Page 14 of Friends Who Fake It

“She’s awful,” he repeated.

“She’s nuanced,” Willow diffused, in a way that bordered on defensive of her stepmother. Like some kind of Stockholm syndrome, he figured, shaking his head, because he wasn’t following Willow’s line of defense.

“Didn’t you see me hook my hair out of my bun?”

He shook his head, dropping his gaze to her still loose hair, then wishing he hadn’t, because it was so soft and silky, shimmering like black silk in the light cast by the hallway lamps. And from the ends of her hair, it was a very short trek inland, to the swell of her neat breasts, visible through the tightness of her green sweater.

His hand formed a fist at his side.

“It’s juvenile of me,” she said, oblivious to the inner battle being raged between his head and his cock. “But she’s so easy to annoy.”

He stared at her.

“I know how it must seem,” she admitted after a beat, mistaking his silence, perhaps, for skepticism. “But if I hadn’t developed this…coping mechanism…as a teenager, she would have destroyed me. I didn’t know how to handle her, so I took back the power in the only way I had available to me. I leaned into her irritation. I sought it out, so that whenever she criticized me, I’d feel likeIhad scored a victory, not the other way around.”

“I hate that you have had to live like this,” he said, shocked by how profoundly and deeply he did hate that.

“It’s fine,” she said, shaking her head, smiling, but in a way that he hated even more, because it didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. He had the feeling he was being managed, in fact, just as she managed her stepmother.

It was the last thing he wanted.

“Willow—,”

But what could he say? What could he offer her, beyond the support he’d already promised.

He reached down and grabbed her hand, holding it in his, appreciating, for the first time, how fine and delicate it was, and yet, how perfectly it fit in his clasp.

“What are you doing?”

“Being your boyfriend,” he reminded her, wondering at the darkness in his tone. “For another forty-eight hours, anyway.”

ChapterFour

LUNCH WAS NOT MUCH better than last night’s dinner had been. A stifling affair and a meal that was unapologetically rich and stodgy, with conversation that was directed by Meredith, interjected occasionally by Baxter, when he wasn’t glancing at the broadsheet newspaper to his right. The twins were silent, though Francesco suspected that was because one of them had a phone beneath the table and they were scrolling it with the volume down, somehow managing to avoid Meredith’s notice.

He suspected Willow would not have been so lucky, if she were to try the same.

“Now, we have guests arriving from five,” Meredith was saying. “Most are staying for the two nights. Would you care to see the guest list, Francesco? There might be some names on it you’re familiar with. Such a shame your family wasn’t able to make it.”

“Yes,” he agreed with a nod. “But I do not need to see the list.”

Meredith’s lips puckered a little and beside him, he was sure he felt Willow’s body shift ever so slightly, as though she were suppressing a laugh.

“The caterers will be setting up the ballroom—unfortunately, the marquee won’t work in this weather. Not for this evening, at least, though perhaps by tomorrow,” she murmured, glancing to the windows which showed a view of the softly falling rain and thunderously grey clouds. “But no matter, we always knew the weather would be risky at this time of year.” She threw a glance at Baxter that was almost accusatory, for having had the audacity to be born at the tail-end of winter.

“It will be lovely, Meredith,” Willow said, her tone genuinely kind. A kindness that Francesco wasn’t sure the other woman deserved at all.

“Hmmm,” Meredith said, reaching for her wine and taking a sip.

“Can we be excused?” Aria asked, looking at her mother.

“May we be excused,” Meredith repeated through gritted teeth. “And why?”

“We have hair appointments,” Kathryn replied.

“Ah, of course,” Meredith’s demeanor shifted completely to one of approval. She turned quickly though, rounding on Willow. “I presume you have someone arranged to take care of this?” she gestured towards Willow’s silky dark hair, tucked back neatly again into a low bun.

“I’ll do it myself,” Willow responded.

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