Fake (West Hollywood 1)

I downed some more of my drink.

“Renee has enough grandbabies to keep her busy for now,” said Tom. “Don’t you, sweetie?”

It was at this point that I choked and spluttered. Never a good look.

“Don’t go there, you guys,” said Patrick. “I mean it.”

Renee’s expression fell just a little as she patted me on the back. Babies. Holy shit. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, because I’m classy like that.

And everyone’s eyes were on me.

“What he means to say is, that’s, um . . . that’s a ways off still.” My heart hammered inside my chest. Cardiac arrest wasn’t out of the question. “We haven’t really . . . I mean, we’ve talked about it. Of course we have. It would be foolish to get engaged without making sure we agreed on important matters such as having children.”

His mother nodded encouragingly.

“And so we discussed it at great length,” I continued. “Mostly we came to the conclusion that it was a one-day-in-the-future thing for us. Not a let’s-get-started-on-this-right-away kind of situation. Because like Tom said, we want to enjoy this time together, just the two of us. That’s, ah, that’s the main reason and our current plan. So yeah. Great.”

Patrick downed the last of his drink and got up to fetch another. I was fast getting the impression that surprise family reunions really weren’t his thing.

“That’s good that you’ve talked about it,” said Tom, crossing his legs. “There are a number of important topics a couple should discuss before looking at making a long-term commitment. Take finances, for example.”

“There’ll be a prenuptial, of course?” asked Renee, no-nonsense all the way.

My brows felt halfway up my forehead. “A prenuptial?”

Patrick returned to the couch with his fresh drink. His face appeared to be turning a distinct shade of red. Which was odd. I’d never seen him do that before. “Did you two actually cross state lines for the sole purpose of asking as many intrusive questions as possible?”

“Don’t be like that, darling,” said Renee, with the best disappointed expression I’ve ever seen. Wow, did she have the mom thing down. “We’re happy for you.”

“Very happy,” seconded Tom.

“So happy.” Disappointment had morphed back into a loving gaze. “We just want to make sure you’re protected. You’ve worked hard to get where you are.”

But Patrick would not be appeased. “Norah’s a hard worker too.”

Three sets of eyes turned my way. No pressure at all.

“Thank you,” I said. “That’s kind of you to say. But your parents have a point. In fact, I insist upon it. Patrick, if you think you’ve a chance of making off with half my collections of concert T-shirts, romance books, and hair ties, just because all you can bring to the table is a beautiful house and one or two fancy cars, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Tom snorted with laughter.

“Concert T-shirts, romance books, and hair ties?” asked Patrick, smiling despite himself.

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you eyeing them.”

Renee and Tom were both smiling now. I was going to chalk that one up as a win.

“The pre-nup question is settled. My people will talk to your people. So what else shall we talk about?” I asked. Because I was a glutton for punishment, apparently.

“Are you close to your family?” asked Renee.

“I’m very close to my grandmother, yes.”

“That’s nice.” Her smile faltered. “And definitely no husband?”

Tom cleared his throat, loudly.

“Just checking,” exclaimed Renee. “Sorry. I won’t say another word about it. I promise.”

Patrick rubbed at his face with one hand.

“I can understand why you’d have reservations,” I said. “Your son getting engaged all of a sudden to a woman you’ve never even met.”

“It has been a little nerve-wracking,” agreed Renee in a quiet voice.

“I made her dinner on our first date,” said Patrick, in a valiant effort to distract them. His boot tap, tap, tapped against the floor. Talk about stressed.

“You made me dinner?” I asked, ignoring his parents for the moment. “You?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“I do, I do. It’s just . . . is made really the right word?” I gave him a teasing smile. “I mean, you put reheatable meals in the oven.”

Amusement filled his gaze. “I said what I said.”

“Your intentions were pure, I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks, cupcake,” he said in his usual dry tone. His shoulders had eased down some and the lines of tension on his face relaxed just a little.

“Cupcake? Oh, no. There’s no way I’m answering to that.”

“No?” A small smile graced his mouth. And just for a moment there was him and me and some breathing room. Thank God for that. “But you’re sweet as a cupcake. Pretty as one.”

I laughed. “It’s awful. But thank you for the compliments.”

“Hmm. I guess we’ll see.”

It was me and Patrick Walsh against the world. Or at least presenting as a united front against his parents. Which was nice. Very nice.