Faking Ms. Right (Dirty Martini Running Club #1) - Claire Kingsley Page 0,64

wasn’t the first I’d heard of this. Of course you wouldn’t get engaged without calling your mother to tell her the news.”

I would if the engagement was fake and there wasn’t any reason for you to know. “It was sudden.”

“Indeed. Is she pregnant?”

I sank down into my chair, grinding my teeth together. “No, she’s not pregnant.”

“Blackmail?”

“Mom, what the hell? No, she’s not blackmailing me.”

She paused for a beat. “Then why on earth are you getting married?”

Because I fell in love with her. Jesus, where had that thought come from? “Is it really that hard to believe?”

“Shepherd, marriage is an archaic institution. A legally binding contract between two people to stay together for life? It’s completely unrealistic. Move her in with you. Let her play house if that’s what she wants. But for god’s sake, don’t get married.”

“You’ve made your thoughts on marriage abundantly clear.”

“And don’t get her pregnant,” she said. “That’s almost as bad as getting married.”

“That’s an interesting thing to say to your son.”

“Oh god, don’t start. You sound like your brother. You’ve worked too hard for everything you have to risk it all for some woman.”

“Look, you don’t have to come to the party. It’s Dad’s idea anyway. But Everly’s not…” I trailed off, not sure what I wanted to say. Or rather, not sure I should say it.

“She’s not what?”

“She’s not like you. I’m not marrying her because I’m being coerced.” You’re not marrying her at all, Shepherd. “She wouldn’t know how to blackmail someone even if she wanted to. She doesn’t think like that. People aren’t assets or liabilities to her.”

“So she’s naive. Sounds like your father.”

“Jesus, Mom. At least Dad’s a decent human being.”

“I don’t want to talk about your father. It sounds like you’re intent on marrying this girl who is—” she cleared her throat “—not like me, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it to your party.”

“That’s fine.”

She huffed, like she was insulted. If she wanted me to beg her to come, she was going to be disappointed. I wasn’t playing that game with her.

“Fine. Congratulations.”

We said goodbye and I tossed my phone on my desk. This was turning into a shit show.

I took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of my nose again. When had my mom gotten so bitter? She’d never been warm and nurturing—not even when Ethan and I were kids—but she’d seemed to reject her life as a wife and mother more vehemently as the years went by.

And I was so much like her.

Ethan had gotten our father’s warmth. I’d been born of ice. The stoic coldness that had made me so successful had come from her. I wanted to think it had been tempered by my dad’s compassion. That perhaps I’d learned to be less of a cold-hearted bastard because of his influence.

Not that I had the track record to prove it. I was well aware of my reputation in my company. Cold. Ruthless. I had colleagues and contacts rather than friends. I wasn’t close to my family—or I hadn’t been, before Dad had moved in. I’d seen him—and Ethan—more lately than I had in years.

My past with women painted the same picture. Short, shallow relationships. I’d thought it was bad luck. But deep down, I knew the truth. I’d gone after the same type of woman, over and over. Women who were more interested in my money than me. Women I’d never connect with.

Because I didn’t know how to connect. I was too much like my mother.

Leaving my phone where it sat—I needed to check out for a while—I went downstairs to my other condo. I sat on the couch with my Gibson Les Paul and played. Felt the pressure of the strings against my fingertips. Focused on the quiet melody in my headphones.

I didn’t know what I was going to do about this party. Or about Everly. Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with her. Or invited her to see me play.

But despite the knot of confusion sitting in the pit of my stomach, I still didn’t regret it.

23

Everly

Crawling into bed, my skin warm from a very long bath, I pulled the sheets up. I didn’t know where Shepherd was—if he was in his office, or downstairs with his guitar collection. Or maybe at the bar again.

It didn’t matter. I wasn’t his fiancée, or even his girlfriend, as he’d so helpfully reminded me. He could do what he wanted.

But man, that comment had stung.

What had I expected? That Shepherd inviting me to see him