Page 4 of Fake Fiancée for Dad's Best Friend
“Shall we have dinner first? I’ve got lasagna and pasta,” I speak cheerfully to hide my embarrassment.
“Good idea,” John says. “I’m hungry.”
I open the two large lunch boxes while Vivian helps her dad put out plates and wine glasses.
“We could order a pizza if it isn’t enough. I didn’t know Vivi would be here,” I say to them.
Vivian turns to look at the food. “You’ve got enough to feed an army! Don’t worry about me. I’m not that hungry.”
“Are you sure?” I wriggle my eyebrows. “If I remember correctly, you once ate an entire pepperoni pizza for dinner.”
Pink creeps onto her cheeks as she giggles, revealing her girlish nature. “Thanks for remembering my ravenous appetite, but let me remind you it was just an eight-inch.”
It’s the second time she blushes in just five minutes. I gaze at her pink face and neck, wondering how deep the blush extends.
Needless to say, I have trouble keeping my eyes off Vivian over dinner. I barely know what my favorite eggplant lasagna tastes. I talk more than I eat, and I keep asking her about her college life. Vivian inherited her dad’s artistic talent and passion for fashion design.
“Graduated last week,” she says with a smile after swallowing down a bite.
Damn. I could’ve brought her a graduation gift.
“What’re you going to do next? Have you found a job?”
“Not yet. I’m going to grad school for a MA in fashion arts first.”
I frown. I’m a practical person, and I don’t care much for postgraduate degrees, especially not in a creative profession such as fashion design that relies more on artistic inspiration and practice rather than analysis and theories. But I could be wrong, and I don’t want to dampen Vivian’s enthusiasm.
“Vivian has been accepted to five schools,” John says proudly and goes on to list the names.
I raise an eyebrow. “Which one do you want to go to?”
“She’s going to Pierson,” John says. “Right here in Brooklyn.”
Vivian, though, doesn’t confirm.
“Is it true?” I ask her.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m still thinking. I want to go to Paris, but they don’t offer me a scholarship.”
I frown again. Paris?
“Pumpkin, forget about Paris,” John says. “You can sightsee there one day, but what’s the point to live there?”
Vivian pouts slightly. “It’s a beautiful city.”
Seeing her apparent regret, I ask, “How much is the tuition?”
“Twenty thousand dollars for a two-year program.”
“It isn’t much! I’m sure your dad can afford it,” I blurt but regret in an instant because I might sound like a snob.
Thankfully John doesn’t mind. “I could. But what’s the point? The schools here are as good, and they are free. Besides, she gets to stay home.”
I agree with my friend. Going to a school in Paris seems like throwing money away. Besides, it’s far. I won’t get to see her for another two years.
“Well, Vivian,” I say. “Listen to your dad and just stay in New York. I guarantee you a job at my company whenever you’re ready.”
Her green eyes brighten. “Really? Ohmigod. Thank you so much, Alex!”
