My Big Fat Fake Wedding - Lauren Landish Page 0,43

just how good a set of parents I’ve got, there are a lot of things that you wouldn’t expect. Like a huge wooden playset with slides, swings, and more, and a tree house with chairs in both little girl size and older brother size.

There’s a full gym in one wing of the basement, installed so that a son who wanted to be a high school football player could bring his friends over and make sure his team was fully prepared for the gridiron.

And a game room where we actually sat at the table and played cards on rainy nights. It was there I first discovered a love of business when I beat my dad at Monopoly. He’d been proud at my win and encouraged me to learn strategies that I later delved deeper into in business school.

Yeah . . . I owe a lot to my parents.

Which is why I didn’t tell Dad to fuck off with his ultimatum. He’s right to a small degree, as much as I absolutely hate to admit it. He has been a great example for me, as a loving husband and father and as a businessman. But he’s also a lot to live up to.

Which is also why I don’t gun my Camaro’s engine as I pull up out front, parking in the crushed gravel semi-circle driveway. At a glance, I’d say I’m the first to arrive, but it’s all good.

“Mister Ross,” Karl, the butler, says. “How is Geoffrey?”

I swear Karl gets a kick out of my ‘digital assistant,’ or maybe it’s professional jealousy. Either way, he always makes a note to ask. “Currently having dinner with Cortana,” I joke. “He just stole her from some plumber named Mario.”

“Very funny, sir. Your parents should be home soon. Your mother had a charity meeting she needed to clear this afternoon. The caterers are already here, and dinner will be ready promptly at eight.”

“Excellent. Thank you for coordinating dinner tonight on the fly.” He nods deferentially. Leaving the foyer, I make a quick check of the dining room where I see the extra place laid out, then the kitchen, where the caterers are doing fine. I went all out, with Dad’s favorite of beef Wellington, Mom’s favorite Shiraz wine, and sides that reflect everyone’s favorites. I even had Abi send me Violet’s favorite dessert, which of course, is tiramisu.

Everything’s ready.

“Miss Abigail Andrews and Miss Violet Russo,” Karl announces from the foyer, and I turn around, only to stop short when I see Violet.

How can this be? She’s even more beautiful than she was last night, dressed in a midnight blue dress with white accents, slightly demure while still being so sexy that I immediately feel bad about jacking off in the bathroom a few hours ago.

Not because my cock isn’t swelling—it’s already threatening to strain the compression boxers I’m wearing for just this purpose—but because all I can think of is all that wasted cream that could be coating the twin swells of her breasts.

“Violet—” I begin, but before I can say more, the rumble of Dad’s classic Jag comes through the door, and Karl steps out again. “Okay, show time.”

Dad shows up with Mom on his arm, the two of them casually chatting about their day when Karl announces them. “Well now, Ross, I do hope . . . Violet?”

“Hello, Mr. Andrews,” Violet says politely, offering her hand. True to form, Dad ignores the hand to give her a quick but warm embrace before stepping back for Mom to do the same, this time with a kiss on both cheeks.

“Oh, hush with that ‘mister’ stuff,” Mom says, smiling. “You’ve slept over here enough times, and I’ve made you enough cocoa, that you don’t need it. Please, just Morgan and Kimberly?”

“I’ll try . . . Kimberly,” Violet says, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “How are you doing?”

“Just fine, dear. I heard about your newest design success. Apparently, you got through to Lydia Montgomery? She’s been positively raving about you. Well done, dealing with her. She can be a bit of a battle axe . . . sharp and lethal.”

Violet chuckles, saying conspiratorially, “Good to hear. Although, please don’t call her that. I don’t want to have a slip of the tongue at work.”

“There are much better uses for tongues,” I interject, making Violet blush and Mom and Dad give me withering looks. They probably think I’m trying to make fun of her, and I guess I am . . . but