Page 34 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Suffice it to say, my sister and my mother resemble birds with brittle little bones. No slight to people of small stature but the reason is that they hardly eat. It’s a choice they make and they’re always quick to point out that I’m the opposite, which I anticipate, in three, two, one.
Wanting to avoid the insult, I move us swiftly away.
My mother chirps, “Margo, if you plan on fitting into a decent wedding dress, I suggest you avoid the sausage.”
Yep, and the eggs Florentine, Benedict, and basically anything with sauce or gravy or calories.
Without breaking stride—the sausage does smell good—Beau leans over and pinches my cheek. Not the one on my face. The other one. I bounce but stop myself from yelping with surprise. I glance up to be sure it wasn’t Uncle Harlan.
Beau isn’t smiling. His expression is as impassive as ever. But loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, he says, “I like the way you look in those pants.”
I expect to stumble, but instead have confidence in my stride for once.
Standing side by side in line, I whisper, “Thank you for helping me out.”
“No one talks to my fiancé like that.” Only, Beau isn’t using his inside voice. Nope. He’s half a head taller than everyone in the room and may as well be in the arena, raising his voice for the folks in the cheap seats to hear.
I take a crescent roll without a trace of guilt.
I wishI could say the sound of wedding bells follows me back to Manhattan, but I couldn’t change my flight. Plus, no longer in Cobbiton, my family’s pressure is off, mostly. Also, Beau has hockey things—I was going to study the sport during the flight but internet access cost an additional ten dollars I don’t have.
Unfortunately, I don’t hear from my fake fiancé for a couple of weeks—okay, it’s nine days but feels like a fortnight—I fill Juniper in on the details while I sip water and eat a roll from the complimentary breadbasket at a restaurant that airs live hockey games.
Her eyes widen at each turn in the tale and she says a few choice words.
“Exactly. Not that I’d ever have the nerve to tell my mother that it’s all fake.”
It’s then I realize that she’s watching the game on the television over my shoulder.
She flinches. “Oh no. That didn’t look good.”
I crane my head to see skaters in red and white huddling around something as the referees blow their whistles.
The subtitles on the bottom of the screen flash with the wordsnumber one. The Knights’ goalie. Then I read Beau Hammer.
I leap to my feet. “That’s my fiancé!”
The restaurant goes suddenly quiet, snapping Juniper out of her hockey stupor as a fight among the men on ice skates who are holding long sticks continues on the screen.
Juniper’s sharp eyes demand an explanation. I give her an abbreviated recap of the events at the wedding that resulted in my possible fake engagement.
“You went from Tate to a gorgeous goalie. Well done.”
I shake my head. “It’s not like that.” At least I don’t think so.
As events unfold on the television, my blood pressure rises. “Is he okay? What’s going on? Isn’t this dangerous?”
“It’s all part of the show,” she says as the diners resume their meals. This is New York, after all.
“So hockey is fake? Like pro wrestling?” Like our engagement.
“No, it’s very real. Lots of hockey players get their teeth knocked out.”
In reality, I don’t know how old Beau is, but does he have dentures? It’s not a deal breaker and I know this isn’t what I should be thinking about right now. But I ought to be aware of his dental history if we’re going to be fake engaged.
Juniper says, “Hockey isn’t staged, I just meant it’s par for the course.”
“That’s a golf term.” I point my finger in the air, proud of myself.
