Her hand darts out to cover mine, and she squeezes. I’m so grateful for that comforting touch that for a second I let myself pretend this is real. I’ve just spent a fun few hours with an amazing woman, and now I’m going to meet her parents as my best self. But that’s not what’s happening here, is it?
My eyes slide over her shoulder to her house, where the curtain in the front window twitches. Wondering what kind of scrap vehicle is messing with their property values, no doubt.
“So how do you wanna play this?” I ask. “Do you want me to be the perfect boyfriend or the boyfriend from hell? Or do you want me to turn around and drive home?”
She turns her head and now we’re both studying the house, with its huge wreath on the glossy black front door and its garland-wrapped light post. It screams Christmas, as does Darby in her red fleece and pompom-topped hat. She’d look right at home in a Norman Rockwell painting.
Her wicked smile isn’t Rockwell-ish, though.
“You know what? Let’s do it. Bad boyfriend activate. I never want to hear them ask me a single thing about my love life ever again after this week.”
Disappointment whispers through my chest. Part of me wanted her to call it all off, tell me I wouldn’t have to put all my nefarious plans into action. But I’m here to help Darby, and if she still wants to go through with it, I’ll play my part.
“Okay, then the fake bad boyfriending starts now. But you have to tell me if I ever make you uncomfortable, and I’ll stop immediately.”
Her green-brown eyes soften. “That’s nice of you. So a safe word, then?”
Smart. She’s so damn smart. I glance down the street, lined with expensive homes. Every last one has tastefully boring landscaping and casually elegant holiday decorations. I’d feel out of place even if I wasn’t going out of my way to ruin these people’s Christmas.
Inspiration strikes. “Is ‘Grinch’ too on the nose?”
She gives a silvery peal of laughter. “It’s perfect. But don’t expect to hear it. It’s going to take a miracle to get my family to back off.”
She bites her lip again and looks back at the house where she grew up. “My therapist tells me I need to get better about setting boundaries and letting people know when they’ve crossed a line.” She lifts her shoulders and lets them fall. “So I guess it’s kind of my fault that they don’t know how much their little jokes hurt my feelings over the years.”
“Don’t blame yourself. And don’t worry; Bad Gabe is here to be your weapon. You can nuke them from space.” She laughs, as I hoped she would. “If they do kick us out, we’ll just drive back to my place, watchThe Long Kiss Goodnight, and eat our weight in pork buns.”
“What’sThe Long Kiss Goodnight?”
I gasp in mock horror. “It’s only the best Christmas action movie.”
“Better thanDie Hard” Her voice is skeptical.
“By a mile.”
“Wow. Okay. Always good to have a backup plan.” She still sounds a little nervous, but before she opens the door and lets the outside world in, I put my hand on her knee. She stills, her eyes flying to mine, and I swallow hard before I speak.
“I need you to know something. If you really were my girlfriend, I’d jump out of this truck and open your door for you and help you down.” I hold her gaze as I talk, and my thumb makes a little circle on her jeans. “I’d carry your bags in and put them anywhere in that house you want. And I’d be so damn polite to your parents, they’d get bored within five minutes.” I’d also kiss her the minute I got her alone in the room we’d be sharing, but she doesn’t need to know that part.
She might be thinking something similar because a shiver runs through her body. I know because my fingers are still resting on her leg. Oops.
“Bad Gabe doesn’t do any of that though,” she says, and I strain to hear if there’s disappointment in her voice.
“No,” I agree. “He doesn’t.”
Then she blows out a breath and throws her shoulders back. “No worries. I packed that suitcase. I can carry it.”
“I still don’t like it,” I grumble, popping open my door. It lets the cold evening air rush in, destroying the cozy cocoon we’ve created for ourselves. I step outside and reach behind the driver’s seat to grab my duffel.
“If things go right, you can be as happily unattached as you want to be for the rest of your life,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes over the interior of the truck. “Yay.”
Then I turn and walk toward this houseful of strangers whose Christmas I’m about to make really weird.
CHAPTERSIX
Darby
