Mum makes a thoughtful sound as she goes back to cutting vegetables. “Sounds like youdoknow your plants.”
Robert dares to look smug. “My house is coming down with them. You should see my succulent collection.”
Taranis snorts, Aoife giggles, and Clíodhna snickers, giving Robert an assessing glare. I force myself not to smile. Clee seems determined to judge Robert’s motives, fiercely protective of our family’s boundaries. She’s become so cautious and judgy now that everything in her life is filtered through the needs of her kid.
It’s been strange watching the responsible authority figure Clíodhna has become; sometimes it’s easy to forget the “sheer recklessness”—as Dad puts it—that led to my sister’s single motherhood, a mistake Clíodhna seemed determined never to repeat, or let any of us repeat.
Robert, however, remains undeterred. “After my accident, one of my doctors suggested I try to keep a houseplant. They said it’s good for the mind and soul, nurturing something in a time of upheaval.”
Mum looks across the kitchen at him, questions burning in her eyes. My parents don’t know that he’s an amputee, and I’m not going to tell them. If Robert wants to share his story, he can. Or, if they’re really curious about what happened, they can use the internet and look it up just like I did.
“They said it reduces stress, boosts mood, fosters a sense of purpose, helps process grief and trauma, and combats loneliness.” He turns on the tap to wash his hands. “My plants did all that and more. It really helped encourage routine and structurein my days.” He searches for a tea towel, giving me a questioning glance.
I point at the drawers. “Third drawer down.”
“Thanks.” He finds a towel and dries his hands. “Anyway. All my plants have names and personalities. I can’t imagine not being surrounded by such gorgeous greenery.” A blush creeps into his cheeks. “My point is, if you ever need advice or want to chat about houseplants.” He points his thumb at his chest. “I’m open.” He flashes a wicked grin at me. “Plus, I hear your eldest daughter has a black thumb.”
Clíodhna snorts. “Every time she’s near a plant, it starts drafting its will.” She snaps her mouth closed, her cheeks heating like Robert might be winning her over. She has been perfectly nice to him thus far, but there’s a cautiousness in her eyes that I’ve seen before.
A pang of understanding strikes my chest. Clíodhna is terrified of any instability. My middle sister had long since appointed herself the family’s meticulous gatekeeper, desperate to control the narrative and prevent any chaos—a complete reversal of the period before she became a mother.
“She doesn’t grow plants; she hosts botanical funerals.” Aoife grins. My youngest sister has no such reservations.
“Even the fake ivy gets nervous when she comes over.” Taranis is still scowling, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. They’re all traitors.
Nothing unites my family more than taking the piss out of me.
“The only green thing thriving in her house is mold.” Mum looks up from chopping a head of broccoli. She smiles. “My daughter is talented in many things, Robert. But keeping our plants alive while we’re out of the country doesn’t make the list.” She waves her giant knife in his direction. “I’ve got a fiddle leaf in the bedroom that is looking a little yellow. I’ll get your opinion before you leave.”
Robert nods. “I’d be happy to take a look.” He points at the vegetables. “Anything I can do to help?”
One of my sisters gasps, while Mum waves the knife in his direction again. “Did Rhiannon put you up to this to butter me up?”
She gestures the oversized weapon at me next. “Volunteering to help with Sunday dinner?”
I shrug. “The only help I gave him was picking out the truffles. Everything else is all him.” Even I have to admit, he’s fitting in better than I expected, probably better than we all expected.
Not waiting for Mum to give him direction, he rolls up his sleeves, grabs the bag of spuds, and starts peeling. Taranis raises an eyebrow, and Clíodhna whispers, “suck up,” but Mum lights up like Christmas has come early.
Dad mutters something about needing something from the garage, giving Mum a withering glare like she’s betraying him. Something needles in my chest. I don’t want my fake relationship to cause upset between my parents, but if Mum wants to not hate Robert, it would definitely go a long way to making my life easier. Plus, Dad’s being a prick about the whole thing.
I wince. Was I any better to Robert a week ago before I got to know him?
When he catches me staring, he tosses a spud at me. “Make yourself useful and grab a pot, would you?”
Clíodhna perches on the edge of her chair like she’s front row at the theatre. “So… are we done with the polite small talk and ready to jump to the character assassination?”
“Clíodhna,” Mum warns.
“What? I’m setting expectations. We all know it’s coming.”
A warm, confident smile flashes across Robert’s face like he can handle it, and reassurance shines in his eyes. We’re deepin the belly of the beast. We’re about to endure dinner with two men who hate him, but here he is, making small talk about purple shamrock plants and helping Mum out with the potatoes.
I have to admit, if it wasn’t for the fact I hate everything his mercenary ass stands for, I might have a crush on my fake boyfriend.
CHAPTER 23
Robert
