Лорен Блэйкли - Big Rock

“I always thought you two would make a cute couple,” he says in a sugar-sweet voice.

As I walk off, he makes mock kissing sounds. I’m pretty sure he’s singing the kissing tree song, and it’s definitely my cue to put him in the rearview mirror.

Besides, I need to get in character for tonight.

Because this is all an act.

Nothing more.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The steak is delicious, the Caesar salad tasty, and the red wine smooth.

Like the conversation.

So far, so good. It’s been jewelry, private schools, softball leagues, and how great the weather is. Can you spell getting-away-with-it?

Oh, and after we arrived at the restaurant, the Offermans all bestowed their requisite ‘congratulations’ on my bride-to-be and me, as she flashed her ring, and the women oohed and aahed. My sister, too. Her congrats was the biggest of all; so was her hug, as she pulled me into her loving, sisterly vice and breathed, barely audible, in my ear, “You can’t fool me. But I’ve got your back.”

Guess you can’t trick a magician. She’s been trained to detect sleight of hand, and she spotted mine in seconds.

“Thanks. I owe you.”

“You do. Especially since I still haven’t forgiven you for the Santa Claus incident when I was ten,” she hissed, before breaking apart and flashing a smile for the camera.

But the reporter from Metropolis Life and Times didn’t seem to catch on, nor did he last for long here at the private room in McCoy’s. I suspect he was an intern, which confirms this will be some sort of puff piece. A young guy, he lobbed a few questions at my dad and Mr. Offerman, about the handover of the family-owned business, then snapped some pictures of the clan and took off. Probably so he doesn’t miss his bedtime.

Easy as pie.

Now we’re finishing our meal at this midtown steak restaurant that exudes class and ambiance with its crisp white tablecloths, oak tables, soft lighting, and waiters in suits. I slide my knife through the filet mignon and do a double take at something in the corner of my vision. Mr. Offerman’s oldest daughter, Emily, is seated across from me. She twirls a strand of her long black hair and looks at me.

Uh-oh.

I recognize that stare. It’s the kind women give from across the bar when they’re flirting with you. Worry shimmies through me. Is she batting her eyelashes, now?

Averting my gaze, I take a bite of the steak, chew it, and swallow roughly. I grab my wineglass and down more of the red liquid. Something slides across the toe of my shoe.

Something that feels distinctly like Foot of a Young Lady.

No.

No fucking way.

Is Emily playing footsie with me?

My chest tightens.

I yank my foot away.

My sister laughs out loud.

The stinking little prankster. She’s sitting next to Emily.

My mother turns to Harper and smiles brightly. “Something funny?”

She nods, her red ponytail bouncing as she reins in a grin. “Just remembering this funny joke I heard.”

“Care to share? Or is it inappropriate?” my mother asks, voice laced with politeness. She wants this dinner to go well for my dad, too. She’s no stick in the mud. If Harper has a good, clean joke, my mom will want to hear it. The woman loves laughing.

My sister sets down her fork. “It’s completely appropriate. In fact, it’s perfect for Spencer now,” Harper says, her eyes lasered in on me. She clears her throat. She’s got the attention of the whole table. I sit ramrod straight, nerves skittering through me because I have no clue what she’s up to. She said she’d keep my secret, but she’s also been looking for a way to stick it to me ever since I told her Santa Claus wasn’t real, and that as a fifth grader she was too old to still believe in him. With wet eyes and a tear-stained face, she swore she’d get back at me for ruining her greatest dream.

She better not be exacting her revenge now. If she is, I will dangle her upside down over the banister until she cries uncle. Oh, wait. That was ten-year-old Spencer thinking. The mature me would never do that. Instead, I’ll just break out the old family photo album the next time she brings a date home. Show off her second grade haircut. That she gave herself.

“Can’t wait to hear it,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

Bring it on, sis.

She raises her chin and launches into her joke. “Why can’t Ray Charles see his friends?”

“Why?” Mrs. Offerman asks curiously, knitting her brow. She mouths to herself, “because he’s blind,” and seems pleased she got the answer in advance.

My sister pauses, tilts her head, and stares straight at me. “Because he’s married.”

Harper has the whole table laughing. Well, the over-twenty crowd. Mr. Offerman’s daughters hardly chuckle, but Harper doesn’t need to amuse them. She had them eating out of her hand earlier in the night when she was discussing pop music and tips for taking better selfies, including points for—get this—video selfies.

“Do you think that’ll happen to you soon, Spencer?” my sister asks, batting her eyelashes at me as she props her chin in her hands.

She is such a devil.

“Nah, Charlotte is cool,” I say as I slide my shoe closer to Harper under the table, and try to kick her. I mean, tap her foot lightly. But instead, Emily yelps.

“Ouch, that hurt,” she whines.

Oh fuck. Wrong girl.

“What happened, dear?” Mrs. Offerman snaps her gaze to her oldest daughter. She’s a petite woman, and has spent most of the meal fussing over her family members.

“Someone just kicked me under the table,” Emily says, annoyed.

Her mother turns those watchful blue eyes to my side of the table, scanning for the kicking culprit. I wince inside. I can’t believe I’ve fucked this up already, and it’s all because of my sister.

I race through possible excuses, but before I latch onto one, Charlotte pipes in, placing her hand on her heart in apology. “I’m so sorry, Emily. That was me. When Spencer drives me crazy, I kick him under the table. And, being a man, he does that often, even though I still adore him. This time though, I slipped and kicked you. I’m sorry,” she says with the sweetest smile, and I could kiss her. I could fucking kiss her.

So I do. I clasp my hand on her cheek. “I deserved it. I love that you keep me in check, honey bear,” I say, then press a soft kiss to her lips.

She kisses me back for a few seconds, a chaste, sweet kiss, but even so, it’s nearly enough for me to forget the whole table full of people. All I want is more of this fake kissing. More tongue, more lips, more teeth.

More contact.

More her .

Exactly what I can’t be wanting.

Clapping begins. I end the kiss to see my sister leading the cheers. “You two are the cutest couple. When is the wedding?”

Oh.

That detail.

My mother’s eyes shine with excitement. “Oh yes, will it be a summer wedding?”

“We’re thinking spring,” Charlotte says, once again seamlessly taking the reins. “Perhaps May. Maybe at an art gallery. Or a museum. The Museum of Modern Art has such lovely sculpture gardens for weddings.”

“Oh, that would be a gorgeous location,” Mrs. Offerman says, the kicking incident now in a galaxy far, far away. She cups her hand over the side of her mouth so her girls can’t see her. “I’ve already been scoping out locations for their nuptials, even though those are years away. But you can never start too early.”

Mr. Offerman clasps his hand on top of hers. “It’s a good hobby for you, dear. It gets you out of the kitchen.”

I straighten my spine. Are we in the fifties here? “Out of the kitchen?”

My father clears his throat, his voice booming over mine. “Kate, what do you think of the sculpture garden?” he says to my mother, and that’s my cue to zip my lips. “You’ve always loved the Museum of Modern Art.”