The last thing I needed was to leave a desperate-sounding message like,Hi, remember how you begged me to go along with this fake relationship plan? Well, your dear friend has abandoned me, stranded on a ranch approximately the size of Luxembourg.
After I tossed the phone down on the bed, I drifted over to the windows and looked out at the land. It really was beautiful out there, especially all lit up in the first golden rays of light. The longer I stood there, however, the more uneasy I became.
I need air. Movement. Anything that would make me feel even a little bit in control.
My bedroom here was amazing with clean white walls and bedding, a four-poster bed that looked like it had been hand carved—and it probably had been, by a Shepard—and a glorious adjoining bathroom with a tub roughly the size of a swimming pool. It was incredibly comfortable, but I hated feeling like I’d been forgotten, left to wait in a bedroom until somebody needed me.
Antsy to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this, I brushed my teeth, changed into shorts and running shoes, and headed out.Bad idea. Terrible, catastrophic idea.
The heat hit me like a wall the second the door closed behind me. It was barely six in the morning, but already more humid than any sauna I’d ever paid good money to sit in. I made it maybe a mile before my lungs gave up and my legs called mutiny.
As I slowed to a walk, I wiped sweat from places I didn’t even know could produce it, and tried to retrace my path. But every pasture looked the same, every fence line stretched into infinity, and the house was long gone.
After what felt like half the Lord of the Rings trilogy, the land dipped and a second house came into view. Another giant structure that wasn’t as modern as Trent’s, but sprawling and elegant in an old-money way. It felt a little like home.
I was still staring, considering knocking on the door to ask for directions when I heard the crunch of tires on gravel behind me. A silver BMW convertible rolled up, the tiniest woman I’d ever seen behind the wheel, but her hair was so enormous it had its own magnetic field. Big blonde curls, perfect makeup, and diamonds big enough to blind a pilot at ten thousand feet.
She slowed, gave me a onceover, and rolled down her window. “Well, honey, you look like you’re either lost, kidnapped, or trying to escape. Which is it?”
I blinked rapidly. “Uh, I’m staying at Trent’s house. I think I took a wrong turn.”
Her eyebrows shot up like they were spring-loaded. “Trent? As inmyTrent? Oh, of course, you are.”
I realized then who she was. I’d literally walked straight into his mother and I had no idea which version of the story she’d been told, but before I could backtrack or pretend I’d meant a different Trent, another one she’d never even realized lived on the property, she unlocked the passenger door.
“Get in, sugar. You’re coming with me. Nobody survives this heat without electrolytes and air-conditioning.”
There were warning bells going off in my head, but I was so tired, so gross, and so thirsty that I just climbed in. The scent of her enveloped me, gardenias, but she smiled like she was genuinely pleased to have me in her car.
“I’m Claira Shepard,” she said as she sped us down the private road. “You must be Charlotte, the girlfriend my son didn’t tell me he had. I kind of thought he was making you up.”
I had no idea how to respond, so I focused on the sweet flow of ice cold air streaming out of the vent like an answeredprayer. It helped me not die of heat stroke or embarrassment while being lightly abducted by my fake boyfriend’s real mother. On the other hand, that cold drink she’d offered was the best possible hostage negotiation tactic I could hope for.
Claira drove us the short distance to the second house, then waved for me to follow her in, talking a million miles a minute, but the moment I walked into the house, I stopped listening.
Sothisis where Trent got his confidence. It’s no wonder he is the way he is if this is where he grew up.
It had high ceilings, rustic beams, white walls, cavernous rooms, and priceless art that had probably been casually inherited from dead relatives. This place, his childhood home, didn’t just have presence. It announced itself.
It was pretty darn impressive, but the only thing that really mattered to me right now was that the AC was so cold, I nearly sobbed. Meanwhile, Claira shepherded me into a kitchen the size of ours back home and poured me a glass of iced tea that was so good, it tasted like it had been blessed by angels.
“So, you and my boy, huh?” she said lightly, like we were old girlfriends just catching up. “When did that happen?”
I nearly choked on the tea, but at least I also managed to force out an answer without her having to do the Heimlich maneuver on me. “I, yes. I mean, we’re together. It’s, uh, we’re still figuring things out.”
Wow. That was so painfully unconvincing that I wanted to crawl straight into the nearest air vent, but Claira smiled like she’d already decided to believe it. “Well, that explains the phone call I got at five-thirty this morning.”
“It does?” I asked cautiously.
She waved a manicured hand. “The gossips in this town don’t waste time, honey. Someone spotted y’all at the restaurant last night, and by sunrise, the grapevine had a full narrative. TrentShepard brought home a girl, she’s a knockout, and everyone is dying to know if she’s real or imaginary.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it, and then reopened it. “Imaginary?”
“Sweetheart, that boy has been single for so long, we were starting to think we’d need to order him a bride from the internet.”
I snorted and she let out a delighted laugh, the sound bright, tinkling, and just a little bit wicked. “I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when I heard the name Charlotte and then later learned that it wasn’t just any old Charlotte he’s brought home, but Charlotte Westwood.”
“Wait, so you already knew my name?”
