Page 15 of Friends Who Fake It

Meredith shook her head. “No, that won’t do. Go with the girls.”

“Really, that’s not necessary,” Willow smiled as she said it, to soften the words.

“I beg to differ.” Meredith’s lips compressed into a line of disapproval. “Francesco, take her to town, won’t you? Half of London is coming tonight—you have to look just right, Willow. You know that.”

Willow’s head dropped, her gaze landing on her knees, and something fired inside of him—a protective anger—that made him grind his teeth. He wondered why Willow didn’t remind this woman what she did for a living? The fact that her services were in high demand.

“Willow always looks just right,” Francesco heard himself say, tone banal. “But a trip to town sounds fun. Why don’t we go and play tourist?”

Meredith’s lips parted and Willow’s eyes glanced towards his.

“I meant—,” Meredith interjected.

“Oh, yes,” Willow spoke at the same time, perhaps not hearing Meredith because she went right over the top of her. “There’s a church there you’d love to see.”

“It is hardly the right weather to go galivanting around the countryside. I only meant that you should go the salon and get something done with your hair.”

“Merry,” Baxter’s voice cut across the table. “Let the young people do what they will.”

Meredith’s face pinched. At forty one years of age, she had every reason to still consider herself a young person.

With that, Willow was scraping back her chair and turning to Francesco, her eyes glittering. “Come on,” she held out her hand, in a gesture of trust and solidarity. “Let’s go.”

The rain didn’t ease up as his SUV drove through the gentle undulations of the Cotswolds, neatly cutting through narrow lanes lined with medieval stone houses and finally parking in a town square. They sat there in silence for a few moments, before Willow turned to Francesco.

“Would you like to see the church?”

He arched a thick dark brow, then looked around the square. “Let’s go for a drink,” he said, nodding towards a pub that was almost impossibly cosy, glowing a warm, golden colour from within, the planter boxes overflowing with brightly coloured flowers, the signage boasted, ‘best pie and gravy in the area’.

Willow nodded once.

“Wait there.”

Francesco stepped out of the car, and her eyes lingered a little on his strong legs in the few seconds she had a glimpse of them, before he closed the door and she heard the boot pop. A moment later, he was at her door, opening it, umbrella held aloft. She half-smiled at the chivalrous gesture—though of course, Francesco had had a lot of practice honing his shtick as the perfect boyfriend.

Then again, it wasn’t like he carried the act on beyond a few nights, right? So far as she knew, he’d never dated anyone seriously.

Halfway out of the car, she stilled, as that thought lodged in her brain with a big, bright question mark over it. Francesco had never had a serious girlfriend. She glanced across at him, confusion swamping her. Because why would this man not have properly dated anyone? Beyond a succession of two or three night stands…

But then, he put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her away from the car, and her insides lurched in recognition of the touch, so she had to focus on just putting one foot in front of the other and reminding herself that Francesco was a friend. Tom was the man she wanted to be with.

Inside, the pub was every bit as rustic and charming as outside had promised. Huge pine-scented garlands were strung across the door frames, beautiful artwork adorned the walls, large floral arrangements stood on tabletops, and there was a pleasing hum of chatter and laughter that promised anonymity. Willow wiped a hand over the front of her outfit, to remove any creases, an action she did out of habit, rather than necessity. Though even here, there was a risk of some tabloid photographer snapping an image—double the risk, when she was with a billionaire bachelor like Francesco.

At the bar, Francesco asked, “What would you like?”

She slid her gaze across the various taps promising locally made ciders and ales, then to the fridge, well stocked with wines and champagnes, and finally to the brass backed coffee machine at the end of the counter.

“Actually, I could murder a coffee.”

Francesco nodded, turning to the young woman behind the counter, who was busy looking at Francesco as though if she stared hard enough, he might lean forward and plant a kiss on her lips.

Willow could well understand. Francesco had that effect on pretty much everyone he met.

It wasn’t his fault. But between his height, breadth, strength, that chiseled face, caramel skin, and dark eyes that were rimmed in thick, black lashes, he was more fantasy creation than human.

“Two coffees, thanks.”

“Sure,” the woman nodded. “What kind of coffee?”

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