Page 31 of The Plus One Pact

I'm still naked.

She's still staring.

There is something sexy about it, the doctor in her business casual slacks and blouse, in stylish, simple shades of olive.

The color of the leaves on the tree, not the olives themselves. One of my favorite colors.

We had a tree in our front yard when I was a kid. Before we got all that money and moved into that ridiculous mansion. Well, I suppose we had the money for a few years. Great-Aunt Marisol helped out for a while.

We weren’t rich until she died. That’s when we moved into the ridiculous mansion. Dad’s dream. Not that he got to enjoy much time there. The change killed him.

"Girlfriend?" Ivy asks.

"Mom," I say.

"Oh." Her lips curl into a smile. There's something disarming about it. She's back into that poised professor mode, but she's still charmed by my mother calling me at the crack of dawn. Okay, the crack of nine a.m.

Well, and then some. "I'll get—" My phone interrupts me with another ring. "Sorry. Mom again." What does she want? "Mama, I'm busy. What is it?"

"Daniel says you have a girlfriend now," she says. "But he doesn't believe it. Who would?"

"Can I call you back?" I ask.

"No. That's her, isn't it?" Her voice drops to a different tone. The difficult woman who always gets her way. "If you're sticking to that story," she says in Italian. Then she goes off with a string of curses that would make Dante weep. This woman is a true Italian poet.

She’ll do this for a while. I can mute myself for thirty seconds. "Can I ask you for a weird favor?” I ask Ivy. “I'll give you an hour, free."

"Depends what it is," Ivy says.

"Can you talk to my mom?" I say. "Tell her I'm a great boyfriend."

"Right now?" she asks.

"Or I could call back. If you have work," I say.

"I'm not a good liar," she says. "And I don't know anything about you. Is Romeo your real name?"

"It is," I say.

"What does she think you do?" she asks.

"Consulting. Business," I say.

"And how did we meet?" she asks.

"Make up something fun," I say.

"And the basis of our relationship?" she asks.

"You don't have to stretch the truth too far," I say. "She'll think it started with sex."

"Your mom will say that?"

"She's Italian."

She looks at me funny. Ivy isn't Italian. Or Latin. She's distinctly American. U.S. American. Orange County, California American.

Even though she's a professional, she's a little uptight about things like sharing details with family.