Page 44 of Fake Fiancée for Dad's Best Friend
“Are you serious about this young woman?” she asks a minute later when we’re out of Mill Neck’s parking lot.
Am I?Good Question. I pause for a few seconds. “She’s a lovely girl.”
“Ah, so you aren’t,” she smirks, misinterpreting my answer.
I don’t bother to correct her because, hell, my engagement doesn’t mean to last.
My silence seems to encourage her more. “I’ve given us some thoughts,” she says. “It seems to be a pity not to give it another try.”
I take a minute to understand what she means. Horrorstruck, I say quickly. “It’s over between us, Trisha. I’m engaged to Vivian. How many times do I have to remind you of that?”
“So?” she slightly inclines her head and squints at me. “We were once engaged, too.”
“Are you suggesting I should break off my engagement with Vivian to come back to you?” I ask incredulously. Even though my current engagement is fake, I still find her intention hard to believe.
She doesn’t even flinch but merely shrugs. “I’m trying to make it right,” she suddenly shifts to a softer tone and bats her eyelashes. “I don’t want you to get in an unhappy marriage because of me.”
My mouth hands open. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You said it yourself, Alex, that John might not even approve it. Let’s face it, the age gap between the two of you is huge. No man likes his daughter marrying a man old enough to be her dad. Without her dad’s approval, how could your marriage be happy?”
Frankly, I haven’t given happiness much thought because there won’t be a marriage between Vivian and me. But I refuse to let Trisha get the upper hand in the discussion. “He might come around.”
She ignores my response and continues. “You and I are meant to be together, Alex. You once said that” she says in a soft, almost sincere tone. “I didn’t believe it at first, but now I do. We not only share the same passion for the fashion business but are also compatible in other aspects. We have similar, refined tastes in things even though you manifest yours in cars and I have mine in clothing. And we both enjoy going to symphonies.”
I blink, trying to make sense of what she says. Although I fail to be convinced by the “commonalities” she presented, I don’t comment. The truth is I doubt she enjoys the few concerts we’ve been to because I caught her yawning more than once.
She continues after a moment’s pause. “And, of course. We’re also perfect for each other in bed. That’s important, too.” She strokes my bicep and gazes at me coquettishly.
I push her hand away and say, “Trisha. We had our moments together, and I still value your friendship and partnership. But I’ve moved forward.”
It isn’t a lie. I have put her behind me.
She presses her lips into a thin line for just a second, and then she forces a smile. “Very well, Alex. You’ve put my mind at ease. You don’t know how guilty I’ve felt over the past two years, regretting what I did to hurt you. Now I can finally move on, as well!”
I smile, marveled at her quick response. Was anything she said sincere at all? “That’s good to hear,” I say as the cottage-like restaurant comes into sight.
Trisha falls silent for a moment and speaks again when I stop the car at the parking lot. “Guess what,” she says. “I’m not that hungry at all. Can you take me home, please?”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says without looking at me.
I shrug. I almost forgot how moody Trisha could be. She used to do this quite often, changing her mind and cancelling a plan the last minute because I said something that didn’t agree with her. It was one of her flaws that drove me nuts. But now it doesn’t bother me so much because we are no longer together.
It’s late afternoon when I get home. Recalling Vivian moves to my apartment today, I stop at a flower shop to get her something. The girl has never left my mind for long despite my effort not to think about her. Her enthusiasm is a drug I’m already addicted to. When she’s with me, life seems to be so much more exciting. I long to be with her, especially after the excruciating hours spent with Trisha.
Conscience tells me I shouldn’t want her. She’s too good to be mine. But I can’t stop my obsession. If she weren’t John’s daughter, I wouldn’t hesitate to make her mine.
I hear the sound of a sewing machine before stepping into the foyer. Wait a minute. Is this my home or a factory? I’m puzzled at the moment when we enter the living room. There, I see Vivian sitting in front of the dining table which is strewn with fabric, scissors, and pins.
“Hey Vivian, have you turned my condo into a sweatshop?”
She stops paddling and looks up. “You’re home! Good timing. I’m just about finishing.”
I recognize the fabric. She got it at the trade show the other day. Amazing. I know she’s as good a seamstress as she’s a designer, but seeing how she turns raw material into fashion just like that really impresses me.
Chapter 18
