Mister Fake Fiance

“Yeah. He went overboard,” David says, obviously misunderstanding the cause for my “wow.” “Really should’ve bought something smaller, but he said he wanted extra privacy. Plus he said children need more space to run around.”

“How many does he have?”

“Just one at the moment. Sophia wants more, though.”

That’s an interesting way to put it. “He doesn’t want more?”

“Sophia had a difficult pregnancy with the first kid. He prefers to not have her go through that again, even though he’s never said it outright. He knows how she feels.”

David must be very close to Dane to have realized that. Which means that it matters how this evening goes. I let out a soft, nervous breath. If we want to see if we can convince everyone, including David’s family, that we’re really engaged, Dane is a good test case.

David enters a code into the security pad, and the gates open.

I sit back and take in the view. Immaculately trimmed shrubs and trees line the driveway. Flowers… So many flowers are blooming in a garden until it’s saturated with vivid color.

“They’re stunning,” I say.

“Sophia’s doing. She loves pretty things. If it had been left up to Dane, he would’ve let his gardener put in something dignified and low maintenance, like a few oaks or pines on the lawn, and been done with it. He’s not very sentimental. You’ll see.”

I think back to the pink Cullinan. How could an unsentimental man drive something so pink and pretty? It doesn’t fit at all.

David parks the Lamborghini, and I climb out before he can come around and open my door. He did that once at the office lot, and it was hugely awkward and embarrassing. It just felt like something I shouldn’t expect. Ever.

We go inside together, David carrying the wine he picked out this morning. The fact that he doesn’t even need to knock reinforces my notion that he and Dane are close. The foyer is enormous, the hardwood gleaming, not a speck of dust in sight, with a fresh coat of wax that shines under the light. It reminds me a little of my parents’ home. Dad likes to have it cleaned and waxed regularly. He says it makes us look nice and normal, which is the most important thing as far as he’s concerned.

The memory of that puts a damper on my mood, and anxiety courses through me. Are Dane and Sophia big on being normal? Would they be shocked—maybe even horrified—if they found out about what a ticking mental time bomb I am?

Sophia comes out with a smile. “Welcome!” she says. Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail and she’s in a blue maxi dress that brings out her eyes. She’s perfectly put-together except for a yellow stain on her skirt. It looks…wet.

“I’d hug you both, but Isabella put paint on my outfit, and I’m afraid it might get on your clothes,” she says. “I love your dress, Erin. So chic and lively.”

Her kind words soothe my frayed nerves. “Thank you.”

Her gaze drops to my finger. “And your ring! So stunning and unique. Mind if I see it more closely?”

Pleased with her praise, I lift my hand.

“Oh wow. It’s so David. I knew he wouldn’t just pick a traditional diamond ring. Much too ordinary.” She grins.

“Thank you,” I say, remembering that I’m the one who wanted an ordinary diamond ring because I wanted to appear normal. Apparently, ruby rings are not that weird. Who knew? But it makes me feel better that Sophia isn’t big on tradition or being ordinary.

“He

re you go.” David hands her the wine. “Thanks for inviting us.”

“Thank you, and it’s our pleasure to have you over.” She reads the label. “Dane will love this, and so will I.” She smiles. “Watch out for stray Lego pieces. Even if you step on them with your shoes on, they can be slippery. And falling on your butt hurts more than stepping on them barefoot.”

“Speaking from experience?” David says.

“Yes.” She sighs. “Iain—one of Dane’s brothers,” she adds for my benefit, “sent Isabella a huge Star Wars set. After she finished putting it together yesterday, she dropped it half an hour ago from the staircase while running around, and it just exploded. Scattered everywhere.” She sighs again, a hand over her forehead.

A loud shriek comes from our left. A small blue-eyed blonde girl rushes out, giggling. “Daddy can’t catch me!” She waves a paintbrush like a wand.

“Oh no you don’t,” Dane says, running after her. “Put the brush down before you do more ‘art.’”

His appearance staggers me. He’s missing a tie, his collar’s undone, his sleeves are rolled up and colorful paint has splattered an otherwise pristine dress shirt that had to have cost hundreds of dollars. More paint stains his pinstriped pants as well.

“But I can’t do art if I don’t have my brush!”