Page 32 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Does he want to be a prince? Maybe he’s a fan of the artist formerly known as Prince.
“For the record, I’m not looking for Prince Charming. But if you are royalty?—”
He gives his head a decisive shake. “No, Margo.”
Four seconds.
“Sorry. I only ask because it’d be useful to know what I’m marrying into.”
“What kind of guy are you hoping for?” he asks eyebrow pinned.
Two seconds.
Freckles. Beard. An upper lip that is ever so slightly bigger than the lower one. Large stature. Defined muscles. It’s too late to answer. Even if I did, I couldn’t very well say,You. Could I?
My mother stops in front of us and props her hand on her cocked hip. Celeste crosses her arms in front of her chest.
“I see you brought your plus one to our family brunch.”
“My fiancé,” I say, throat thick with the lie.
“Maxine checked the guest list. Beau came solo. So did you,” Celeste says, staring me down as if to say this interrogation is only just beginning.
“We received the invitations before we got together. Didn’t want to disrupt our respective cousins’ plans or bother herwedding plannerwith a seating change,” I add pointedly.
Celeste scoffs. “Technically, your engagement is illegal in several states since you’re now related.”
“I don’t think our cousin marrying his cousin counts. There’s no blood tie.” My voice sounds smaller than I’d like.
My mother taps in. “It’s so nice of you to join us this morning. Beaumont, was it? Strange, Margo never mentioned anything about you.”
“We’re new,” I say.
“But engaged?” My mother’s tone is like a stone dropping into a lake. No, make that a boulder.
“It happened fast. When you find the one, you just know,” I reply.
“We’ve discussed the conditions of your engagement, young lady. The agreement is to let me assess potential suitors.”
I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or cringe.
“He doesn’t say much does he,” Celeste mutters.
Now would be a good time for Beau to chime in. To come to my aid and defense. Instead, he just straightens slightly. It’s like each time they suss out the truth, he somehow gets taller. I pray, that like Pinocchio, this doesn’t give us away.
“I would like to know the terms of this engagement,” my mother says authoritatively.
“Terms? Um, we’re getting married and plan to live happily ever after?”
Celeste cackles. “As if. This guy is a professional athlete. He’s used to a certain kind of woman and—” My sister looks me up and down. “I don’t buy it.”
Already having straightened, now Beau stiffens.
She adds, “But even if it is real, it won’t last.”
The little muscle in Beau’s temple ticks.
My mother sizes me up as if waiting for me to crack.
