Page 21 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
He takes the ring box from his suit jacket and slips the ring inside. The lid snaps closed.
He goes back to his computer. “Because I’ll be up late and early working on this case, you’ll have your own room. I don’t want to disturb you.”
That’s the first welcome news since I entered the car. I’m not ready to share living space yet.
“What about gifts for your family?” My enthusiasm for Maine might have tanked, but it’s still Christmas. “I brought a few shawls Nana knit years ago. We can give them to your grandma and aunts. I brought wool to knit everyone elsesomething. What do you think? Mittens? A scarf? A tea cozy?”
He lays his hand on my wrist but is still reading from the computer screen. “Layla, my family doesn’t appreciate homemade gifts. The presents I brought will be from the both of us.”
“I want to give them something. You should see the shawls. They’re like gossamer. The ones we sold online fetched hundreds of dollars.”
“Layla.” He turns his head to face me, his voice is sharp and his brow creased. “It doesn’t matter. They won’t want anything knitted. Besides, you don’t want to spend your holiday making stuff.”
His words hurt. My knitting isn’tstuff.I create usable items. He dismissed me and Nana in just a few sentences.
I have to take a deep breath and remind myself that this is a new life I’ve begun as Spencer’s fiancée. Or, secret fiancée until Christmas. It’s a change in perspective I need to make.
We’re silent until we arrive at the airport. The driver opens our doors and pulls our luggage from the trunk. Spencer’s smile deflates as the driver places my two wheeled suitcases next to his on the curb.
“Those are yours?” he asks.
“Of course.” Who else would have bags in the back of the car? “What’s the problem?”
He huffs out a breath. “Layla, I think you’re perfect the way you are, but my family has exacting standards. We’ll have to buy you new luggage when we arrive in Boston.”
There’s an insult hidden within the information drop,but I ignore it. “Boston, Massachusetts? I thought we were going to Maine.”
“We have an hour’s drive from the Boston airport to the cabin in York.”
Now I’m really confused. “The cabin is in New York?”
“No,York,Maine, not New York,” he says, enunciating each word. “York is about four hours from New York.” He studies me from toes to nose. “I don’t want my family to look down on you. We’ll need to buy you new clothes in Boston, too.”
Right now, I’m wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, but they’re Alo Yoga. I may have bought them from my favorite consignment shop, but that doesn’t mean they’re from the dollar bin at Walmart. I’m not stupid. I came prepared to impress his family.
“I have a dress in my carry-on to change into before I meet your grandma.”
He lays his hands on my shoulders and leans close. “You always look amazing, Layla, but I need you to trust me on this. You don’t know my family yet, and I want them to have the best impression of you. I know you can’t afford a new wardrobe, so it will be my Christmas gift to you.”
Spencer is a pro at sandwiching his criticisms within compliments, but it doesn’t sting any less.
I think of Nana yesterday in the recreation room, smiling as she sang along to “Blue Suede Shoes.” This is for her. She needs to be in memory care, not evicted from Brock Pine Home altogether.
If it’s so important to Spencer that his family doesn’t look down on me because my clothes are a few years out of date, then so be it.
“Okay.”
He kisses my cheek, his breath minty and warm. “Thank you for understanding.”
Spencer takes my hand and leads me inside the airport. An attendant has our luggage on a cart and follows behind. I’m discombobulated by how quickly we’re whisked through security, given a ride on a golf cart, and deposited at our gate.
Just as we arrive, they call first class and in minutes we’re down the jet bridge. Once we’re on the plane, instead of heading toward the right, we turn left into the first-class area. A flight attendant leads us directly to our seats. Or … cushy recliners that turn into beds? Pods? I’m not sure what to call them, but the moment I sit down I sigh at the comfort. I’ve only flown a few times, but never like this. When I stretch my legs out, and my toes don’t touch the seat in front of me.
Next to my pod is a bag full of what I assume are complimentary items: ear plugs, an eye mask, lotion, socks, European chocolate, snacks, and gum. The rich definitely live differently than normal folk.
The moment Spencer sits down, he’s on the phone talking to a colleague about the disaster of their upcoming case. As frustrated as he must feel at these last-minute complications, there’s a thrill in his voice. He lives for impossible situations because he loves being the one to figure out how to come out on top. It sounds exhausting to me.
As the other ten first-class seats fill in, I wave away the offered wine and grab my earbuds and knitting needles. When I couldn’t sleep last night, I finished my sock. Now I’m working on a baby blanket.As I cast on, I realize I don’t needto run my shop like a desperate woman any longer. Spencer is giving me something precious: peace.
