Page 48 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
“Bread pudding?”
“Gross.”
“Banana pudding?”
“Mushy Nilla Wafers? Yuck. I don’t actually like the texture of pudding in general.”
“Apple crumble smothered in ice cream?”
“I don’t know if that would count as soggy. However, ice cream on cake? Blah.”
He dips his cookie again, almost as a taunt. I look away, not because it’s gross, which it is, but because he’s charming while being gross.
Rheta and Marianne are reminiscing about a Christmas spent in Paris forty years ago, and no one is looking at this end of the table.
I should let our earlier conversation drop, but Owen has this effect on me where I want to tell him everything. It shouldn’t matter under the circumstances, but I don’t want him to dislike me or believe I’m a gold digger or a liar. I want him to understand me, because that’s what friends do: they understand each other.
“I’m friends with members of a band,” I say. “They were playing at a private party last New Year’s Eve, but their singer came down with food poisoning. I filled in for her the night I met Spencer.”
The soggy part of Owen’s cookie falls into his cocoa. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“The band was taking a break between sets when he came over and started talking to me.”
I think back on that night. Spencer was sexy and suave with his slicked back pompadour and double-breasted suit. After our first conversation, I didn’t lose track of him allnight. I’d never met someone like him, and it felt amazing to have his attention when there were so many beautiful women there who were actual guests. Whenever I wasn’t on stage, he sought me out. To say I found it flattering does my feelings a huge disservice.
“I thought he was slumming it with me,” I say. “I was literally the hired help and everyone treated him like a celebrity. But he called me the following week and asked me out. He got my number through the host who contacted the band. Who puts in that much effort for a date with a jazz singer? He has only ever shown me respect.” I smile sardonically. “Unless it has to do with putting his phone away during meals or arriving on time. Then he’s a lost cause.”
Owen smiles but quickly sobers. “You’ve been together ever since?”
He has to be thinking about our fry night. Is telling him the truth about how I came to be here better or worse? I can’t decide, but I know I don’t want to lie. He must suspect I need money for Nana because of his offer to give money after my call with Brock Pine Home. He knows part of my story already.
“No, we haven’t. We broke up a few times over the year, but we always get back together. Spencer and I weren’t dating when I went with you for fries. I’m sorry I left so abruptly. I got a text from him saying he needed to talk to me as soon as possible. When we met up, he asked me to come with him to Maine, and I said yes.”
The intensity of Owen’s attention makes my heart flutter.
He nods. “Thank you for explaining.”
“I know Spencer and I aren’t a conventional match, butwe work as a couple. I’m not blind to his faults, but he’s what I need in my life. Besides, I’m not perfect either.”
I come with a lot of financial baggage.
Owen eats the last bite of his gross, soggy cookie and says under his breath, so softly I barely hear the words, “I disagree. You’re nearly perfect to me.”
My heart flutters at his words, but he wouldn’t think that if he knew the truth.
OWEN
As the sun sets, everyone at Sohier Park heads closer to the rocky shore and looks out at the lighthouse. Wispy clouds in the sky reflect the light from the sun as it sinks behind what looks like the edge of the world, coloring the sky pink and shadowed purple.
“I’ve never seen a sunset like this before,” Layla breathes out with reverence. “It’s beautiful.”
I glance over. Her face is aglow with the last minutes of the sun’s rays and I am in awe of the view. I couldn’t agree with her more: beautiful. If she were mine, I’d hold her hand. She’d lay her head on my shoulder. I’d kiss her forehead. She’d snuggle into the crook of my neck.
A foolish dream that will only cause me pain because it will never come true. I’d step away from her, but we’re packed in tight.
As the sky turns to a murky blue, the crowd starts a countdown from ten. Layla puts her hands to her chest and laughs. She meets my eyes and we both join in.
“Five … Four … Three … Two … One!”
