Sasha stared at him. "You want me to be your fake girlfriend."
"I want you to save me from two weeks of my grandmother asking if I've met anyone nice and my mother trying desperately to change the subject." He looked at her hopefully. "It would just be hand-holding. Maybe the occasional bit of couple-y behavior. Nothing weird."
"Nothing weird," Sasha repeated. "Apart from the lying to your grandmother whilst everyone else around knows exactly what’s going on?"
"Apart from that, yes."
The afternoon heat was making her brain sluggish, but even so, Sasha could see several problems with this plan. "Your family have met me exactly zero times. Won’t it be weird? And won't old grandma think it's odd that you're suddenly producing a serious girlfriend out of nowhere?"
"I'll tell her we've been taking it slow. Very modern and sensible." Ambrose was warming to his theme now, his panic being replaced by the sort of desperate optimism that had gotten them both into trouble more times than she could count. "You're perfect, actually. You're funny and smart, and she’ll love you."
"I'm unemployed and have no idea what I'm doing with my life."
"You're between opportunities and exploring your options."
Despite herself, Sasha was starting to see the appeal. Cornwall in July sounded infinitely better than Manchester in July, especially when Manchester involved job hunting and facing the landlord about next month's rent. "What's in it for me?"
"Two weeks at a country estate with a swimming pool, a beach, full board, and no responsibilities except occasionally holding my hand?" Ambrose sat down beside her, pulling his most winning smile. "Come on, Sash. When was the last time you had a proper holiday?"
"Define proper."
"Somewhere that doesn't involve a youth hostel and packet noodles."
She had to admit he had a point. Her last holiday had been a long weekend in Blackpool that had mostly involved hiding from the rain in various pubs. "Your grandma won't buy it. I don't exactly scream 'suitable girlfriend for the heir to a country estate.'"
"You scream 'exactly the sort of person Ambrose would fall for,' which is much more important. And true, because if I was going to get a girlfriend you’d be exactly the kind of girlfriend I’d like." He grabbed her hands, his expression turning serious. "Look, I know it's mad, and I know it's asking a lot. But I'm genuinely desperate here. My grandmother is eighty-three and still asking when I'm going to settle down and give her great-grandchildren. She's not going to be around forever, and I just… I want her to think I'm happy."
There was something in his voice that made Sasha look at him more carefully. Ambrose was usually the picture of easy confidence, sailing through life with the sort of charm that opened doors and solved problems. She'd never seen him looking quite so vulnerable.
"This is about more than just avoiding awkward questions, isn't it?"
"Maybe." He was quiet for a moment, staring down at their joined hands. "It's just… everyone else has their act together, you know? Victoria's the golden child with her career, Archie's got the estate to inherit, Sophie's got her veterinary plans. And I'm twenty-eight, and the most significant relationship I've had in the past two years is with my personal trainer."
"Your personal trainer is married. And male."
"Exactly my point." Ambrose looked up at her with a rueful smile. "I just want to show up and not be the family disappointment for once. Just for two weeks."
Sasha felt her resolve wavering. The thing about Ambrose was that he'd never asked her for anything significant before. He'd let her move in when she needed somewhere to live, had lent her money when she was between jobs, had listened to her complain about her complete lack of direction without ever making her feel pathetic about it. He'd been the best friend she'd ever had, and he was looking at her like she was the only person in the world who could help him.
Plus, it was bloody hot in Manchester, she had no job and no prospects, and the alternative was spending the next two weeks applying for positions she didn't want and probably wouldn't get anyway.
"Hand-holding," she said finally. "Nothing more."
"Nothing more," Ambrose agreed, though his relief was so palpable she could practically see it radiating off him like heat shimmer.
"And you're buying the wine on the train."
"Obviously."
"And if your family hate me, I'm blaming you entirely."
"They won't hate you," Ambrose said, already moving toward his wardrobe with renewed purpose. "They're going to love you. You're charming and funny and—"
"And completely out of my depth," Sasha finished. "I don't know the first thing about being posh, Ambrose. I'm going to use the wrong fork or call someone by the wrong title or… or something equally hideous."
"You'll be brilliant," he said firmly, pulling clothes out of his wardrobe. "Just be yourself. Well, yourself, but slightly more in love with me."
Sasha watched him pack with the growing certainty that she was making a terrible mistake, but it was too late to back out now. Besides, how hard could it be to pretend to be in love with her best friend for two weeks?
