Marrying My Billionaire Boss

“No, but make her something you’d make for your own mom. I would, anyway. Shows how you really are, you know?”

Right! That’s great advice. It’s bad enough Nate and I are lying to Blanche already. And who doesn’t like a good roasted chicken? “Thanks, that’s a perfect idea. Okay, gotta go. I need to pick some stuff up from the store.”

“Good luck!”

Feeling like I’m on a reality cooking show, I rush through the grocery store and grab a whole free-range chicken, a few herbs, a locally grown lemon, a bag of rice, butter, bacon, whole-wheat bread, a pre-made pie crust and two pounds of peaches—all of them organic, fresh, locally sourced and hideously expensive. I can hear my bank account screaming as I swipe my credit card at the cash register.

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. I need to prep the right kind of food for Nate’s mom. We aren’t married for real, but she deserves a good effort from the woman who’s supposed to be her son’s new wife.

I drive to his place, then let myself in and take stock of his kitchen. I’ve never used it like I’m about to now, but I’m grateful it’s fully furnished, with double convection ovens and a giant gas stovetop. I dump my suitcases in the living room for the moment, then start the chicken and the peach cobbler. I need to hurry or I won’t have enough time to make sure everything’s done by six. As it is, I barely have seventy minutes to prep and cook everything.

While the chicken and the peach cobbler are going in the ovens, I drag the suitcases up the stairs. The master bedroom is empty, an

d it’s weird to go in there without Nate around…like I’m invading his privacy or something. I can’t believe I’m supposed to share this space for the next six weeks. He doesn’t even have two beds. Just one giant California king. I wonder if we can discreetly install a rollaway cot.

Come on, Evie. Think of it like an extended sleepover. Just like in junior high and high school.

Yeah, except my girlfriends weren’t hot like Nate. They didn’t have his lean, gorgeous arms or eyes bright with humor or a killer smile that makes my heart feel funny…

Ugh, whatever. I can be professional about this. I am a professional.

I start to unzip one of the suitcases, then stop when I realize I’m going to have to put my stuff in his closet and bathroom. That just feels too…intimate. Maybe I should just take stuff out on an as-needed basis. That way it doesn’t feel too permanent or anything. Yeah. I mean, who unpacks when they’re only staying for a little while? Not me. Six weeks will pass by in a blink. A blip.

I shove the bags into the walk-in closet and shut the door. Need to get the rice started or it’s never going to be done in time. And stop thinking about Nate’s bedroom. Focus. I want to make sure Nate’s mom feels properly welcomed.

I cook the rice on the stove with some butter, herbs and spices. Then I fry the bacon until the slices are crispy. I blot them with paper towels and check on the chicken and the peach cobbler. Both are coming along nicely.

Now, what else? Salad.

Wash, dry, chop the lettuce. Tomatoes, check. Avocado, check. Croutons, check. I then cut the bacon into small bits and toss them on the salad. That done, I quickly whip some balsamic vinegar, salt, pepper and extra virgin olive oil into a dressing.

The place smells nice. Homey and replete with the aromas of dinner. A bit of pride surges inside me. This should do for a proper welcome. Who doesn’t love a freshly prepared, home-cooked meal?

With a few minutes left, I re-powder my face and put on a fresh coat of lipstick. I should be just as presentable as the food.

At six, I take everything out and set the table. Chicken. Rice. Salad. Peach cobbler. Some bread if she wants it. Butter.

It isn’t too bad, considering how little time I had. But the longer I stare at it, the more it looks…lacking and sad. It’s too ordinary. Like it’s really made for my mom—a high school janitor single mom from Dillington—not someone like Blanche Sterling.

Maybe I should’ve catered something fancy. Multi-course fancy, with caviar and that five-dollars-a-bite fruit. What was it called again? Mangosteen.

Sudden frustration and shame spike through me, and my chin trembles. I sit at the table and bury my face in my hands, clenching my jaw and doing my best not cry and ruin my makeup. It’s all just too overwhelming. I’m not cut out for this kind of stuff. And Nate really needs somebody who knows exactly what to serve his high-society mom.

Maybe I can still cater. Or is it too late?

I close my eyes. Of course it’s too late, unless I plan to serve nothing but cold items. And really, dinner should be served warm.

I seriously consider texting Nate and telling him the oven has broken down. We need to take your mom out to a restaurant. Whatever she wants to have.

But before I can pull out my phone, I hear the security system beep and Nate’s voice.

“Come on in, Mom.”

Oh my God. They’re here. I clench and unclench my shaking hands.

“Thank you, dear,” comes a soft and clear voice. “I’m really looking forward to meeting your wife.”

I stand up, hoping I don’t faint. My mouth is so dry that I don’t think I can speak.