Page 11 of Eligible Best Friend

I pull out the chair between mine and Mom’s.

“Please, call me Maggie.”

Lia takes a seat, sweeping her hands under her to straighten her dress. My blood heats as I make the mistake of looking down. Her waist dips and flares over the generous curves of her hips. Lia has a knockout body, and now I can’t pretend not to know.

“Mom, Lia and I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Mom’s steady gaze settles on me. “Oh?”

“We’re dating.” I sit and grip my water, the cool condensation wetting my hand, covering the nervous sweat breaking out over my body.

The only other girl I brought home as an adult was Cass, and that was the most uncomfortable two hours of my life. It was like Cass conducted both an interrogation and a financial audit at the same time. Since my stepfather was alive at the time, Mom was oblivious about the true state of her affairs, talking investments and 401(k) plans, both of which were my stepfather’s fabrications. He’d spent all the money.

I’d been too enamored with Cass to be embarrassed until she made a comment afterward. Good thing you’re going to be a doctor. I can’t imagine my parents being able to carry on a conversation with yours.

So many red flags I ignored. Never again.

“Oh?” Mom’s expression doesn’t change. “Dating? Don’t you still work together?”

“Yes, we’re still partners,” I say. Here I am, getting Mom’s hopes up. Just what I didn’t want to do, but if I pretend to date Lia and we pretend to end things amicably, maybe Mom will worry less.

Anxiety churns in my gut, yet I hang on to the excuse.

“Natural transition.” Lia’s smile is serene, and she’s poised like she’s doing an interview, which this kind of resembles. The server leans over her shoulder to place a glass of ice water in front of her. “Thank you so much.”

She takes a long sip like she’s on the beach, watching the sunset and not lying to my mother in a classy restaurant. I chug mine like it’s cheap beer. Her only tell is the rigid line of her shoulders, but if I wasn’t so used to reading her body language from our work together, I wouldn’t be able to tell.

Mom looks at me. Really inspects me, like she can detect the lie between us. Then her demeanor relaxes and she smiles. “This lunch is turning out better than I thought. Are you coming to the wedding?”

Four

Ford

I straighten my tie and walk up to Lia’s front door. This last week, we’ve ignored the whole dating ruse and concentrated on work during our shifts, trading only details of times and arrangements for today. Otherwise, I tried not to think about seeing Lia outside of work or how pleasant lunch with Mom had been.

The blinds flutter in the picture window of the condo next door.

“Evening, Mrs. Rosenthal,” I call, in case the nosy neighbor is listening in, too.

She peers back out between the gap in her drapes, her owlish eyes leering at me. I still can’t tell if she’s guarding Lia or just distrustful of me. Probably the former. Mrs. Rosenthal was a friend of Lia’s grandma. Lia’s told me the stories of growing up, learning to play bridge with Mrs. Rosenthal while sitting on her grandma’s lap, and listening to them swap stories about being nurses.

Mrs. Rosenthal jerks back and the curtains ripple shut. I repress a smile and knock on the plain brown door. Unlike Mrs. Rosenthal’s place, there’s no garish wreath smothering the plank of wood, no gnome’s ass sticking out of the flower bed. There’s little more than weeds on Lia’s side of the flower bed. Her place is as unadorned as she is.

Good thing her mother hasn’t been here yet. She’s all about appearances, and I doubt this condo would pass what Lia calls her press test. Will it look good in the press?

Lia said her grandma used to joke that she would never plant flowers. That way, Elaine Wescott would never bring the media circus to her doorstep. Is that what Lia’s doing?

Before I can knock, the door swings open. Lia’s in another dress, one the color of sunshine hidden behind thin clouds, subdued enough that she probably thinks she won’t steal attention from the bride. It’ll be hard for me to take my eyes off her. The chaste neckline manages to show off her shoulders but covers her cleavage. A shame. The gauzy material swirls just above her knees but doesn’t hide how long and defined her legs are.

“Nice,” slips out before I can smother the tone full of male appreciation.

Pink infuses her cheeks, but her gaze streaks across my chest. “Thanks. You look, uh, good, too.”

“It’s not the white polo.”

Her expression turns almost shy. “No, it’s not, but you look good in that, too.”

I stuff a hand in my pocket. I pride myself on being a regimented guy, but my self-discipline is flagging when it comes to keeping my greedy eyes off of the material draping over her breasts and hugging her hips. “Ready?”

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