“You’ve got a nephew?” Aoife cradles her mug, halfway to her mouth.
The looks of confusion and surprise on their faces make me laugh, like they hadn’t given any thought to the fact I’m a real person. “Aye. Something you might not know about me.”I lean forward like I’m about to tell them a juicy secret. “I’m a human being with friends and family.” I tap my chest. “I even have a heart and everything.”
“My one-year-old daughter lovesBluey. She watches it on repeat. Which means, by extension, I love it too.” Clíodhna doesn’t engage with my sarcasm and scathing wit, none of them do, which sends a shard of disappointment into my gut.
Rhiannon elbows her. “Yeah, it has nothing to do with you being a sad sap, whether she’s watching it with you or not.”
Aoife nods, giggling. “It’s true. We’ve found her watching it while the child’s asleep, or at our parents’ house.”
Clíodhna’s cheeks are pink, but she purses her lips. “I’m not ashamed to say I loveBluey.”
I shrug. “Me neither. It’s a great show with great life lessons, and it’s funny too.”
“See.” She flares her elbows at her sisters. “You two should watch moreBluey.” She clicks on her keyboard. “Okay, rule number one. No kissing.”
“Unless it’s for show,” chimes in Aoife.
“And definitely no tongue,” adds Rhiannon.
“Unless it’s for show.” Aoife wiggles her eyebrows, which doesn’t exactly fit with the three of them glaring at me like they want to murder me. But maybe my revelation about my TV habits has softened Aoife’s edges toward me just enough that we can proceed without antagonizing each other.
Kissing Rhiannon Morrigan was one of the highlights of my year so far, and there’s a notable twinge of disappointment in my body at the announcement that it won’t be happening again.
“No sleepovers, no texting after eleven at night…” Rhiannon’s clearly thought about this—she’s ticking things off with her fingers.
“We each pay our own way,” I add. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m after whatever money the Morrigans have. I know the girls all work a second job on top of their rugby gigs, but I also know their dad isn’t short of a few quid. And I don’t want a single penny of it.
“He can’t come to Sunday dinner.” Clíodhna stops typing, her eyes widening. “Dad would kill him.”
“Or Taranis.” Aoife nods in enthusiastic agreement. “No Sunday dinners, but if there’s a meal out somewhere, he’s probably going to have to come.”
“Probably,” agrees Clíodhna. “But Dad’ll have to revoke the restraining order, and there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening.”
Rhiannon hums in agreement.
“Don’t ask permission, ask forgiveness? Do you think he’d call the peelers if your boyfriend turned up to dinner?”
For a smart as hell woman, Aoife can be naïve sometimes. I don’t think she realizes that, as the youngest child, she’s rumored to get away with murder. Same as our Emma.
Clíodhna shakes her head. “I don’t think he would. I’d be more afraid of our Taranis beating seven shades of shit out of him than Dad calling the PSNI.”
“You know I’m sitting right here, right?” I point to myself to remind them all I’m still in the room.
The three girls exchange looks that tell me my opinion in this situation doesn’t count for much, so I sit back and wait for them to ask for my input.
“You know what? I’d still bring him anyway,” Aoife hedges. “Fuck it.” She grins, and I decide there and then that I like her spritely, rebellious spirit. I bet her da hates it.
It takes another hour before we have our rules and game plan in place for how to get to know each other fast enough to sell our fake relationship to the masses. And by the time we’re done, we’ve gone through about three liters of tea.
Right when I think we’re over the finish line, Clíodhna gets a weird look on her face. “Are you taking him on your honeymoon?”
CHAPTER 13
The Fake-Dating Rulebook
Expiration date:We rip the bandage off cleanly. End of September, after the championship finishes.
