Page 27 of Synced to Us

I stop in the small entryway, my hands squeezing my forearms as I cross them over my chest.

Of course Wyn wouldn’t want me mentioning who I “am” to his mother. A former escort. As his girlfriend, pretend or not, impressing the future mother-in-law is vital. I’m shocked Wyn’s been so nonplussed about it so far—He only mentioned my prior self-employment once when we first met, and I bit his head off so ruthlessly, I was surprised he brought it up again at the train station. I suppose he was feeling me out for his ultimate request, though, on refraining on telling my family what you are.

Yes, I knew what I was getting into when I took on my first client, and yes, I was young enough to believe it wouldn’t haunt me for the rest of my life, but for some reason, being Mason’s best friend, I figured Wyn would’ve been cool with it.

I guess not.

Then again, why do I care how Wyn Riley perceives me?

A light in the nearest side room flickers on, followed by the quick shuffle of feet.

“You’re here!” a voice trills.

The tiny woman with dark, bouffant-styled hair greets us.

“You must be—” I’m thrown into a surprisingly hard hug before I can finish. The top of her sticky hair-stack tickles my nose.

“My dear, I’m so delighted to meet you,” she says into my breasts, and then shoves me to arm’s length to get a good look. “I couldn’t believe it when Bradford wandered in and said Winston brought a girlfriend home! My, you smell nice. And look so fancy, too. Winston, where have you been hiding this gorgeous thoroughbred?”

Any angst over Wyn’s request disappears after I’m compared to a horse, and I stifle back laughter.

“It happened very fast,” I say before Wyn can speak. I can feel the sheer apology for his mother’s behavior leeching from his tense body. I glance at him, softening my gaze in assurance that I don’t mind the attention. It’s not like this is real. I can play the part just fine. “We went on, what was it, babe, one date? And we just knew.”

Wyn blinks. “Uh—yeah.”

“You can’t blame a mother for feeling betrayed. He never tells me about anyone he dates.”

“We’ve only been dating a few weeks, Miss Riley,” I say, keeping my voice sweet.

She tips her head back and laughs. The height of her hair nearly topples her off-balance. “Oh, my dear, I’m no Miss Riley. You can call me May. Maybeth Rothlessberger,” she adds, as if letting me in on a big secret. “‘Riley’ is Winston’s rock star name. So is adding a Y into his name so he can be like the cool kids.”

Wyn grumbles but swallows it as soon as his mother snaps a look at him. “My agent made me do it.”

“I had no idea.” I glance between this sprite of a woman and the man behind me, sharing in May’s humor. The two couldn’t be more different. Yet, somehow, her one-hundred pounds soaking wet gave birth to the giant in jeans.

My smile falls when I realize Wyn isn’t amused. His expression is so smooth, he’s a marble statue of his former self.

That stone crumbles enough at the lips to ask, “You feeling good, Ma?”

“Oh, shoo.” May flaps her hand at Wyn. “I’m grand.” She pats me on the arm, and then ushers me forward. “Come into the kitchen and meet Lucy. Winston can bring your bags up to your room like a good boy.”

“Ma, I can bring the bags up later. I’ll join you in the kitchen.”

“No need,” I say over my shoulder. This fairy slip of a woman is full of energy, bouncing along the floorboards and sharing a wide grin as she leads me down the hall. Yet, Wyn eyes her wearily, clinging to the banister and clenching his jaw as he shifts into the shadows.

It’s fine, I mouth, and point up the stairs, letting him know it’s okay before I’m pulled into the kitchen.

“I wish you’d gotten here earlier,” May says as we round the corner. “I had the most delicious casserole ready, but since Wyn was late, I told Bradford he could eat the rest.”

“It’s not a problem. We ate something on the train,” I semi-lie, and picture Brad, who’s more like his mother in stature, finishing off a baking dish’s worth of noodles and vomiting it into the toilet just to spite his brother.

I catch myself. What am I doing, acting like I know this family?

I’m interrupted by May exclaiming, “Lucy, look who’s here! Winston’s girlfriend.”

We’ve stepped into a small, open kitchen, with a gap between a counter and the top cupboards providing a view into the family room.

“That’s yet to be verified,” Brad calls from the reclining sofa-chair, beer in hand, and eyes glued to a fifty-inch flatscreen. “He could be paying her.”

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