Page 9 of Friends Who Fake It

He laughed again. Which was a mistake, because it drew the attention of Meredith, her eyes, a stony grey, fixing on him with unashamed curiosity.

“You know, I’m surprised Willow failed to mention your relationship,” Meredith said, as she reached for her champagne glass and took a generous sip.

“We agreed we’d keep it quiet, to start with,” Francesco heard himself say, surprised at the ease with which the lie emerged. “We’re old family friends, after all.”

Beneath the table, Willow’s hand reached out and squeezed his thigh. In gratitude, or a plea for him to stop? She withdrew it again, just as quickly, but that did nothing to dispel the arrows of warmth that were darting through his body.

“All the more reason to tell us,” Baxter said. “It’s wonderful news. Willsy isn’t really one for dating, you know. We were starting to wonder if she might not be interested in it at all,” he shrugged, and the same protective instincts were flaring to life inside Francesco once more.

“Willow,” Meredith chided with irritation unmistakable in her polished tones, her disdain for the diminutive version of that name clear. “Just hadn’t met the right man.”

Something slicked inside of Francesco. A tension, which overtook protective instincts for Willow. She’d made this sound so easy, but suddenly, he was looking down the barrel of how this faux-relationship would end, and he didn’t particularly like to contemplate that. For one thing, he suspected Willow’s family wouldn’t accept that he’d somehow done the breaking up, no matter how blithely she’d suggested his dating history would come to their rescue. For another, he had a feeling they’d see it as further evidence of her failure in this department. But worse was the unmistakable realization that they were starting to think of him as ‘the right man’, when he most definitely wasn’t.

He wasn’t what Willow needed.

Beyond his certainty that they’d be great in bed together, there was no way he was a good fit for Willow. Or anyone. It had been almost two decades since Francesco came to understand that he wasn’t willing to risk getting into a real relationship. Not having seen the way it turned out, if something went wrong.

“Well, she’d met him,” Baxter pointed out, thumbing in Francesco’s direction. “How old were you, Willsy, that year we went to Italy and stayed with the Santoros?”

He glanced across at Willow. Apart from a hint of pink in her cheeks, she looked completely unbothered by the memory. “Around ten, I think.”

Yes, she’d been ten, and him fifteen. He’d thought she was a sweet kid, if totally different to any girl he’d ever met, with her pale English skin and very posh attitudes, even then. She hadn’t wanted to do any of the things he and his brothers had always loved as kids, from climbing trees to rolling down the hills, to swimming in the lake on the southern edge of the estate. Instead, she’d sat under a tree, with her legs curled elegantly to the side, and read her way through a whole series of fantasy novels.

“And you couldn’t get your head out of your books,” he murmured, and hey, what the hell? They were playing the part of a couple, so it didn’t hurt to reach over and flick her arm teasingly. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

She glanced up at him sharply. Too sharply. As though she was surprised by the gentle contact.

His eyes held a warning—remember our roles—and she softened her features into a smile. “I’d just discovered Harry Potter,” she said, eyes nostalgic. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they’re quite unputdownable.”

“So you said, at the time.”

It was just about the only time she’d shown animation, her features moving from glacial—like Meredith’s, he realized now—to alight with excitement and enthusiasm, as though she were glowing from the inside out.

Another memory came to him, and his smile widened. “I seem to remember you spending a fair amount of time waving a stick in the air, too.”

Her cheeks progressed to dark red. “Maybe.”

“Casting a spell?” he couldn’t resist teasing.

“If you must know, yes.”

He laughed, and across the table, the twins did, too.

“I can’t imagine you playing magic games,” Aria said with a shake of her head. “Or any games, for that matter.”

“I—,” she glanced across the table at Meredith, then mutinously at Francesco. “I didn’t know anyone was watching.”

He reached down, unable to resist, tilting her chin towards him. “I wasn’t watching; I happened to walk past and saw you. You really were waving it around enthusiastically, though. Clearly you thought you were on the brink of a magic spell breakthrough.”

“Yes, well,” she muttered, before apparently remembering their supposed relationship and once again smiling. “You had better behave yourself, or I shall turn you into a frog. I still have my wand, you know.”

“But then I would just have to ask my princess for a kiss,” he pointed out, and Kathryn made a swooning noise.

“You guys are ridiculously cute.”

“Kathryn,” Meredith intoned sharply. “They are not children or puppies; they are notcute.”

“Fine. Sweet.” She turned to Meredith. “Or would you prefer sexy?”

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