Page 31 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
It’s winter and the room is pleasantly climate-controlled, but at her proximity, it’s like I’m suddenly in full goal tender gear having done a dozen laps around the ice.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
She subtly runs her hand from my head to my abdominal area.
“And this is a problem?”
Her shoulders sag. “Despite being so stoic, I imagine you’ve seen yourself in the mirror. At least in the locker room.”
Whatever she’s trying to say doesn’t compute.
Margo covers her eyes with her palm and then peeks through her fingers. It’s adorable.
I can’t ask her to explain because we’ve been spotted.
CHAPTER EIGHT
From across the room,my mother strides toward Beau and me.
I want to raise a sword in the air like a knight in the movies, and shout,Arm the battlements!But I don’t because that would be weird. Celeste, my mother’s shadow, already thinks I’m the oddball in the family with my interest in creating a career and marrying for love.
Thankfully, my great-aunt Margaret intercepts them. I silently thank her and Uncle Harlan for their unintended help. Next time she wants to tell me the story about meeting Elvis or he wants to try to convince me about underwater worlds, I’ll refrain from rolling my eyes.
Celeste keeps glancing our way though, making me fear I’m going to sweat through this silk shirt.
I whisper, “We could make a run for it.”
“No, we’ll stand our ground,” Beau says decisively, leading the charge into battle.
Well then.
Wearing a smile, but not moving my lips, I brief him, “They’re going to ask you about your family and your financialportfolio. Shy away from personal details. Just make up a story about how you’re a prince or something fancy.”
Beau, stiff-backed, doesn’t reply.
The best word I can use to describe his expression ismild. He doesn’t look stone-faced nor is he intimidated by the approaching troops.
The best way I can describe him as a whole ishandsome. I’ve now seen him in a hockey uniform and a wedding uniform. I like his Sunday attire quite a bit, as it turns out. He’s wearing trousers and a button down flannel with the top button loose. The boots on his feet are clean but not polished.
I glance up, wondering how I got so lucky to score such a handsome fake fiancé. I squint a little, trying to visualize him without the beard. Strong, cut jaw. Full lips. Cheeks that would rise the perfect amount if he smiled. However, last night at the All Ears Diner & Fuel Station after he proposed, his eyes crinkled at the corners indicating he was smiling inside.
Beard or not, Beau is very attractive.
He has nice teeth and I imagine a winning smile ... when he smiles. Seems like he holds it back and reserves it for special occasions only. Lucky for him, those are my specialty.
I ask, “Concordia sounds like a royal kingdom. Are you sure you’re not a prince?”
Lips pressed together, he shakes his head.
Mom and Celeste are tracking ten seconds away.
“It’s fine if you are. But?—”
Eight seconds.
Beau winces slightly. “No, I’m not a prince.”
Six seconds.
