Page 14 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Quickly calculating how to backtrack and get out of this, I decide that I’ll face my fate rather than have my family tear me limb from limb.
As if going into battle, Beaumont Hammer coils with animosity? Hostility? Berserker rage? Maybe what I thought was his indifferences was actually him building defenses because the man looks like he’s about to destroy something.
He squeezes my hand gently, firmly, assuringly.
For a moment I think I hear a choir of angels, but it must be the band in the background over the radio static amplified in my mind. Then a deep voice filters through the cacophony.
“We’re waiting for my grandmother’s ring to be resized,” Beaumont answers with less than a second on the clock.
Score!
The buzzer goes off and the crowd goes wild. Okay, that’s just happening in my head, but I thought he was going to expose me when instead he’s playing along with my fake relationship scheme.
I glance up at him and study his intense green eyes for one long moment. Blinking back to reality, for a second there I got lost, swimming in a pool of tranquility, in a place where I am treasured above all.
Giving my head a shake, I say, “Yeah. It was so thoughtful and special, being a family heirloom and all.”
The women start squawking about diamonds, demonstrating for all the world what they value above love. I mean, we’re barely on a first name (or last name) basis, so I’m not so delusional to think I’m in love with this man, but I’d like to marry for love rather than financial security. Or financial boasting rights. I’d like to marry for real someday, though I have no illusion that it’ll be with Beaumont, but we’ll deal with the fake fiancé peccadillo later.
Meanwhile, the women in my family gossip about me in front of me. About my relationship history, dress size, and how I’m not the best prospect for a professional athlete. I feel like I’m at a Kennel Club event, only I get awardedWorst in Show.
Then, as if the wind direction changes and they sense a tornado on the horizon, the group goes silent, still.
Beaumont glares. I’d hate to be on the opposing team even if I were coming at him with a stick. His glower alone hushes them. “Do not talk about my fiancée like that.”
I get cartoon googly eyes, yet I lengthen my spine slightly.
All at once, they start making excuses.
“Enough chatter. Apologize.” His tone isn’t a suggestion. It’s a command.
“Oh, my,” Aunt Mona says, fingers splayed in front of her chest.
“Sorry,” Selby whispers.
I’m pretty sure Lana whimpers.
Aunt Cindy looks scandalized.
My mother trains her shrewd gaze on me and says something, but all I hear is,Cluck cluck, bok, bok. I press my lips together, forcing back a gulp of laughter. She looks like a chicken right now with her neck extended, her glassy eye peering at me as a tuft of her hair sticks up and out of place.
Beaumont’s comment echoes in my mind and theirs turns into background static. Irritating, but not as loud as before.
“Shall we dance?” he asks.
Swoon me now.
My sister makes a simpering sound. They cluster and clatter. I imagine them all marching away as a mass. It would be a very on-brand move for them to convince themselves they had the last word. But I don’t find out because Beaumont leads me to the dance floor.
The little squeal of triumph dying to come out of me says that he had the first word and the last word. I think back. What were his first words to me?
Here I am?
Hmm. That’s not particularly romantic. We’ll skip ahead to when he said,My fiancée…
Also notable. Okay, I’m downplaying it because I have to repeatedly remind myself that this is fake even though his hand wrapped snugly around mine feels very much like a life ring.
My heart does the two step. Or is this song the band plays a fox trot? A samba? A Roomba? Wait. I think that’s a robotvacuum. The only problem about the whole dancing thing is that I’m not very good at it.
