A Flighty Fake Boyfriend (Men of St. Nachos #2) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,12

now.

It was still early. We reached the nearly empty highway, and I felt as expansive as the road in front of us. Was this happiness? I wasn’t sure I had the skill set to know happiness when I saw it. Did I feel lighter than usual? Yes. Did I feel optimistic? I did.

But I also felt strained in a way I wouldn’t have had Laurie been in the car beside me. Laurie was the known, and Epic was very much part of an unfinished map with the words: Thar be danger past these waters on it.

What was it about Epic?

I’d already asked myself this question several times. Epic seemed to act on impulse, and in my ordered life, I had only made room for things or people I could predict.

“Can we stop at the miniature golf place?”

I slid a glance his way. “Now?”

“Yes, now. There’s a place ahead that features a fairy-tale theme. You can see the castle from the highway.”

“I played mini-golf once. I hated it.” I’d gotten to the ninth hole, realized there were eighteen, and nearly opened a vein right then and there.

“Of course you did,” he said sarcastically. “What happened? Didn’t you win?”

“I don’t have to win all the time.”

“But?”

“But mini-golf is so frivolous. I mean, golf is frivolous—”

His eyes widened. “Apologize right now. My ancestors invented golf.”

“I despise golf. My experience is that it’s the last bastion of ‘old boy’ handshake deals and classism.”

“You’ve never used that to your advantage? The networking possibilities seem to dovetail with fundraising. I’d think you’d golf if only for that.”

I had to give Epic the point. He was absolutely right. “The networking possibilities would outweigh my personal disdain for the sport if there weren’t others better suited. I have colleagues who play. They work within social circles I don’t have entry to anyway.”

Epic sent a calculating look my way. “You’re more a boots-on-the-ground man, then?”

“I’m not as comfortable on the fundraising side. Since I’m unattached and willing to travel, I’m more useful in analysis and negotiation.”

“I see.”

“We have the whole day to get to the hotel.” I dug into the bag of chips he held and used one to scoop a dollop of bean dip from the can he’d also produced from his snack food cache. “Do you really want to mini-golf?”

“I love mini-golf,” he said wistfully.

“Then mini-golf you shall, Epic,” I said. “I have some work to do. I’ll wait for you in the bar, or wherever passes for a watering hole, while you play.”

“That’s adorable,” he mused while we crunched our chips. “It’s almost like you think you have a choice.”

My mouth went dry. “I don’t mini-golf, Epic. Honestly. Don’t set yourself up for disappointment.”

“Oh, I won’t.” He hummed.

I may have had a picnic’s worth of snacks and sodas in my car and a deflated pool toy in the trunk, but I had to draw the line somewhere. Epic wasn’t going to get his way every time. This was my horrible wedding weekend, not his. I was going to decide which horrible things I’d do, not him.

“Mini-golf really isn’t for me,” I said firmly. “There will be no negotiation. Mini-golf is off the table as far as I am concerned. You are, of course, free to enjoy yourself.”

“And I will. I assure you.”

I didn’t trust his sweet, smug smile when he said those words.

I was right not to.

Chapter Five

Three tiny hobbit houses sat at the base of a fiberglass tree with a kindly Green Man face. Two of them sent my mini-golf ball into an underground chamber, causing it to shoot out from somewhere behind me and hit the heel of my shoe painfully. Of course it took me three tries to find the one that didn’t. Fortunately, we weren’t keeping score. After me, Epic got it on the first try, but he’d played this course before and knew all the ins and outs.

A crisp breeze blew in from the ocean, cooling my skin. It bore the sticky fragrance of frying corn dogs and funnel cakes and cotton candy. Screaming children and pink adults ran amok everywhere. They obviously didn’t have someone like Epic around to slather them with sunscreen until they shone like the domes of a Russian Orthodox church.

The sun blazed down, and the light bounced off everything. I’d remembered my Oakleys at the last minute, glad they were reflective so people couldn’t see how miserable I felt.

I’d had plenty of practice keeping the impassive face of a benign diplomat, no matter what situation I