Page 23 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
But tonight, even the setting isn't enough to ease the tension. Not the warm lighting, not the admittedly delicious filet mignon I order, and not even the smooth glass of Merlot that should have helped take the edge off.
Because halfway into the meal, I'm already regretting saying yes. Without a doubt, Grayson's sister is… exhausting.
She peppers me with endless questions about who I am, what I do, and why I do it—but she never actually lets me reply. Instead, she cuts across me with her own nonsensical opinions or, worse, derails the subject with yet another tactless question, each one more irritating than the last.
"So… event planning," she says finally, when the conversation circles back to work. I've just explained that I run a business managing upscale events for companies and high-net-worth clients. "How did you even get into that?"
"Actually, I've kind of always been doing it, even back in high school," I explain. "I used to help my classmates throw parties—mostly because it was the only way to get invited to them. Turns out I had a knack for making events come alive. After graduation, I started getting requests from old friends?—"
"Ah, so you don't have any actual qualifications," she interrupts, tilting her head like she's caught me out. "Is it just something you do for your friends?"
"Um… no." I arch an eyebrow, irritation rising. "I have a college degree in Hospitality Management and Experience Design, in fact, and?—"
"Which college did you go to?" she cuts me off again.
"Columbia," I say.
"Not bad," she says. "Not Harvard, but not bad. I knew a guy who went to Columbia. He lived next door to our estate in the Hamptons. He always said the coke over at Columbia was out of this world — and that's coming from someone who regularly attends raves in Amsterdam. He swore it was the best thing about the school. Do you agree?"
Is she trying to not-so-subtly ask me if I do coke? "I'm not sure," I reply evenly. "There was probably a fair amount of drug use, but I didn't run in those circles."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, to put it bluntly, only the severely fortunate — like the kids whose parents had estates in the Hamptons — could slack off and snort things all day. I was on a scholarship and couldn't afford to lose it to a random drug test."
"Good for you," she says. "The kid's dead now, by the way. Drug overdose. Hopefully that's not in your future."
There it is again — another wildly inappropriate comment, delivered in that flippant tone, subtle enough that I can't tell if she means it as an insult or if she simply enjoys saying problematic things.
I glance over at Grayson, who remains suspiciously silent throughout this entire grilling session. He raises an eyebrow at me, and there's a flicker of amusement and retribution in his gaze, as though to say, You asked for this.
He's right, of course. But I'd had no idea it would be this bad.
The interrogation continues in the same vein, relentless and invasive, and he watches the whole time, not making a single comment, not even a token attempt to intervene.
Eventually, though, I've had enough. She cuts me off in the middle of explaining how my parents moved to New York from Minnesota, tossing off some remark about how that explains my "agricultural look," and that's when I finally snap.
"If you're not going to fucking let me finish my thought, then I'm just going to stop answering your questions," I say sharply.
She smirks like she enjoys getting under my skin. "Ooh, feisty."
"And you're disrespectful and dismissive, just like your brother. It must run in the family." I sigh, roll my eyes, grab my wine glass, and mutter under my breath, "Rich brats, I swear."
Both her eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, do I have to explain it further?" I lean in, my voice cool but biting. "Did you not realize how absolutely bitchy you've been since the beginning of our conversation? At first, I thought maybe I was just being sensitive. But then I realized this is a game to you. You're just another rich asshole. You actually enjoy making others uncomfortable. You enjoy thinking you're better than them, which is interesting because nothing you've bragged about so far has been accomplished by your own merit. Try graduating college with only two hundred dollars in the bank and a mountain of student-loan debt and see where you get. If you manage to make something of yourself on that start in life, then maybe I'll be impressed. But right now, you've not earned any kind of right to talk down to people as though you're better than them."
"Sounds like you're jealous," she shoots back.
I don't even dignify it with a response. I just glare at her, refusing to look away, not prepared to back down.
After my rant, I'd expected her to be furious enough to say something vile back, and that last line was meant to provoke. Instead, she grins disarmingly, eyes gleaming with something like approval.
"Oh, my mother is definitely going to hate you. Whereas with me, well, I'm growing to love you more and more every moment. In fact, I think you're perfect, darling. Truly perfect."
I sip my drink. "I'm not sure I'm going to like her very much either."
"No, perhaps not," she says lightly. "But like I said, you're perfect for little Grayson here. For what it's worth, I was being rude on purpose. Well, even ruder than normal anyway. But now we can become the very best of friends. Go on — tell me you forgive me, and let's be friends."
