”
I’m incredibly tired of people who have no right to make demands of me thinking they’re entitled to my time. “It’s a perk of being me.”
She doesn’t answer.
Even her face gets quiet.
And that’s possibly more disconcerting than anything else about this entire situation.
