Page 57 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
Speaking of my father, I have a meeting with him this morning. I already have an idea of what it's about. It's almost certainly going to be about my relationship with you.
"So," Jenna continues. "Since you're so sure I'm going to lose anyway, there's no harm in betting on it, is there?"
I smirk. "Fine. But you get something if you win. What about if I win? It's only fair that I get something in return."
"What?"
I muse on it. "I don't know yet, but I'll figure something out."
"No, no, no, Grayson. You can't just leave the terms open-ended. That's dangerous."
"Fine. I'll give you two entire months in which to make my mother like you, and if—or rather when—at the end of that time she still cannot stand the sight of you and you have lost, you'll have to call me by endearing pet names during any conversation we have around other people for the next entire month straight."
Her eyes widen. "Are you serious?"
"As a heart attack."
She chews her lips. I can tell this is difficult for her, and I almost want to ask what she has against pet names.
"Of course, if you don't want to take the bet, you don't have to–"
"No," she says, holding up her hand. "I accept. It's a deal."
"Really? You have to say it like you mean it. No sarcasm."
She swallows, but puts on a brave face. "It doesn't matter, because I'm going to win."
I watch her as she chomps on her bacon determinedly. She really is something else.
After breakfast, I head down to my father's private office building in Brooklyn. I breeze right past his secretary with a nod, opening his door without waiting to knock or be invited in, as I usually do.
"Hi, Pops, sorry, I'm–"
The words die on my tongue. My father's not alone. Seated across from him is a familiar, dark-haired man. He's lounging in a leather swivel chair, looking for all the world like he owns the place, and he looks a lot like me, only a few years younger.
"George!"
"Hi, brother. It's been a long time."
CHAPTER 17
Jenna
Icheck the time on my phone for the fifth time and press my lips together in a thin line.
It's twenty past one, and she'd clearly specified the venue and stated one o'clock. Stephanie's late.
We're supposed to be having lunch together at Mia's, and here I am, yet there's no sign of her. She's not answering her phone calls either, and now after twenty minutes of slightly awkward waiting at the table I'd been shown to, I'm officially irritated, as is my server, who no doubt wants his tables to be turned around as quickly as possible so he can seat more guests in this, their busiest time of the day.
As for me, I only allow myself to take a thirty-minute lunch break each day, and I've already wasted most of it. That means I'll probably have to grab something to go and skip a proper break altogether.
I could have been sitting in the park, enjoying nature with a pastrami on rye and a latte right now. Or better yet, I could have been checking out that new Chinese restaurant that's just down the street from my office.
But no. Stephanie wanted to come here, to a trendy skybar full of trendy servers and waitresses, serving tiny portions offood. The staff are starting to shoot me odd looks, and I don't blame them.
I sigh.
I'll give her two more minutes and then I'm out of here.
