Лорен Блэйкли - Big Rock

“It’s a stunning location, and I think Charlotte and Spencer’s wedding will be beautiful wherever they choose to hold it. Charlotte, I know you’re close to your own mother, but I’m here for any planning help you need. I adore weddings.”

Mrs. Offerman weighs in again, locking her gaze with Charlotte. “Your mother must be so thrilled. Will she be planning it for you?”

Charlotte’s expression turns perplexed, and she furrows her brow. “I’m sure she’ll help.”

“Of course she’ll help, dear. She’ll do more than help. Is she nearby?”

“My parents live in Connecticut.”

“What else would she be doing but helping plan the special day?” Mrs. Offerman says with a look of utter surprise, as if she can’t comprehend any scenario but the one where Charlotte’s mom spends every waking hour barking commands at florists and issuing orders at swank reception halls.

“She’s pretty busy with work,” Charlotte says.

“Oh. Work?” That seems to confuse the woman. “What does she do?”

“She’s a surgeon at a hospital in New Haven.”

Mrs. Offerman’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline, her eyes widening to beach-ball size. “How interesting. And your father?”

“He’s a nurse,” Charlotte says, and her tone is so completely dry that I start to crack up, but manage to suck in the sound and clamp my lips together once more.

“Really? I thought he was a doctor, too?” my mother says, genuinely surprised, as she should be, since Charlotte is fucking lying right now. It is killing me, absolutely killing me to hold all this laugher inside my throat.

Charlotte smacks her forehead. “My bad. He started as a nurse, but he worked his way up, at my mother’s encouragement, and became a doctor, too.” This time she is telling the whole truth, and the look on Mrs. Offerman’s face is priceless. It’s as if she’s never heard of a male nurse, and certainly not one who became a doctor at his wife’s urging. Mr. Offerman appears even more flummoxed.

The silence spreads. The table goes quiet for a moment. The clink of glasses and the jangling slide of forks against china is the only sound in the private room.

“To the happy couple,” my father says, rescuing the table from any more chatter about the roles of men and women by raising his glass.

“Hear, hear. Who doesn’t love a wedding? It’s our favorite thing, isn’t it?” Mr. Offerman says to Dad with a wink that says, now we’re two men celebrating what feeds our business .

His daughters raise their soda glasses, and I hold up my wine glass, clinking first with Charlotte. A faint noise comes from under the table, like a light thunk . She flashes me a grin, and there’s something very private in her expression, something that says we have a secret. Then, I know what it is. Because this time, there’s no doubt who’s touching who. It’s her toes sliding over the top of my shoes. Then along my lower leg. Now higher, and it’s crazy, truly crazy, that Charlotte’s toes along my leg feel so damn good.

The kind of good where I want to grab her hand, tug her into the bathroom, push her up against the wall, and hike up that skirt. The kind where I discover what kind of panties she’s wearing tonight, and if they’re already damp with her arousal.

But that. Can’t. Happen.

Must be all the wine.

“We should go to MoMA tomorrow,” Mrs. Offerman says to my mom. “Emily plans to study art history in college next year.” Emily raises an eyebrow, like she disagrees with that notion. “And you can check out the gardens, Kate.”

“What a lovely idea,” my mother, ever the diplomat, says.

Mrs. Offerman locks eyes with Charlotte. “Would you like to join us?”

“Absolutely.” Charlotte squeezes my hand. “We’ll both be there.”

“Can’t wait,” I say, because any other answer could be cause for dismemberment.

I finish my glass of wine, and as the conversation heads in another direction, so does Charlotte’s foot, as she slides it back into her shoe. I’m grateful, because if I get aroused by a foot, I might need to get myself checked out to make sure I haven’t reverted to preteen turn-on levels.

After dessert and coffee, I pull my sister away from the table, far enough from the others to have a word with her. “Harper, seriously. You’ve got to be on my side. You were so close to serving it up.”

“Oh, please. I was not. I was only having fun. You know I’ve got your back, and always do,” she says, like I’d be crazy to think otherwise. But crazy feels like my new normal this weekend.

“I know. Just be in on this with me. Not against me,” I say, a dash of desperation in my voice. Who am I kidding? It’s not a dash. It’s a full fucking serving.

She laughs. “You’re so pathetic when you need something. Where’s the Spencer who dangled me over the banister when I was eight?”

I adopt a look of shock. “I thought you were six when that happened?”

“Even worse.” She pulls me in for a hug. “It’s okay. I won’t rat you out. But I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Don’t worry. I got this.”

“You better. And you better be careful.” She turns her voice to a threatening whisper, and grasps my shirt. “But some day, when you least expect it, I will take my revenge for Santa.” Her grip tightens and her voice goes even quieter. “Watch your ten o’clock—Emily is making eyes at you. She has it bad for you already.”

Emily rises from the table, staring at the phone in her hand.

“Wrong,” I say, as I break the embrace. “She’s just zoned out on her screen, texting friends probably.”

But it turns out my sister isn’t wrong, because Emily is definitely looking at me now. Her eyes hook into mine, and her tongue darts out, licking her lips.

Harper laughs, then brandishes imaginary claws. “Meow. I smell a catfight.”

I shake my head. Charlotte is hardly the type for a catfight.

My fake fiancée walks past Emily, and the younger girl roams her eyes over Charlotte like she’s studying her, waiting to pounce. Her hand shoots out, and she grabs Charlotte’s arm. Shit, Harper was right. Fisticuffs are about to start. I’m momentarily torn between the sheer rubbernecking fascination of watching the scene unfold, and the impulse to stop a tussle.

“Oh my God, I love your shoes,” Emily says, a huge adoring smile on her face. “Where did you get them?”

Whew. Emily was only checking out Charlotte’s footwear. The two of them gab about fashion and clothes and designers, and Charlotte handles it all with aplomb.

I don’t know why she doubted herself earlier today.

She fucking rocks. She can be my fake fiancée anytime.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Charlotte lets out a big breath. She wipes her hand across her forehead. “After that performance, and this long day, I need a drink,” she says when we slide into a cab. “Or two.”

“You and me both.” I tap her knee with my knuckles, then tell the driver to head downtown. “By the way, nurse . Fucking brilliant.”

We knock fists. “And it wasn’t even a lie. It was just a, how shall we say, delayed admission of the truth.”

“Honestly, I’m giving you an A for perfect timing with your delivery tonight.”

“Why thank you,” she says, playfully. “I look forward to my report card.”

I pretend to hand one to her.

She mimes opening it, then reads. “I see I earned straight As.”

I shake my head. “A-plus. The nurse comment counts as extra credit. See?” I stab a finger at the invisible report card, as if I’m pointing it out.

She laughs and grabs my arm. “I couldn’t help myself. Her comments were so old-fashioned.”