Page 43 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
“But if you did, my family will dig them up. You realize that, right?”
He hedges. “What about you?”
I’m not ready to move on. Truth is, I don’t have much that I keep to myself other than that I kind of like my fake fiancé and his gruff, Viking Highlander hybrid way. “You’re a pirate who has a secret cave filled with gold and gems.”
His lips ripple. “No and no. How about you? Let’s see. Are you the one who fills the fountain in the middle of town with bubbles every year, Honey Butter?”
“No, but I have my theories about who—” My thoughts skid to a stop. Did he just give me a nickname or is he asking me something about the honey butter on the table? I’ve already put it on my toast. “Honey Butter?” I ask.
“Yes, Honey Butter.”
He looks me square in the eyes. Beau has a menacing look to him, but I see past it to a softness he shields from the world. It’s in the depths of his gaze that lingers on me for a long breath which leaves me needing to catch mine.
Heated through, I’d better eat my breakfast before it gets cold.
Halfway done with the most deliciously fluffy scrambled eggs I’ve ever eaten, I say, “I should get evicted more often.”
“Is that a habit you really want to start?”
“Not really, but this is. Thanks again for everything.” I sweep my hand around the room.
Once the coffee shifts me from a sluggish first gear into third, I elaborate on the piece of bad news I mentioned in the text lastnight. “So that wedding I’d planned in New York for a couple who wanted to get married on St. Patrick’s Day was a total bust.”
Beau doesn’t stop me like everyone else to whom I’ve told this story, eager for gossip about the couple. Instead, he says, “They bailed on you?”
I nod. “They split up because they couldn’t agree on tartan tablecloths or a simple spring green.”
“Spring green, obviously.” He wipes his hand on a napkin.
“That’s what I said.” I’m about to ask why that’s obvious when my phone rings. “Oh no. It’s my mother.” It rings again. A shot of nerves makes me regret the extra piece of bacon.
Beau glares at my phone and for half a second I think it might explode on the spot.
“I have to answer.” I pick it up on the last ring.
Wren says, “Rumor has it you’re in town.”
“News travels fast. I should never doubt the powers of Mrs. Gormely,” I mutter, referring to Cobbiton’s resident busybody.
“You were spotted at the All Ears Diner & Fuel Station last night with your so-called fiancé. Not exactly what I’d call romantic.”
Even though the phone isn’t on speaker, her voice is loud enough that I have no doubt Beau can hear her. Meanwhile, he continues to eat his breakfast as if a slow-motion train wreck isn’t about to happen in this nice kitchen.
“Made a pitstop after the long drive.”
My sister chimes in. “Why didn’t Beau drive with you from New York?”
“Oh, um, he had hockey stuff.”
“Likely story. If you were actually engaged, you would’ve arranged for him to travel with you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of driving here from New York by myself.”
“Why are you here?” my sister pipes in an accusing tone.
“Change of scenery.”
“You lost your apartment, didn’t you?” my mother guesses rightly.
