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Jace blinked at her in disbelief. Was his mother seriously willing to overlook someone with a criminal past and who could quote the communist manifesto just because she liked to cook? Marlowe had inadvertently stumbled upon a way to get on his mother’s good side.

And the girl didn’t even know how to bake a pie.

Well, it turned out that dinner had gone worse than he expected.

While the conversation went on around him—Lucas was now telling everyone who his people were: Colonel Sanders, Betty Crocker, and Little Debbie—Jace went on his phone. Marlowe needed to work on her image.

He brought up the site with the red leather jacket and bought her the matching skirt.

CHAPTER 11

On Wednesday evening, Jace went over to Marlowe’s house for his first stint with Mrs. Partridge. He took some board games with him in case she wanted to play something.

His time with her would probably be uneventful. If Marlowe’s grandmother was anything like his, she would fall asleep in her recliner during Monk reruns.

Marlowe answered the door. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves, and he tried not to think about the fact that he’d run his hands through that hair last Sunday. She wore a cheerfully bright sweater with flamingos and a pair of pink jeans. He hadn’t even known jeans came in pink. On most people, the outfit would have looked ridiculous, like someone dressing up to be a tourist, but on her, it worked.

The girl looked good in whatever she put on.

Her eyes, big and sage green, met his. She opened the door wider and cast a glance over her shoulder, checking, he supposed, to make sure her grandmother hadn’t come in. When she’d confirmed they were alone, she said, “I got the leather skirt this morning. You didn’t really have to buy it for me. I was only joking about that. Do you want me to send it back?”

Jace strolled inside, board games tucked under his arm. “No. And I expect you to wear it the next time you’re around my parents.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to sound accusing, but it did. “My mother likes you because you volunteered to bake pies for her.”

Marlowe put her hand to her chest, all wide-eyed sincerity. “That’s so sweet. I guess the way to a fake boyfriend’s mother’s heart is through her stomach.”

“You’re not supposed to be making a way to her heart.”

“Right. Right. I’m sure the skirt will do the trick. But if not, a pair of tall leather boots always screams bad girl.”

Uh huh.

The Partridges’ living room was the sort that looked like it had been preserved from some time period in the eighties. Floral wallpaper climbed the walls in faded mauve and dusty green. The couch, upholstered in a busy pattern of tiny roses, had a crocheted blanket to protect the fabric, although the material must have already survived decades.

From somewhere in the house, Marlowe’s grandmother called, “Tell him he’s a guest, not a babysitter! I don’t need one of those.”

Marlowe turned toward the family room. “He’s just here in case you need something.”

“I’ve taken care of myself for over eighty years,” she called back. “Unless I go into a diabetic coma or spontaneously combust, I’ll be fine.”

Marlowe sighed and stepped closer to Jace. “Just… if her blood sugar dips, she gets cranky. If it spikes, she gets chatty. Both are dangerous.”

“I heard that!” Grandma snapped.

“You were supposed to,” Marlowe said. She showed Jace into the family room. It had a similar eighties vibe with a green and brown plaid couch, which might have matched the nearby flowered recliner—at least by color if not by print. If a person took prints into account, the two pieces of furniture appeared to be duking it out.

Mrs. Partridge sat in the recliner, knitting something intensely purple.

Marlowe grabbed her keys and her bag from an end table. “I’m turning on my notifications. Text me if you have any problems. Call me if the problems are bad.”

The girl worried too much. “I’ve been in med school for three years. I think I can handle anything that arises. Leave your notifications off and concentrate on your class.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll take a picture of you on your first day of school. This seems like the sort of momentous occasion that’s worth space on your social media accounts.”

She held out her hand to stop him. “Don’t.”

He snapped a picture of her anyway, although it wasn’t a good one, considering she was holding her hand out like a police officer stopping traffic. “Why not? You look adorable. As usual.”

She grabbed his phone and deleted the photo. “If the class is too hard and I end up abandoning the whole idea, I don’t want everyone to know I failed.”

That’s what she was worried about? Pfft. “You’re not going to fail. This isn’t high school world history where Mr. Harding acted like he got a hundred-dollar bounty for every student he flunked.” Jace had helped her study for her tests in that class. “The teacher is there to help you.”