Page 35 of The Fake Date Deal

Eve leaned back against me and closed her eyes. She hadn’t slept much last night, tossing through the wee hours. From what I’d seen of her parents, they weren’t that scary, but everything Eve did, she did to impress them. The chances she didn’t take were so she wouldn’t fail them. I kissed her again, on the back of her neck.

“You know if they hate me, they’ll still love you, right?”

She shivered. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true.” I needed her to know she had nothing to fear. She couldn’t fail here. They’d come to judge me. Which— shit. Was I ready? Was I good enough? What if they were expecting somebody polished, someone more princely, with fancy-ass manners? I was, at heart, just a kid from Siena.

“We shouldn’t keep them waiting,” said Eve, standing up.

We slipped out the side this time, in case reporters were lurking. Tonight was private, a hurdle just for us. I took Eve’s hand and squeezed it on our way to my car, as much to boost my confidence as bolster Eve’s own. In trying to soothe her, I’d got in my own head. Should I try to talk like them? Bow when I met them? Were they Mr. and Mrs., or did they hold titles?

“What should I call them?”

Eve frowned. “Who?”

“Your parents.”

“Their names are Sean and Camille.”

“Not Lord and Lady?—”

“Are you going to get weird?” Her eyes had gone sharp, and I shook my head no.

“Sorry. I just wasn’t sure what to call them.”

I played some music on the drive, partly to soothe Eve, partly to keep my foot out of my mouth. I’d met rich people before, people with titles. People with more money than even Eve’s parents. I hadn’t been nervous then, just curious — did they eat off gold plates? Did they have servants? Did they have their own pilots for their private jets, crews always on standby, ready to fly them? I’d met a guy once with three of the same dog, three identical clones of his childhood best friend. They’d cost eighty thousand euros, and that was per dog.

I smiled at the memory of the goofy cloned dogs, but my throat still felt tight, my palms damp with sweat. It shouldn’t have mattered what Eve’s parents thought, but somehow it did. I needed them to like me, and more than that. I needed them to weigh me and judge me worthy. Eve cared what they thought and I cared what she thought. If I didn’t fit in their world, would she like me less?

“That’s it,” said Eve, pointing ahead.

I pulled in and found the parking lot near-deserted, just one other car nosed up near the entrance. Either this restaurant was wildly unpopular, or Eve’s parents had bought out the whole place.

“It’ll be fine,” I said, only half for her benefit.

“If they ask how we met, you can’t tell them, you know…”

I laughed. “That we’re dating to piss off Rafael?”

“Don’t even say it.” She smacked my arm. “If they ask, you didn’t know me. You asked me to dance.”

I took her arm and led her inside. Her parents rose to greet us and I blanked on their names. Panic swept through me, then her father stepped forward.

“Sean Hansley,” he said. “And my wife, Camille.”

“Marco Barone.” I stuck out my hand, unsure if they’d shake it. But they both did, first Sean, then Camille. I congratulated myself on remembering they lived part-time in the States, and Americans loved a good, firm handshake. They had an air of money about them, but in a casual way, like they were so rich they didn’t care if you knew it. So rich they didn’t have to care. They were above it.

“Let’s sit,” said Sean. “Eve, are you cold?” He rubbed her upper arms like she was a kid. She squirmed away.

“I’m fine. I’m just standing in the draft from the door.”

“Then, come on. Sit down. I hope you don’t mind — we’ve ordered some nibbles.”

Sean watched, eagle-eyed, as I pulled out Eve’s chair for her. I wondered if there was more I was supposed to do — fill her plate with hors d’oeuvres? Pour her a drink? But her water glass was already full. And she’d taken the serving tongs to grab food for herself. I watched her, concerned, feeling out of place.

“Try these,” she said, and plunked a stuffed mushroom on my plate. I reached for it, paused, and took a small fork instead. I speared the mushroom. Bit into it. Grease ran down my chin. I wiped it off without thinking on the back of my hand, then swore, grabbed a napkin, and blotted my hand. My neck burned hot. I wasn’t this awkward.

“Eve should’ve warned you, they love butter here.” Sean ate a mushroom in one quick, neat bite. Camille was smiling, gently amused.

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