Page 88 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
Dad nods solemnly in agreement, still munching on his baguette.
"Is that so?" Grayson glances at me, curiosity flickering in his eyes, clearly not buying the story entirely. I avoid his gaze. Sometimes he's just too perceptive for his own good.
"Glad you like it. Eat up now." Mom smiles, pleased, and offers him the plate again.
We end up staying for hours—much longer than I'd planned. I'm honestly shocked by how well Grayson gets along with both of them. He seems to know exactly how to charm them, without ever sounding fake. It's as if he genuinely wants to be here.
We even stay for dinner—baked pasta with garlic bread from the local 7-Eleven that Mom sends Dad out to buy, along with a few more six-packs of Budweiser since he's running low. I'm even more surprised when Grayson offers to go with him, and they head off together like old buddies. That leaves me alone to fend off Mom's barrage of "Now that it's just the two of us, dear, you have to tell me…" questions.
After dinner, Dad puts on a game while he and Grayson drink more beers. Looks like I'll be the one driving us home.
All the while, Grayson is completely at ease—smiling, laughing, talking sports with my father as if they've been watching games together for years. I keep sneaking glances at him, waiting for that flicker of discomfort or boredom, but it never comes. He's relaxed, arm draped casually around my shoulders, tucking me close.
He looks perfectly at home.
Almost too at home.
It's strange. I didn't expect this from him.
When he looks down at me, I don't even know what I'm feeling. My heart clenches, skips a beat. I can't stop staring at him—his tan skin, square jaw, broad shoulders. Watching. Wanting.
For what, I have no idea. But here we are.
After stuffing us like Thanksgiving turkeys and extracting promises to visit again soon, my parents finally send us on our way.
"You think they bought it?" Grayson asks once we're driving off, waving at my parents as they stand on the porch. He insisted he was fine to drive.
"I think so," I say. "I kind of sprung my last boyfriend on them as a surprise too, so they might be used to it by now. Though I've never done it with a fiancé before."
He chuckles. "I like them. Your parents."
"You do?"
"Yeah. They seem like genuinely good people—which is rare in this world, you know?"
I nod. "Yeah. I know."
"I can't believe you thought I'd be rude to them."
"Well, have you met yourself?"
"I'm only rude to you because it's fun. Anyway, you like me being rude." He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I roll my eyes, pretending his comment doesn't send a pulse of heat through me.
He's right, though. I do like him rude.
"In other news," he continues, "what's this about you hating Paris? Given how much you love fashion, I figured it'd be the opposite."
I sigh. "You really are too perceptive for your own good."
I don't want to talk about it, but I know he'll keep pushing until I do.
I shrug, trying to sound casual. "The truth is, I wanted to go to Paris really badly. But around that time, my dad's hip problem got worse. Insurance didn't cover enough for the surgery, and he kept putting it off because they were helping me save for the trip. I started to wonder if Paris was worth his pain."
"So you lied," Grayson says quietly. "Told them you didn't want to go so they'd use the money for him instead?"
"Yup. It was the only way to make them spend the money on him instead of me. I figured I could always go another time."
He's silent for several beats.
