I take a deep breath and run my hands through my hair. “No. It’s fine. I’ll go. It will be easier than talking my way out of why I didn’t go. There aren’t a lot of ways to explain not wanting to visit your boyfriend’s famous mom.”
I cringe, realizing I didn’t call him my fake boyfriend, but Noah doesn’t seem to notice. He shrugs, his face sympathetic. “That may be true, but if you really don’t want to go, you don’t have to.”
He says it in a way that if it were any other person, it would come off as a passive aggressive guilt trip. But I’m learning that with Noah, nothing is ever meant to be manipulated. He says what he means and I know that if I were to say I didn’t want to go, he would figure a way around it.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I suppose I can wrap my head around meeting Vivian Graves.”
His face breaks into a wide grin as he starts backing up towards the bathroom. “Excellent. I’m going to shower and then we can head out.”
I raise my coffee mug at him, fighting the urge to picture him in the shower.
I am unsuccessful.
About forty minutes later, armed with my favorite skirt and a scallop-neck tank, I’m standing by as Lance gives Noah the rundown on ‘Mr. Barker’s car’. It’s a little black sporty thing, sleek and extravagant, and probably worth more money than I make in a year.
Lance finishes his spiel and disappears into the garage, leaving us standing on the driveway.
“Shall we?” Noah asks, opening the passenger door and motioning for me to get inside. Once seated, he closes the door and rounds on the car, giving me a few moments to run through my plan for surviving the day. It’s really just two steps:
1. Keep it professional.
2. No fangirling.
The only thing left to discuss is how Noah explained my presence to his mom. I assume he would have explained the whole business trip side of things, but I’ve been wrong beforeand last time I assumed, I ended up faking my way through a barely believable relationship with my boss.
Noah gets in and starts the engine. It purrs to life and he flashes a smile.
“This car is incredible.”
I make a face, running my eyes across the interior. It all whispers of finery, but cars have never been my thing. To me, it looks about the same as any other. But Noah, dressed in a tight black t-shirt and impossibly fit jeans, sports a grin fit for a kid on Christmas.
We’re about twenty minutes into the drive when my careful consideration of how to bring up the inevitable introductions turns into a tumble of words, falling inelegantly between us.
“Your mom doesn’t think we’re a couple, does she?”
I wince at the inadvertent tone of accusation. But Noah, ever cool and uncomplicated, just smiles.
“No, she doesn’t. I wasn’t sure how you wanted to handle that, so I’m grateful you brought it up.”
How I wanted to handle it? I’m his employee; is there another explanation he’s offering?
“So she thinks I’m . . .”
“A colleague.”
“Which is what I am.”
“Yes.”
“And there is little risk of us running into anyone who would need to see us as being . . .together.”
Noah glances over at me, and I don’t know what answer I want until he says the wrong one.
“Right. My mother, as vast as her reach is, has little to do with the family owned farms of central California. And we’re visiting at her house where there is little risk of paparazzi or tabloid writers who could get a story back to the Barkers. There is no need to pretend.”
I nod, staring at the approaching horizon. The answer is clear: we aren’t dating, so what purpose would there be in pretending today? Bringing family into this business arrangement will only complicate things further. Even still, the wave of disappointment at this conclusion tugs at my chest.
“Then I’m your colleague. I mean, I always was, but you know there is no need to pretend I’m anything more. Different. Anything different.”
