Be My Babygirl

This is not a good look for me.

At least my ring looks pretty as it sparkles under the sunlight—even if it is just a pretty ring with no significance, just to impress his ex.

I swallow back my jealous, ugly thoughts. It’s only my own insecurities causing me to question his feelings for me. Right?

There’s a private town car waiting for us at the curb, of course. The driver, dressed in a three-piece suit, rushes from his vehicle to gather our bags for us. Darius opens the door, and I slide into the backseat.

He’s got the privacy partition up before the driver even returns from loading our luggage. Kissing my neck, he whispers into my ear, “I’d like a taste of Georgia peach right about now.”

I flush. But I’m not his Georgia peach. Am I?

I’m just the girl he’s brought here to appease his grandmother. His fake fiancée. His kissing continues, and though I feel heat rousing between my thighs, I place a hand on his chest, stopping him.

For the first time since we’ve met, I deny him. “I’m a little tired. Can we rest a bit?” My conscience pricks me. I did sign that contract.

He pulls away. He looks disappointed and slightly peeved to be rejected. “Is something the matter?”

I can’t bear to tell him of my insecurities, so I smile and shake my head. “Just nervous, that’s all.” I smile. “Um... maybe we should play the get-to-know-you game before we arrive so we can be sure we pass as a couple?”

He raises a brow, unconvinced my plan will be more fun than the entertainment he had in mind. “Get-to-know-you game?”

“Sure. You know. Just little things that we should know about one another.” I dive right in. I really want to be prepared. “I’ll start. What’s your favorite color?”

He sits back in his seat, thinking. “Red. But not the bright fire engine type, the darker one, like you find in an apple.”

“Okay. Mine is pink. But not the bright one you find on the stripper g-strings on the strip. The light one you find in cotton candy,” I tease.

“You know what strip clubs are like?” he raises a stern brow at me, and my heart stutters.

I laugh. “Um no. You?”

He shakes his head, but his eyes are still narrowed. Is that a little jealousy I spy? “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I don’t frequent strip clubs.”

“But you got me from an escort service?”

“My first. And my last.” He leans over, kissing my forehead.

It’s a sweet gesture, one that makes me melt. And yet, it brings up my insecurities again. What does he mean? How does he really feel about me? I push the thought away, enjoying the light, fun banter between us. “Okay, next question. Favorite animal.”

Over the course of the hour-long drive to his grandma’s house, I find out his favorite animal was an old pug that died last year. His name was Elvis Presley and he’d had him since he was eighteen.

In addition to the multiple breaks to his leg from his football injury, he also broke his arm when he was seven and again at eleven, falling from the same tree both times. He loves steak and potatoes but despises sweets. His favorite season is winter—he likes the cold and his favorite time of the day is when the sun sets over the city.

He doesn't watch television unless it's the news, and he only reads business articles or nonfiction. He hates injustice, lazy people, and people who have no manners. He loves the elderly even though they can be crass, and children, which I found surprising.

And his confession has me envisioning what our kids would look like. Would they have my eyes and his height, or his eyes and my blonde curls?

We pass farms and fields as we move further into the country. Everything out here is so green, so lush, compared with the dry brown of back home. I guess there is one plus for such a humid environment: the plants really seem to thrive.

The houses grow further and further apart, and I’m waiting for us to pull up to some dilapidated whitewashed farmhouse when suddenly, a massive Greek-revival-home-meets-southern-charm mansion appears out of nowhere. There are six huge white columns that reach up to a third story roofline. The home is made of a pale brick that’s almost pink in color, the extensive wide trim painted white, the shutters that encase the giant windows, black.

I can barely speak. “I thought you said you came from humble beginnings.”

“I did. But what grandson worth his salt doesn’t spoil his grandma who raised him when he comes into a little cash. She used to clean this mansion back in the day, for only dollars an hour. She said the man was a mean drunk, and her work was never good enough for him. The moment I could afford it, I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, and I bought it. And it’s Gran’s to live in for as long as she’d like.”