“You seem happy, Gracie girl,” she says, calling me my childhood nickname. Asher’s too engaged in his conversation with my father to hear, so my mother uses the moment to prod, even if it’s a statement and not a question.
“I am.” Because that’s what my character should say. If I were truly in love with Asher Caine, I would be beaming with happiness, so I do my best to channel it. My mom is assessing, but it doesn’t seem like she sees through the facade.
“He’s good to you?” she asks, whispering while side-eyeing Asher.
I smile. Is he good to me? Even as a fake fiancé, Asher has been nothing but kind and generous. For a brief moment, my mind flashes to the way he touches me, to that practice kiss, and heat flames my cheeks.
My mom chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She pauses for a moment. “I just want you to be happy, Gracie. Whatever makes you happy makes me happy.” As she squeezes my hand, guilt claws its way up for lying to her when she’s being so genuine. My parents have always been good to me, and now I’m lying to them.
By the middle of dinner, Asher has my dad in the palm of his hand. He's laughing and talking business with him in a way that surprises me. Dad's spent his whole life running our Christmas tree farm, hands calloused from honest work, while Asher commands boardrooms in thousand-dollar suits. Yet somehow, they find common ground.
Watching them, I can almost forget this is all pretend. Dad treats Asher like any potential son-in-law, protective butwelcoming. Asher responds with the kind of respect he rarely shows anyone.
"Grace says you're good to her," Dad says quietly after our plates have been picked up and we're all filled with good food.
"She deserves nothing less."
"If you hurt her"—Dad's voice drops just enough to carry weight—"you'll have to answer to me. Don't care how many fancy suits you own."
Instead of bristling, Asher nods respectfully. "I wouldn't expect anything else, sir."
Dad's stern expression melts into approval. "I like this one, Gracie. He's got backbone."
“So…” My mother claps her hands in front of her, changing the subject. “When’s the wedding?”
I flinch, but Asher doesn’t seem bothered at all by the knowledge that I haven’t told my parents our wedding date yet.
“May 15th.”
Both sets of eyes widen, and I feel small, worried they’re going to judge or try to talk us out of this.
“Why so soon?” My mother is the first to speak.
Asher shrugs, looking at me briefly with sweetness in his gaze, before turning back to my parents. “I love your daughter, Mrs. Morgan. And I don’t want to spend a minute longer without being married to her. I’d do it today, if I could. But we want a wedding. So May it is.”
His answer is so calm, so serious. And both my parents take a moment to digest his words. When they look at me, I’m smiling and leaning into Asher, trying my best to not let my nerves show.
“Well then, let’s cheers to true love.” She raises her glass, and my father and Asher do the same. I feel like a fraud as I lift my white wine to cheers, both my parents grinning as Asher loops his arm over my shoulder and kisses my cheek.
“To true love,” he repeats, eyes on me.
My chest tightens. “To true love.”
18
GRACE
Despite my parents having been to New York City several times during my college years, they still make me do all the touristy things with them. So for two days, that’s all we do. We video call both my brothers, too, including them in some of the sights. Owen, my older brother, stayed home to run the farm. And Luke, my younger brother, is studying at Michigan University. My mother also insists we give them a virtual tour of the penthouse, which Luke seems excited about, while Owen’s face is skeptical.
Wallace and I take them to the airport on a Monday while Asher is working. Despite him telling me he’d rearrange his schedule to go with me, I told him I’d rather take them myself.
“I love you, Gracie girl.” My mother squeezes me so tight it hurts my bones, but it’s the best kind of hug, one that feels like home.
“I kinda like Asher. Well, as much as you can like a city boy." Dad chuckles at his own joke. "But Grace”—his face turns serious—"if he does anything to hurt you, I'll kill him. And I mean that literally. I've got a whole farm's worth of places to hide a body, and I hear corpses make great fertilizer."
The deadpan delivery makes my jaw drop. "Dad! Stop, you can't be serious."
"I'm serious as a tax audit, sweetheart." But his mouth twitches at the corner, betraying his own amusement.
