Big Rock (Big Rock #1) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,24

and that fiery burst of possessiveness returns with a vengeance, like a red-tailed hawk swooping down from the sky, big-ass claws brandished. I remind myself he’s joking. That’s what he does. And I’m not the least bit jealous or possessive. The hawk turns into a dove. “Just for the next week or so,” I say. “Then she’s all yours.”

But those words feel all wrong coming out of my mouth. Even if she’s not mine, she can’t be his. And I’m not a motherfucking bird of peace.

“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