Page 3 of Friends Who Fake It

Who was Erica? She had the sense that her plan might be falling apart.

“I need a pair of ladies’ shoes. Size seven. Style?” he turned to regard Willow, his dark brown eyes tracing the line of her body towards her feet, one higher than the other, courtesy of the inequity in their construction. She kicked both off and crouched down to place them neatly against the wall. “Brown heels. And a coat—size eight? Ten?”

She opened her mouth to say that it didn’t matter, but he had made the executive decision she was an eight, communicating that, and then promptly disconnected the call.

“You didn’t need to do that,” she said, shrugging out of her coat now, looking around, because she’d be damned if she was going to put the splattered thing anywhere in this stunning, art-work of a penthouse.

He strode across the room, two glasses in hand. When she took hers, he immediately relieved her of the coat and to her chagrin, threw it casually across the sofa.

“See? I can be very relaxed.”

She laughed then, and something loosened in her gut, the horrible ball of nervousness seemed to ease a little.

“Oh, yes. I can tell.”

His smile was slow to spread, and much like everything else in the apartment, a total work of art.

She stared up at him, a bemused look on her face, as she tried to imagine what it must have been like to go through life with all of the gifts Francesco had simply inherited.

“I need your help,” she said, biting into her lower lip.

Something tightened around the corners of his eyes. “Beyond with your shoes and coat?”

“Well, yeah. My shoes and coat aren’t why I came to you,” she reiterated.

“What’s going on?” He gestured to the seats, but she stayed standing.

“It’s my father’s birthday this weekend,” she said. “His sixtieth.”

Francesco nodded, slowly, patiently. “Yes, I got the invite. I was planning to swing by, at some point, if possible.”

Because he was a family friend. Because he went way back with them. She swallowed past a sudden knot of doubt. Was she really going to ask him to do this?

“I just had lunch with my stepmother,” she added, taking a sip of her drink, so missing the way sympathy briefly softened Francesco’s expression. Willow had played her cards very close to her chest over the years. If the requirement of looking perfect all the time was important, so too was the expectation that she would always behave perfectly—that included not criticizing one’s family. Personal matters were exactly that—personal. Nonetheless, if she’d seen the way Francesco’s features had shifted, she might have realized that he understood far more than she’d intended him to.

“How is Meredith?” he asked, voice conveying nothing other than relaxed inquiry.

“Oh, you know. The same as always.” Willow forced a bright smile. “She’s very excited about the upcoming weekend. They’ve been preparing the house and gardens for months.”

“They’re hosting the party,si?”

“Well, by hosting, they’re having it where they live. The actual work will be done by an army of staff—from the party planners down to chefs, waiters, valets. You name it, they’ve got it.”

He nodded, encouraging her to continue, or perhaps conveying that he didn’t understand what was going on.

She sighed, sipping her drink once more, trying again.

“I’ve done something kind of stupid,” she said, not able to meet his gaze now.

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

She glanced up at his face, but wished she hadn’t, because he was standing so close and looking at her with such kindness in his features, that it was impossible not to feel like she’d thrown a spear into both of their lives—rather than just hers.

“My stepmother made it very clear that she expects me to have a date for the weekend.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Why?”

“Well, I guess me being unmarried, and still working, at my age, is not at all what they had in mind for me.”

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