My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

Even if it’s with his daughter on the back of your motorcycle.

The private gate begins a slow swing open as we approach, reinforcing my thought that we’re being watched. Abigail waves to a camera. I stare directly into it, not sure who’s watching on the other end of the feed.

We cruise down the long drive and I park. Abigail climbs off first, and I take her helmet. I’ll need to buy another one today so I can be safe as well. I’m an asshole ninety percent of the time, but a safe one.

Actually, I’m feeling less of an asshole these last few days. I simply can’t quit smiling when Abigail explains American reality television to me by acting out the shows charade-style, has entire conversations with her plants while she waters them, and implements naked yoga Sundays as a household rule.

I’d fought that one because downward dog with my dick hanging and my ass in the air isn’t exactly a pleasant look, but Abigail had argued that she would only do it if I did. So down dog, I did.

And so did she, my cock reminds me.

She’s nothing if not interesting, a delight to experience each day with as she sees things I would never even notice.

In return, I’ve kept to my vow to feed her and she’s enjoying foods she’s never tried, become a pro at riding behind me, and has pulled a promise from me to go see Reno again . . . for some new ink for myself that she’s designed as a surprise.

I secretly think she’s going to put a lip imprint of her own kiss on my ass because she had a giggle fit that lasted for twenty minutes about the very idea. I’d refused, of course, but if it makes her smile every time she sees my ass for the next fifty years, I’ll happily get it permanently inked on my backside.

And it’s only been days since I rushed her at Violet’s. I can’t imagine what adventures fifty years might hold.

Like tonight.

We approach the door, and surprisingly, she rings the bell and doesn’t barge right in. Something about that seems oddly unexpected about both Abigail and her family, based on what I’ve heard from Violet about how close they are. I lift my eyes in question and she explains, “Once, I came home and caught my parents in a rather compromising position. It’s great that they love each other and all, but I do not want to see that again. Ever. So now, even when they know I’m coming, I ring the bell, knock, or go in yelling my arrival so they have time to get dressed.”

“Ah, love!”

She smacks my chest with the back of her hand. “You can say that because it wasn’t your parents.” A shiver works its way down her spine and I grin.

The door opens, and a black-suited, white-haired man stands before us. He’s smaller, frailer, and older than I thought the great Morgan Andrews would be.

“Karl!” Abigail squeals and promptly gathers the man up in her arms for a hug. “It’s been ages!”

Karl? So not Morgan. Who’s Karl?

“You should come home more often then, Miss Abi,” the old guy says.

“I know. Been busy working on my tan, you know how it is,” she jokes to the particularly pale man. She’s done no such thing. She’s been working with Janey and Samantha every day at the flower shop while I scout out restaurants to consider applying at.

“Looking quite Virgin Islands, you are,” he replies dryly.

“I haven’t been a virgin in a long time, Karl,” she tells him with a laugh. “A really, really long time. And we both know that.” He returns the mirth, though it’s with a significantly higher degree of restraint.

I clear my throat.

“Oh! Karl, this is Lorenzo Toscani. Lorenzo, this is Karl. Technically, he’s the house manager. Realistically, he’s the reason we’re all sane. Well, everyone else, anyway. I’m the reason he’s crazy most of the time.” She nudges him with her elbow.

“You’re certainly what makes life interesting, Miss Abi.” His smile is warm and genuine. He offers me a hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Toscani.”

“You as well, Karl.”

“Come in, come in. Mr. Toscani, if you’ll follow me to Mr. Andrews’s office. Miss Abi, your mother is in the kitchen with the caterer,” Karl says.

Honestly, I’d rather go to the kitchen to hang with the caterer to see what they’re cooking and maybe what I can learn. But after Abigail shoots me a wink for strength, I follow Karl almost happily.

Down this hallway awaits my fate.

Karl knocks twice and then opens the door. “Mr. Morgan, may I present Mr. Toscani?”

“Come in!” a deep voice booms.

Inside the room, I see three men sitting in club chairs by an unlit fireplace. They stand as I enter, and Karl closes the door behind me, leaving the gladiator with the lions.