I meet Stephanie’s gaze, seeing the invitation clear in her eyes. All I’d have to do is throw Maggie under the bus and I could be balls deep in poison Barbie doll by the end of the night.
But I’m not into poison people. Or Barbie dolls.
I’m into kind, gorgeous-inside-and-out women like Maggie.
Hell, I’m into Maggie. Period.
Which is going to make the next part of this job a fucking pleasure.
“I have no idea what’s wrong with the men in this city.” I take Maggie’s hand. “I’m just glad Maggie was single when we met. She’s the best person I’ve run into in a long time.”
Maggie smiles. “Ditto.”
“Aw, isn’t that sweet?” Stephanie says in a voice that implies it’s anything but. “So it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that her parents own half the Upper East Side?”
Maggie’s jaw drops and her head swivels, but before she can speak, I turn to Stephanie with a smile and say, “No, it has to do with the fact that she’s sexy as hell, and I can’t keep my hands off of her. And sweet. And funny. She’s the entire package.” I glance pointedly down at Stephanie’s left hand where a garishly huge diamond sits on her ring finger. “What about you? What was it about your husband that made you fall in love?”
The blonde’s mouth hardens. “I’d be lying if I said his 401k and penthouse weren’t taken into consideration. Money’s nice, Coop.”
“It is,” I agree. “But Maggie’s nicer. And if I’m lucky enough to make her mine someday, we’ll get a prenup. I don’t want there to be any doubt in her mind that I’m in love with her, not her family’s money. And if you were any kind of friend you would have found a hell of a lot better way to ask that question.”
“I was just being protective,” Stephanie sputters. “I’ve been Maggie’s friend for years and—”
“Bullshit, Pinkerton,” I say pleasantly. “Maggie and I are actually friends, and you and I both know better.”
Maggie squeezes my hand. I glance her way, worried I might have taken things too far, but her grateful smile assures me we’re all good.
We are good.
So good, I don’t want to waste another minute putting on a show for Bully Barbie or anyone else.
I push back my chair and arch a brow Maggie’s way, “What do you say we find a private place to eat? Somewhere with less noise?”
“Sounds great.” Maggie stands as I gather our plates and silverware. “See you later, Stephanie. Or not. I’m cool with not if you are. Just because our parents are friends it doesn’t mean we have to pretend we don’t hate each other like stinky socks.”
“I wear hose,” Stephanie says coolly, but it’s a lame comeback, and she knows it. I can see the defeat in her beady blue eyes as Maggie and I turn and walk away.
“That was such a load off,” Maggie whispers with a laugh. “I’ve wanted to tell her to go to hell since sixth grade.” She squeezes my arm. “You were perfect, by the way. Totally amazing. I’m going to tell Penny you deserve five stars for a pitch-perfect performance.”
“Thanks, but I think you should hold off on making that call just yet,” I say, pulse spiking as I nod toward the far corner of the tent, where rocking chairs circle a fake fireplace. “Up for food, fire, and confession?”
“What are we confessing?” she asks, brows lifting.
“You don’t have to confess anything,” I say. “But there are a couple of things I’d like to get off my chest if that’s okay.”
She hesitates a beat before she nods. “Sure. But no matter what you confess, you’re getting five stars. That’s already set in stone. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, hoping she still feels the same way after she learns I’m the worst fake date ever.
8
Maggie
I eat because I know I need to soak up the wine, but I don’t taste a bite.
I’m too nervous about what Coop’s going to say when we’ve cleaned our plates.
Is he going to share some tips for being a better date? Tell me that I’m the worst kisser ever and refer me to a specialist for training? Confess that I should start waxing my upper lip, the way Lexi says I should, even though the little hairs are so blond you can’t see them unless I’m standing in a beam of direct sunlight and all people naturally have peach fuzz on their face, and why should women tweeze away until they look like they’re made of plastic while men get to have patches of gnarly hair under their armpits they proudly display in tank tops and—oh my God, I can’t stand the suspense another second, or I’m going to lose my mind!
“I’d like to confess that I’m nervous about your confession,” I say, setting my plate down on the floor by my rocking chair. “Did I…do something wrong?”