Is therea dress code for meeting your fake boyfriend’s mother?
Moreover, is there a handbook for how a fake girlfriend should behave?
Klein will be at my apartment in fifteen minutes. I am on my seventh outfit change. The wide leg trousers and tank top was too ‘cocktails after dinner’. The flouncy floral patterned sundress was too ‘walk on the beach at dusk’. Don’t even get me started on the plum colored joggers. They lasted all of three seconds before I ripped them from my legs.
“Argh,” I groan, shaking a fist at the small pile of clothes on my bed. I’m not usually indecisive when it comes to dressing, but tonight I seem to be having issues.
I’m standing in my underwear and bra when there’s a knock at my door. “Dammit,” I mutter. Klein is four minutes early.
Marching into my closet, I grab the closest thing on a hanger and pull it over my head.
I pause at my front door, dragging a deep breath into my lungs. “Everything is good,” I coach. “You’re fine.”
And I am fine. I am slap-my-ass fantastic. Whatever that means.
I wrestle open the door, and there is Klein. All six footsomethingof him, leaning against the wall next to my potted hot pink Hibiscus flowers. With nothing more than the strength of his upper body he propels himself forward.
He’s so handsome it causes actual physical pain. A squeeze in the center of my chest.
He steps into the space made by the open door, gripping the top of the doorframe and leaning forward. “Were you talking to yourself?”
My words tangle in my throat. It should be illegal for a man to grip the doorframe and lean forward like that. Hemust know what he’s doing, the way his biceps pop and flex, the way it takes an expansive chest and expands it even more.
He knows, right?
He knows. He has to. And if he doesn’t, I will not be the one enlightening him.
Crossing my arms, I ignore his question and say, “You’re four minutes early. I really could’ve used those extra four minutes to decide on what to wear.” His gaze drops, starting with my bare feet and liftingup up upthe rest of my body until he meets my eyes.
“You look fine,” he grunts.
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic.”
“Do you want me to sound enthusiastic?”
I give him a dirty look. He smirks. “Thought so. Are you ready?”
“Let me grab my shoes and I’ll be on my way. Unless you want me to show up shoeless.”
“You can show up however you want. My mom won’t care.”
“Well then, I’ll change into one of those giant trash bags used for landscaping trimmings. Much more comfortable.”
“Lovely,” Klein counters.
I growl, throwing up my hands and spinning around. Should I be concerned about how crazy this man makes me? Probably. But considering I’m low on men raising their hands and offering to join me in a weeklong sham, I’ll have to put up with Klein.
Leaving him in the open doorway, I head for my room. I grab a pair of heeled sandals and slide my feet in them,then wind my purse over one shoulder. When I come back out, Klein is standing in my living room, looking at a family photo I keep on my shelf. He points at my little brother.
“Is his name Scooter?”
My lips tug into a frown. “No. Why?”
Klein shrugs. “He looks like a Scooter.”
“How does a person look like a Scooter?” I gripe, joining Klein to examine the photo. I’ve seen the picture a hundred times, but maybe I missed something. The photo is of me, and my brother and sister, attempting to bake an apple pie in my mom’s kitchen at Thanksgiving three years ago. It was my first holiday after Shane broke up with me. My brother wears a Burberry polo with pressed shorts. Ok, yeah, he could be a Scooter.
“His name is Spencer,” I tell Klein.
