Page 13 of Friends Who Fake It

“But your father wasn’t great,” she said, softly now, because she’d seen the wound left by his father’s death, up close and personal. It was something he’d struggled, for at least six months, to recover from.

“No.” Francesco shifted on the floor, and one of the boards creaked. She grimaced a little.

“Did I tell you it’s a very old house?”

He laughed softly.

“Not missing your immaculate, art-gallery-come-penthouse, just a little?”

“Believe it or not, no.”

She glanced down at him. “Your father has an exceptional collection of whisky. If nothing else, I’ll enjoy sampling my way through it this weekend.”

She made a mock wounded noise then reached for a pillow, aiming it at him before dropping it back to the bed.

“Go to sleep, Willow. I understand there are activities planned for tomorrow.”

“Ugh,” she said, rolling onto her side. “Don’t remind me.”

A deep, gruff laugh. “Not your thing?”

“Oh, I love games, as much as the next person. But this is…next level. To say my stepmother is competitive is putting it lightly.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

* * *

Francesco had never been so glad to see the drizzly English rain in his life as he was around lunchtime the next day, when the bad turn of the weather meant the ‘game’ of croquet was to be suspended.

Competitive was one thing.

A bully totally another, and he was beginning to think that Meredith Von Bates was very squarely in the latter category. Whilst Kathryn and Aria, he surmised were busy making each other giggle, and Baxter seemed utterly ignorant to the way Meredith constantly picked and critiqued every single decision Willow made in a day.

Starting from the minute they appeared, side by side, in the breakfast room, and Meredith regarded Willow over the rims of her glasses with a severe frown and a little, “I never thought green was your colour, dear.” Never mind the fact Willow made an excellent living as a stylist to other wealthy socialites and had a pretty good handle on what suited her.

So, Francesco had disagreed, pointing out that Willow looked great in every colour. He did it partly to peeve Meredith off, partly because it was what a doting lover might say, but mostly, because it was true. Willow’s dress sense was flawless.

After that, Willow received a metaphorical slap on the wrist for taking too much food from the buffet—Francesco had leaned into his role at that point, and suggested she must have been a little worn out. Crass, but his fuse had been lit and he’d started to enjoy shocking Willow’s stepmother. Once they’d gone outside, Baxter had bailed him up for more business talk, but by then, Francesco had had an ear trained permanently on Meredith and Willow. She was scolded for the way her hair fell out of its bun a little, the way she struck a ball, the way she slouched her shoulders, the fact she checked her phone—once—during the game.

By the end of it, Francesco’s mood was as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the grand old country estate. The clouds had beaten him to bursting point by minutes, at best.

“For God’s sake,Willow,” he muttered under his breath, finally managing to free himself from Baxter and drag Willow away from her so-called family. “She is truly awful.”

Willow, though, was smiling serenely. “Didn’t I mention that?”

“You said she was competitive…”

“Yes, and she knows I can beat her in croquet. It’s a mental game, Francesco. I like to get in her head from the morning.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know she hates it when I wear green,” Willow said, with a shrug.

Francesco stared at her. “Cristo,”he spat. “You are a grown woman. What business does she have hating, or having an opinion on, for that matter, anything that you choose to wear?”

Willow blinked up at him and shrugged. “Who knows? But every time she tells me something like that, it gives me the power to use it against her.”

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