Translation:Tell me everything so I don’t foolishly mistake your consideration for actual interest.I’d have to write it on my mirror at home.You and Tenor are not a thing. He’s pretending to save your ass.
He narrowed his eyes while considering my question. “It says that we’re getting more serious. Then it’ll make more sense to my family when we go to the wedding together.”
All that echoed in my head was “...go to the wedding together.” Traitorous hope rose in my stomach.This is not real.
Regardless of my mental warnings, the one small sip I’d had lit in my belly, spreading warmth through my abdomen. “Just what does that mean?”
“We’ll talk about it. After you eat and get a good night’s sleep.”
“Are you sure I can just drop in on your mom?”
“She’ll be delighted.” At my dubious look, he shrugged those big shoulders. “I grew up with foster kids arriving at all different hours. Now her house is almost empty. She’ll love having another room filled.”
“I thought your brothers-in-law...” I frowned. “Brother-in-law’s brothers?” I shook my head. Wynter’s husband had been a foster. His two brothers were much younger than him and now worked for Mae Bailey. “How do you keep everyone straight?”
“They’re all family. Lane and Cruz are staying with her for now, but they go to Denver a lot to learn about distilling and Foster House.” He rinsed my glass. “You gotta remember there were seven of us after my parents adopted the girls, plus the foster kids who’d come and go. Mama can have five people staying over nowadays and it’d feel empty to her.”
“Oh.” That was sweet. I’d grown up with no siblings. My stepdad hadn’t been around for long. It’d been just my mom and me, and since I’d graduated, we’d traded roles. She was off seeing the world and I had settled down. “I guess if she doesn’t mind. Then we can discuss everything tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there in the morning helping with chores. I’ll grab you for breakfast and then we can talk.”
Butterflies took flight in my stomach. I hadn’t ever been this excited for a real date. If just fake dating Tenor filled me with giddy anticipation, then I had to be careful. A whole month of pretending could go to my head, and I couldn’t let it.
It was just after eleven at night and I was sitting in Mae Bailey’s house, at her kitchen table. She was in long pajama pants and her salt-and-pepper hair was in a French braid.
“I can make decaf.” She rummaged in a cupboard and looked over her shoulder. “Of course, we always have bourbon.”
Tenor was standing at the door, his arms folded across his chest. “You can go to bed, Mama. I’ll make sure Ruby gets something to eat and finds the guest room. And I’ll text Lane and Cruz to make sure they’re presentable in the morning.” He ended the last part on a low growl.
Mae set a mug on the counter and quirked a brow at her son. “Good idea. Cruz seems to think every day is boxers-only day.” She chuckled. “To be young and lack self-consciousness.” She patted Tenor’s arm. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She turned to me. “Don’t worry about noise, Ruby. My room is upstairs. Lane and Cruz might be young, but they hit the hay fairly early and sleep like the dead. Though early for them might be midnight.” Her fond smile showed how much she cherished them. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mrs. Bailey,” I said.
She stopped on her way to a large, open living area. “If you call me Mrs. Bailey again, I might have to revoke the welcome.” Her eyes twinkled. “Mae or Mama are all I’ve responded to my whole life. Sometimes more colorful names, but never Mrs. Bailey.”
“Thanks, Mae.” When she left, I was alone in the kitchen with Tenor. “Your mom is amazing.”
“She is.” He opened the fridge and peered inside. “Looks like there’s leftover pork chops, mashed potatoes, and...” He lifted the aluminum foil off a glass container. “Squash or sweet potatoes. I can’t tell.”
My stomach clenched. I was so damn hungry. Usually after a bar shift, I wolfed down toast when I got home, or waited untilmorning and woke up ravenous. “Does she make that big of a meal regularly?”
“She wouldn’t consider this a big meal, and yes.” He pulled out the dishes. I rose and crossed to a cupboard that I hoped had plates.
He glanced at me. “What are you doing?”
“Helping?”
“Sit. You’re a guest.”
“I’m your fake girlfriend.” Saying it didn’t make it more real. More fake? It was too late to decipher what was happening.
“You’re not a fake guest.” He turned toward me, not slouching at all. “Sit.”
The low grumble rippled right over my skin. I went back to the table.
He prepared two plates. I felt moderately less like an intrusion if he hadn’t eaten either. “That’s a lot of food. Are you sure your mom wasn’t saving it for someone?”
“Mama can throw a four-course dinner together as quickly as I can make a sandwich.” He tossed one plate into the microwave and busied himself with making coffee. “She always makes more so anyone who stops in has food.”
