Page 9 of Fake Engaged to the Enemy

But George only laughs again. “You got me, Lynn. I’m a lazy good-for-nothing, aren’t I?”

“You certainly are,” Grandma agrees teasingly. She gives me a meaningful look. “Well? What are you standing around for?”

I fight a grin as I make my escape. Despite the heaviness weighing on me, I know I’ve made the right choice.

Just so long as George Callahan doesn’t go complicating things, that is.

Chapter three

George

After dropping Catherine off, I dive straight into work, eager to get started.

Unfortunately, it’s not long before I realize I didn’t bring everything I need. I tell Lynn that I’ll be back, all the while kicking myself for forgetting something so simple.

Lynn’s beach house is far enough out of town that she has few neighbors. One of the nearby properties is for sale, and I eye the dilapidated house as I pass it.

Maybe I should look into buying property myself. I certainly have enough money to buy something, rather than renting like I do.

A project house may not be the best idea. I think of that old expression, ‘the shoemakers' children go barefoot.’ With my dad also in construction, I’ve seen the way projects around the home tend to never got done.

On the other hand, I could simply hire my own company for the work.

Chuckling, I continue on. It takes me just over half an hour to get through Sandburrow and to the other side, where my house is.

As I pull up, my stomach drops.

An unwelcome surprise sits on the gravel driveway. My dad’s old blue Chevy.

Great. I told them I’m busy today.

Guess they ‘forgot.’

I jump out of the truck and head inside, unsurprised when I find the hall tree on the opposite wall that I keep it on.

“Mom? Dad?” I call as I pad into the house.

Mom is in the dining room, fussing as she slides the window seat to the next window.

“Oh, hello George,” she says. “Help me with this, will you?”

I cross the room and nudge the seat back to where I had it before. “Mom, please don’t rearrange my furniture.”

Mom puts her hands on her hips. “Georgie, I know what I’m doing. I bought you new curtains and this old thing will clash with them. It needs to go to that window where you won’t see it.”

“I don’t want new curtains,” I say.

“But these are so old-fashioned.” She gestures to the lace curtains that belonged to my grandparents. “You need a woman’s touch in this house.”

Dad, sitting in the living room, laughs. I glance over and grimace. His feet are up on the footstool, the TV is on, and he has a beer in his hand.

“Don’t argue with your mother, George. You know she’s always right.” He rolls his eyes and laughs again. “You know this wouldn’t happen if you were married. A woman’s got to boss her men around. If you had a wife, she’d be doing the bossing.”

I bite back on the surge of irritation that courses through me.

“I didn’t give you a key for you to just wander in and start changing things,” I insist, pressing my legs against the window seat as Mom tries to move it. “What are you even doing here?”

“The AC broke in our apartment,” Mom answers. “But speaking of marriage, I heard that Catherine Hart is back in town.”

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