Page 26 of Penelope in Retrograde

“It’s entirely my fault.” Martin’s eyes are glued to the floor, his cheeks flushed with heat. “Your sister was just giving me the tour of her bedroom ... uh ... I mean, she was showing me your parents’ home and we ended up in her bedroom, with her fiancée of course, and then you came in and—”

“Gave him a tour of your tits,” Phoebe deadpans. “OK, I think we’re all caught up. Well, at least we will be once my sister puts her top back on.”

“I’ll give you your privacy.”

There’s something charming about how tongue-tied Martin is. It defuses my nerves in an unexpected but absolutely needed way. It’s the juxtaposition of this tall, gorgeous man who has probably had bras given to him by adoring fans, or drunk barflies at the very least, suddenly behaving as meek and nervous as a high school band geek. I’m not even sure he’ll be able to make it safely out of Phoebe’s room without tripping over his words or feet. It would be a damn shame for him to start off a holiday weekend with an injury.

“This might be the fastest a man has ever left a room after seeing my boobs.” I step aside from the door, still clutching my flannel. “Truly, a new personal best.”

“Oh, I promise I didn’t look.” Martin’s warm brown eyes lock with mine. “I mean, I did, but I looked away immediately after. It was an accident. I promise.”

“Just to be clear, was the accident the part where you looked away?”

“Penny, leave him alone,” Phoebe says. “The poor man has already had to endure an hour-long presentation of your baby pictures. I think he’s suffered enough.”

“We all have.” Falon pushes her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t know it was possible to actually hate a baby.”

“Hey.” Phoebe nudges her. “Half of those pictures could’ve been me. Mom could never tell us apart when we were babies.”

“I’m just going to go downstairs.” Martin holds up his copper mule mug. “I have a feeling I’m going to need a refill.”

“Before you go.” I turn around and quickly slip my flannel back over my head. “I was hoping I could ask you for a small favor.”

“Uh, possibly?” The panicked look on his face reads anything but sure.

“I need you to pretend to be involved with me,” I say, carefully choosing my words. “You see, my ex-husband is coming over for cocktails, and long story short, I may have led him to believe that we’re an item.”

“You may have?” Phoebe asks, visibly annoyed. “And since when is Smith coming over for happy hour?”

“Since Nana Rosie invited him.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I don’t have time to get into the details.” I turn to Martin. “Are you in? Oh, and keep in mind that we’ll need to look like we’re not together for my parents.”

“Let me see if I’m following.” Martin swallows hard. “You want me to pretend to be involved with you in front of your ex-husband, while also pretending to not be interested in you when your parents are watching.”

“I mean, you don’t have to behave like you’re uninterested. Just not too interested. We’ve only just met. I wouldn’t want things to get weird, or at least not any weirder than you seeing me topless.”

“Is it actually topless if your bra is still on?” Falon asks.

“Technically, yes,” Phoebe replies.

“So, are you in?” I ask Martin. “I’m kind of on a tight deadline here.”

“You’re serious?” His expression shifts, as if he’s finally understood the absurdity of my request. “You know your father is my boss. And I’m supposed to stay here for the weekend.”

“Look, I promise I’m only asking for you to play the dual role of supportive-boyfriend-slash-brand-new-acquaintance tonight.” I hold my fingers up in a peace sign. “Spice Girls honor.”

“Is that a thing?”

“I’d trust Baby Spice over a Girl Scout any day of the week. Wouldn’t you?”

Martin glances over at Phoebe and Falon, as if he’s checking to see if I’m playing a practical joke on him or something. “I-I literally have no idea how to answer that.”

“Are you a Capricorn?”

“Penelope!” Nana Rosie’s voice blares through the vintage household intercom. “Are you almost ready? Smith will be here any minute.”

“Almost,” I shout.

“He looked good, didn’t he?” Nana Rosie hiccups. A fair indicator that she’s dipped into another martini. “Aged like a fine wine. Of course, that Martin fellow is no wet sandwich, if you ask me. He’s a hot pastrami on rye if there ever was one.”

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