Page 21 of Falling for your Fake Boyfriend

I peered up at him, still glued to the seat. “Angel?”

“Trying it out for a test drive. I like it.”

I could feel my cheeks warm. I dropped my legs out of the car and stood up. I stared up at the house. “Oh my gosh, I just got that weird rush you get when you’re staring up at something really tall, like a skyscraper. Downton Abbey could be a garage for this place.” I turned to him. “I’ll get lost for sure. Does it come with some kind of map?”

Luke chuckled as he pulled our bags out of the car. “You can always text me coordinates, and I’ll find you.” He came up to me and stood close enough that I took a moment to take in just how handsome he looked in the waning daylight. “I promise I won’t let you get lost. You ready?”

“Never, but let’s do this. After the day we’ve had, I’m feeling kind of invincible.”

The front door opened, and a woman wearing a bright blue skirt and matching blazer stepped into view. “That’s Amy. She’s my mom’s personal assistant. She’s very efficient and has the personality of a piece of cardboard.”

Amy’s rigid posture crumpled temporarily as a big golden retriever bounded past her. When she realized there was no way to stop the dog, she returned to her rigid posture. Her lips pursed in annoyance as she lifted her hand and talked into a phone.

“Leo!” Luke called to the dog. He loped toward us with a massive smile and his tongue hanging to the side. Luke greeted the dog with a hearty rub and hug. “This is my dad’s dog, Leo.”

I stooped down to greet the dog properly. “I hope I can count on you this weekend when I need a supportive friend.”

The dog licked my face.

“I think that was ayes,” Luke said. “Well, this isn’t going to get any easier, so let’s forge ahead.”

“You said that same thing just before we stepped through a hallway filled with bone shards and the world’s creepiest museum curator,” I reminded him.

“I promise there’ll be no bones on the floor, and while she has plenty of Tiffany lamps, my mom does not have any lampshades made of human skin.”

“That’s good to know,” I muttered as I willed my feet forward.

The entryway was a spectacular collection of imported tiles, lavish wallpaper, gilded mirrors and a chandelier dripping with crystal pendants. Amy, the assistant, met us as we stepped inside. “Sir, the staff has your rooms ready. Miss—uh, Miss—” The woman’s primly preened feathers were definitely ruffled when she realized she didn’t know my name.

“Miss Lovely, Isla Lovely,” Luke supplied.

“Right, Miss Lovely will be on the west wing in guest bedroom three. I’ll have someone take her bag—” She glanced down at my suitcase and paused to collect herself. She tugged at her coat as if my tattered suitcase had caused her some distress. A throat clearing followed. “We’ll take her bags up to her room. Cocktails are being served out on the veranda, but perhaps she’d like to freshen up?” The same disapproving nose crinkle about my suitcase followed her silent survey of my attire.

Luke looked at me. There was an amused twinkle in his eye. “How does that sound,dearest?”

“I wouldn’t mind a quick shower and change,” I said. “If that’s your definition of freshening up,” I added awkwardly.

“I’ll have someone show you up to your room. It has an en suite, of course.”

“Of course,” I said with a fake smile.

“I can show Miss Lovely up to her room,” Luke said. “And I can manage the bags.”

“Sir, your mother would like to see you promptly on the veranda,” Amy said with a small show of emotion. Very small.

“Well, since I’m no longer ten years old and taking commands from my mother, tell her I’ll be there after I see Miss Lovely to her room.”

Amy’s lips stretched into a long, thin line. She hesitated for a moment. “Very well.” She turned. Her stout heels tapped the tile floor as she marched out.

“I think you’re doing a disservice to cardboard.” I peered up at him. “Why’d you resurrectdearest?”

Luke shrugged. “Just seemed to fit the ridiculously prim and proper conversation we were having. I’ll take you to your room.” He motioned with his head. There were two arched doorways at the far end of the massive entryway. Amy had walked through one, and we took the other. We walked through what felt like a second entryway, a vast space with a Persian rug, benches upholstered with sumptuous fabric that would put the richest velvet to shame, and oil portraits of stuffy, grim-looking people standing with horses and falcons and other critters of the wealthy world.

“Are you also in the west wing?” I asked as I hurried to catch up to him. I had a feeling that was going to happen a lot this weekend. While I was seeing the magnificence of his family home for the first time and through the eyes of a woman who grew up in a small cottage, he’d seen it all many times.

“All the family rooms are in the east wing,” he said as we climbed a short set of marble steps, the precursor or launch pad to a massive set of elegant, movie-worthy stairs.

I stopped before making the big climb. “Great, so you’re just a hop, skip and a two-mile trek away.”

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