Page 41 of The Match Faker

Nick doesn’t resemble his mother much, his hair dark to her silver and his dark eyes in contrast to her blue, but they share the same mischievous tilt to their smiles.

Already, Mindy has complimented me more than Anaïs did during my entire relationship with her son, and I’ve only just met this woman.

“Thank you.” I shove the tart pan between us. “I made you a Bakewell tart and here’s a small gift. To say thank you for inviting me.”

“You’re thanking me?” She peeks into the bag. “This is the first time Nick has brought one of his girlfriends home. I should be thankingyou.”

Nick puts his arm around my shoulder, gently pulling me out of his mother’s orbit.

“Slander. You met Allison.”

She frowns. “Who’s Allison?”

“We dated in middle school. She came over to take photos before the seventh-grade dance.”

Mindy throws her head back, grabbing my forearm like she needs me to help hold her up, and roars with laughter like Nick is the funniest person she’s ever met.

Maybe it’s a mom thing.

She lets go of me to squeeze her son. He’s a head taller than her, so when he hugs her back, he tucks her under his chin and kisses the top of her head. Whatever trauma haunts him when he’s here can’t possibly have been caused by this woman. She’s lovely.

“Technically”—Nick winks at me over her head—“we never broke up.”

Mindy pulls away with a teasing huff, then, squeezing my hand, leads me toward the open front door.

“So, I’m the other woman? Thanks a lot.”

Beside me, Mindy laughs again until she’s almost breathless. “You’ll give us Scotts a run for our money. I can just feel it.” She wraps an arm around my hip and pulls me into her. “Welcome to the family, Jasmine.”

Her smile makes warmth bloom in my chest, but on the heels of that sensation, a wave of nausea hits me. If I were a better person, one who wasn’t spiteful and petty, who needed to lie to her bosses to feel better about herself, I’d run right out of this town. All this time, I’ve been obsessing over how to pull off this deception. Not once have I given any thought to the feelings of the people we’re lying to. Nick’s mother is kinder than my own. I want her to keep holding my face, telling me I’m beautiful.

The second I step through this door, there’s no going back. We’re not playing a silly game, faking it. We’re lying.

If I weren’t such a selfish person, I’d make Nick take me home, but Mindy’s warm presence alone will keep me here this whole weekend. Maybe even longer.

While I’ve always lamentedour small family, Jade revels in it. She says she likes having me all to herself. As Nick closes the door behind us, I see her point.

There are too many people in this house. Children scream with glee, their shrieks melding together, making it impossible to discern how many there are, just that there are more children than seems safe for an enclosed space. Deep male laughter comes from the open living room, where a group of men stand near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the snow-covered lake, holding steaming mugs or pint glasses. Tweed tartan blankets are folded over the back of the dark leather couches, and the whole space is bathed in a warm glow from the afternoon sun.

“Uncle Nicky!” one of the children screams, running on stubby kid legs toward him, arms flailing.

He drops to his knees, holding his arms open. “Hey, Tills.”

Several women gathered around one elderly lady who is stationed on a kitchen stool turn to us and gaze adoringly as uncle and nibling reunite. He squeezes her tight, digging his stubbly chin into her neck, tickling her until she squeals. Mindy watches them with all the joy and pride of a mother and grandmother who lives for her family.

Then she turns that smile on me and winks like we’re in on a secret.

Oh, no.

“Nick loves kids,” Mindy says.

I nod woodenly. It’s bad enough sidestepping awkward conversations with in-laws about family planning, but it’s downright confusing to be hit with a pang of true regret at disappointing one’sfakeboyfriend’s mom. Not only do I not want kids; I’m not really dating the man.

“Look what Jasmine brought,” Mindy says, genuine enthusiasm shining through. She presents the tart and the candle and me to the group. The women all smile, except for the small white-haired family matriarch. She tilts her head, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, and peers at me. They all turn to her like they’re awaiting her judgment.

She scowls.

My stomach sinks. That can’t be good.

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