“Archer, who is that unkempt woman and why does she keep falling down in my driveway? What will the neighbors think?” The woman rocks forward on her toes, her eyes scanning the surrounding area.
Archer helps me to my feet and dusts me off. “You sure you’re alright?” His grip on my upper arms is the steadying force I need to help me stop swaying.Did I drink more than I thought?No, I only had the two glasses. Guess I reallycan’thold my liquor anymore.
“Yeah,” I nod, the lie slipping easily from my lips. “I’m good. Barely even tipsy.”
He nods once before turning to face the woman standing on the steps of the mansion. She’s wringing her hands and darting glances to either side, as though she’ll see the neighbors spying on us past the vast expanse of property on either side. Her skirt suit is impeccable, and her hair is one of those sleek bobs that you know cost hundreds, maybe even thousands, of dollars a month to maintain. It looks so soft I want to nuzzle my face in it.
“Archer, why is that woman looking at me like that?” His mother curls her lip in disgust and Archer heaves an audible sigh.
“This is Phoebe, Mom. She’s the mother of my son. And once you clear up some misinformation for us, I’m hoping she’ll be more than that, too.”
Chapter 40
Meet The Parents Part Two
Archer
“Whatareyoutalkingabout, Archer? You don’t have a son.”
Rather than attempt to argue, I take out my phone and pull up my photo album, choosing a picture of myself wearing Lincoln in his baby carrier from earlier today. I pass the phone to my mother. “This is Lincoln. Phoebe recently found me to tell me about him. And before you ask, yes, we did a paternity test, and yes, he is actually my son.”
“Hmm.” She holds the phone out from her face. “Are you sure he’s yours? I mean, he’s certainly this woman’s son”—she gestures to Phoebe with a flick of her wrist—“the red hair really gives it away.”
I smile because my mother has unintentionally hit on one of the many things I love about Lincoln. “Yeah, he looks just like her, doesn’t he? Except for the eyes. Those are all me. But to answer your question, yes, I’m sure.”
My mother narrows her eyes. “How do you know she didn’t fake the test results? Someone with your social standing should know this sort of thing happens all the time to men with the amount of money we have. That’s why you’re marrying Annabelle, after all. Her family is as well off as we are. You can rest assured she’s not in it for the money.”
My mouth opens to tell my mother to drop the act, that I know she and my father are the one’s in it for the money when Phoebe stiffens next to me, calling my attention to her growing discomfort and away from my mom’s misplaced faith in my family’s wealth. I’ll have to deal with that later. For now, I grab my phone back from my mother and shove it in my pocket. We’re here to dispel the idea that I’m marrying Annabelle and here my mother is declaring that is exactly what I’m doing. How can I get it through to her?
“I need you to listen to me carefully, Mother. Do you understand?” She nods, a look of uncertainty flashing across her features. “I. Am. Not. Marrying Annabelle. Ever. Stop your preparations. Cancel any bookings you’ve made. It’s not happening,”
Phoebe snickers at my back and my mother splutters.
“Well...”
“No. That’s not good enough. I’ve already told you this, and I assumed you understood. I’m sure you can understand my surprise today when I learned you were out shopping at the textile arts festival with Annabelle and her mother, and for what? Shit for a wedding dress for a wedding that isn’t happening. How is this possible?”
My mother wrings her hands some more, a habit I’m only now noticing corresponds to her feelings of guilt. The more guilt she feels, the more she wrings her hands. “Well, your father told me he’d spoken to you and you’d seen how advantageous it would be to marry Annabelle. He told us to go ahead with planning the wedding. Her mother even hosted a bachelorette party for her.” She laughs cruelly. “That turned into a nightmare in itself. Can you believe Annabelle wanted an alcohol-free venue? They booked out some ridiculous little coffee shop downtown.”
An alcohol free venue? That doesn’t sound like the Annabelle I know. That Annabelle would never be caught dead without a drink in her hand at a social event. Come to think of it, that Annabelle had a drink in her hand more often than not.
Phoebe steps around me, drawing my attention to her instead of the mystery of an alcohol free party and Annabelle. “That was you? My friend could lose his job because he danced at that party. Not to mention the owner of the coffee shop nearly had to shut down entirely. Luckily, she had video footage that proved it was the out-of-control party guests who brought alcohol into an unlicensed establishment.”
My mother taps a finger against her lower lip, humming as she thinks. “Which one? The large burly man, or the smaller man covered in tattoos? They were both a little rough around the edges for my tastes. And what does it matter if they lose their jobs? It’s not like taking their clothes off for money is anything to be proud of. The money they make from something so indecent is dirty. They should look to obtain a more respectable career. Something with longevity. Something they won’t need to be ashamed of.”
“Neither of them are strippers,” Phoebe yells, her hands gripping her hair in exasperation. “One is head of security for a famous rock band who was there doing the store owner a favor. The other is an actual police officer who was called to deal with the unruly partygoers when someone pulled out bottles of champagne. One of the woman snatched his gun out of his holster and now he’s suspended pending an investigation.”
My mother’s face pales, and she fidgets with her fingers. “Well,” she sputters, “it’s not my fault. You can’t have a bachelorette party without champagne.”
“Oh my god, Mom.Youbrought the alcohol? When someone says they want an alcohol free party, you don’t bring champagne. Tell me. Where does a police officer rank on your scale of respectability? Is it above a stripper? How does it fare against sex toy maker? Surely a police officer is a more respectable than the owner of a sex toy factory and yet you’ve never had any qualms about taking the money earned from that, have you?”
She splutters and won’t look me in the eye.
“You had no issue with using the money we earned by making dildos, butt plugs, and vibrators to buy that monstrosity of a fountain.” I jerk my thumb behind me toward the golden monument in question. “It doesn’t bother you that the money people have spent chasing orgasms buys you all those fancy clothes you wear? That nice jewelry? You’re such a hypocrite, Mom. Now, where’s Dad? I need to talk to him.”
My mother doesn’t look up from the careful inspection she’s suddenly conducting of her feet when she answers. “He’s in his study. He got an important phone call as you came through the gate.”
“Thanks. And allow me to suggest that you have your own conversation with him when I’m done. I came here thinking you already knew what was going on, but it seems like you’ve been misguided as to the extent of the Fade fortune.” I turn away, dismissing my mother. “Phoebe? Will you come in?”
