She laughs. “You’re just offended that I asked. I’ll see you in an hour, son.”
“I’ll think about it. You can’t just tell me what to do,” I mutter halfheartedly.
“Do not disappoint me. And fake arrangement or not, I should have Miss Poe over for dinner soon. We have a spectacular wedding to plan.” She sighs. “I just wish your father was here to see it.”
“There’s nothing to see. It’s a fake engagement and there’ll be wedding photos with no wedding.”
“No wedding?” She sounds aghast. “Well, we’ll just see about that. Are you on your way or what?”
Damn her, she’s insufferable.
“Fine,” I grind out, ending the call as I stalk to the elevator.
Roughly an hour later after a ride through traffic and a ferry hop with the cool breeze hitting me square in the face, I open Mother’s front door.
She rushes over to hug me like she hasn’t seen me for ten years.
“You’re finally engaged. I don’t have to live forever.”
“Fake engaged, Ma. And you won’t die on us since Dad checked out early.”
She squeezes me tight before her embrace softens and releases me.
“No one lives forever, and your father didn’t go willingly, of course. He’d never do that. It was just his time.”
Yeah. The last thing I want is to relive Dad’s untimely demise.
“Why am I here again?” I ask.
“Because I’m excited for you, Lincoln.” She claps her hands in front of her chest and then pinches my cheek. “Fake or not, you’re finally moving on.”
Fuck.
A terrible part of me wonders if she might be right, and if I am...what then?
“I’ve said it a dozen times and you’re still not listening. I’m not getting married. I’m not even engaged. The crap is a marketing ploy, and nothing else. I don’t plan on getting married for a few more lifetimes.”
A little pitchfork digs at my brain as my words turn over.
If that’s true, why did I tell Dakota we’d spend time together without any bystanders sniffing around until we find out how serious we can be?
Seriousness has its limits when I’ve sworn off marriage to the grave, right?
“Come here, dear. I need to show you something.” She takes my hand and leads me to my father’s study. The same room has served as the family library for years. It’s barely changed since the day Dad died like a weird sort of memorial to him frozen in time.
Shelves line the soaring walls, overflowing with books.
The entire space breathes with a literary soul, whispering in ink and old pages, dreams and ideas and bygone wisdom. I’d spend whole afternoons here growing up, my nose stuffed in a volume bigger than my head, teleported to Narnia, Neverland, and Middle Earth.
I wish like hell I was in a fairy tale now.
Then I wouldn’t be standing here, watching as Ma moves to one well-organized shelf and starts pulling out books for some big lecture. Looks like she’s milling around in fiction.
Sometimes she pulls a book out, scans the front cover, and replaces it quickly. When she’s done rifling through them, she has a stack of paperbacks in vibrant red and white and pastel colors that she needs both hands to hold.
“Here. Read at least three of them,” she says with a severe librarian look.
I look down. The first book on the stack has a man so airbrushed he can’t be real with a woman in his arms and a grinning pig behind them.
Hog Fights Under City Lights: A Second Chance Romance by Emily Bristol.
“Aw, Ma, you’re kidding, right? I don’t have time to read romance novels. Can’t you skip to the point?” Yeah, I already regret coming here.
“These are all fake relationships that turned into happily ever afters. I met Dakota at the office the day I brought cupcakes. You could do worse, you know. Oh, and I hope you found whoever was so rude to her and taught them some manners.” Her left eye twitches with this funny little tic she has when she’s mad.
Considering the rude asshole was me, I’d say the lesson was received.
Also, Nevermore’s new name should be Snitch.
She holds the stack of books out for me insistently.
I make no effort to take them.
“At least choose one!”
“Ma, this is insane. Sure, life imitates art sometimes, but real relationships aren’t based on lies and...” I pause, my eyes flicking to the top cover again. “Pigs who smile, apparently.”
“Boy, where is your imagination?” she mutters under her breath before dropping the books on a table. “Fine. Be that way. But if your 'marketing stunt' opens the door for you even a little bit, I’ll pray you don’t mess this up.”
“There will be no messing anything up. It’s not real,” I tell her. “I want you to acknowledge that, Ma. Prove to me you’re not losing it.”
She folds her arms and glares.
Okay, fine. Maybe I took it too far.