Page 25 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
A shiver of sadness runs through me as I turn back to my rental car. Deep down, I don’t think it’ll ever stop. For whatever reason, I’m the family punching bag.
I don’t yet have the key in the rental car’s door—it was this clunker or not pay rent this month—when footsteps pound my way.
A rush of nervousness makes me fumble, but I see it’s only Beau, hurrying back to me.
Guilt getting the better of me, I say, “I might be a liar, but I’m not a thief. I left the socks you loaned me at the arena.”
His lip quirks at the corner. “But you still have the sweatshirt on.”
I glance down and start to peel it off. “I can?—”
“No, keep it. It has my name and number on the back.”
“Your phone number?”
“My hockey number—one. Netminders are often number one or thirty. Superstition. Tradition. Whatever.” He says a few things about paying homage to past players. While at the Ice Palace and any time the subject of hockey comes up, his energy shifts slightly. I imagine him younger and more carefree. Less stoic maybe?
My thoughts turn audible. “I like you, Beau. Just the way you are. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever been fake engaged to or datedin the past. That’s a good thing because my sister can tell you all about my lousy relationships.”
“About that. I had an idea.” He scratches his beard.
“If you’re going to ask me to marry you so you can get your green card, no, I’m sorry. That’s not a fair trade.”
His eyes twinkle. “Earlier, you said you’d do anything.”
“Are you serious?” I step closer and whisper, “You know that’s illegal, right?”
“And pretending to your family that we’re engaged isn’t immoral?”
He’s got me there.
His lips quirk. “Not to worry. My work visa is legit. I’m not at risk of being deported.”
I slouch back, relieved. But I am worried. Having a mini freak-out over here because I have no idea where he’s going with this.
Beau says, “I’d like to make a proposal that does involve marriage though.”
I feel the pinch between my eyebrows forecasting an incoming headache. “What are you talking about?”
“A marriage of convenience.”
Fretting, I stutter, “A fake fiancé and now a fake wedding?” What did I get myself into?
Shivering, once more, I fumble my rental car keys. Only this time they slip out of my hand and fall directly through the sewer grate.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Margo drops to her knees,muttering, “No, no, no.”
I crouch down. In the dim light, all I can see is little more than the outline of the storm drain that’s directly under her rental car’s door.
“Do you think I can fit my hand through one of the holes?” she asks.
I blink a few times. “I cannot fathom why you’d entertain that.”
“Beau, I didn’t buy the extra insurance. As it is, this rental maxed out my credit card. If I don’t get the keys, never mind the car being impounded, I’ll be impounded—sent to jail. They’ll probably put me to work in the license plate factory. Wouldn’t that be ironic?”
“I don’t think that’s how rental car companies operate.”
