“Ah.”
“I see lots of pictures of your brother here.” She moved a fingertip on the laptop's touchpad. “Jeremiah, is it?”
“Yes. Jeremiah's a public figure. He was a professional driver.”
“Okay, but why aren’t there any pictures of you at all?”
“Because I always hated media attention. When I was ten years old, I asked my parents to make sure that my photo wasn't printed on websites or in magazines or newspapers or books. My parents' attorneys went to work to protect my privacy.”
She consulted the screen again, then jutted a hand in his direction. “You're the second son. You're Prince Harry!”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Here's what I know about your family. Your ancestor was a Gilded Age titan.” She set both palms on the counter. “Your dad was a famous NFL quarterback when he married that supermodel. What was her name?”
“Isobel O’Sullivan. But why don't we talk about the details of my alias—”
“I just saw Isobel O’Sullivan in a magazine a couple of days ago.Thatwas your father's first wife?”
“It was.”
“Felix and Isobel's marriage was broadcast live on TV and millions of people tuned in, including my mother. They were everyone’s fairytale couple of their era. Then a few years later, he had an affair with Isobel’s sister. This all happened before I was born, but even I know the scoop.”
All of this had happened before Jude was born, too. Which hadn't saved him from living under its storm clouds all his life.
“What’s your mother's name?” she asked.
“Fiona.”
“Right! So Isobel’s younger sister Fiona has an affair with Felix and gets pregnant. Isobel finds out. Thewhole worldfinds out. Isobel divorces Felix. Felix marries Fiona. And Fiona goes on to have children. Your brother.And you.”
“Correct.”
She stared at him incredulously.
He looked back, showing none of what he felt, including regret that he'd only known her for what seemed like five minutes before she'd discovered this about him.
“Your parents didn’t stay married,” she went on, “because in the end Felix had another affair, with a housekeeper, and conceived another child.”
He nodded.
“I haveso manyquestions.”
“Which I would prefer not to discuss at this time. Is that an easy and harmless request that you can accept?”
She released a huff of appreciation. “Touché. Fine, I'll exercise self-control and won’t ask—for now—any of the deep, prying questions I want to ask about the nitty-gritty of the emotions involved in all of those relationships.”
“Thank you.”
“But I would like to know why you're not living in Bermuda off your trust fund and spending your time partying and playing pickleball.”
“Do I look like someone who parties and plays pickleball?”
“No. Not in that tailored shirt and suit pants. But you definitely do look like the trust-fund type. Do you have a trust fund?”
“That's a very nosy question.”
“You're about to become my fake boyfriend.”
