Page 41 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
I don’t like the response, but I do love the idea of seeing her in the morning.
After another shower and reviewing some of the game highlights, I get into bed. From across the room, my phone dings. Ordinarily, I’d ignore it, but stump over to check. It’s Margo. The thread between us is heavily weighted in gray on her side with me replying very little. I feel like a jerk. Okay, fine. I am a jerk. But that changes now. The thought of something happening to her because I don’t like cellular communication is selfish. I refuse to be that guy.
Honey Butter: Are you still awake?
Me: Yeah.
Honey Butter: Thanks for everything tonight. You truly are a Knight.
Me: Glad to help.
Honey Butter: The second thing that happened was I had a huge wedding contract. The couple were doing a St. Patrick’s Day wedding in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It was my biggest event yet. Then they backed out. Broke up. I’m stuck with having to fix everything which tarnishes my reputation among the vendors. I may as well have gotten fired, only I’m my own boss.
I want to say something to bolster her spirits. But I’ll show her instead.
CHAPTER TEN
Is thereanything better than waking up to the scent of coffee and bacon? I sniff the air, trying to remember what I did to deserve this stroke of good fortune—rather than enduring the usual odor of my neighbor boiling cabbage at eight a.m. in my old building.
Then I recall that I no longer live next to Mrs. Schmeltzer because I was kicked out. Admittedly, I had it coming. Not because I’m irresponsible and don’t pay rent, am loud, or a bad tenant. The timeline from when my paychecks were deposited and when the funds became available was razor thin. Louis Lozano cashed my rent checks the second they were in his greedy little hand even though I asked him to wait a few hours at least, but he never did.
It may have been one of those situations where I was borrowing money from Peter to pay Paul. Something like that. But it’s no longer a problem because I no longer have a place to live, which is an even bigger problem. Celeste is going to love this failure. My mother will not. Between the two of them, I’ll be a filet of failure sandwich.
I peer out of the bedroom door, assessing the situation. Three long strides to the bathroom. I can make it without beingspotted. My stomach rumbles and I have Beau to thank because it turns out he’s standing in the kitchen wearing an apron.
He starts to turn as I make a mad dash to the bathroom. Hopefully, he didn’t see my fresh-out-of-bed look. It’s not cute.
But he is. If you’ve never experienced a man of a certain stature wearing an apron, it falls into the same category as him wearing a hockey uniform, a tuxedo, or a flannel. I discretely fan my face. It’s not that I’m into playing dress-up, but the prospect of playing house with my husband-to-be is starting to seem mighty alluring.
After making myself look slightly less like roadkill after the grueling drive west, I try to casually, oh so casually, appear in the kitchen.
Arrangements of roses and little blue flowers—not sure the name, but they were in Maxine’s bridal bouquet—cover multiple surfaces. The window blinds are open, letting in morning light. Coffee brews.
Maybe I was in a motor vehicle accident, didn’t make it to Cobbiton, and this is heaven. Could be that Beau swooped down on angel wings and an apron.
I pinch myself. I’m guessing pinches don’t hurt in heaven. Since he has the entry code to this condo, he must’ve started breakfast early while I was peacefully slumbering in a bed made of clouds.
“Good morning,” I say, announcing myself and trying to play it cool.
“Morning.” He slides a few strips of bacon on a plate, loads it up with scrambled eggs, and adds toast. “Butter, honey, or honey butter.” He glances at me with a gleam in his eye.
“Is this a test to see which I’ll pick? Like there are three doors and one leads to our happily ever after. The other will result in you picking on me for life about my toast topping choice?”
It’ll take too long to do eenie-meeny-miny-moe in my head so I go fancy with the honey butter. The label says Busy Bee Bakery which is right in town.
The corner of his lip twitches.
I lean against the counter. “Is this a trial run for our marriage of convenience?”
Beau’s expression drops. “I didn’t think of that.”
I sweep my hand around the room. “Could’ve fooled me. But thank you. I’d like to caution you about getting too involved with me, even if it’s fake. My life is in shambles. Sure could’ve used my good luck beau in New York.”
He bristles.
Part of me wants him to respond, instead, I do. “It is that bad. Thank you for not lying.”
