“Shit, that’s rude of me,” Dave says with an awkward laugh. “Yes, this is Ellie. Ellie, this is Huxley Cane.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ellie says in a very sweet southern voice. One that I’ve heard before.
I shake her hand and then let go, only to say, “Let me guess, you’re from Georgia?”
Her smile brightens. “I am. You could tell?”
Yup, this bodes well for me.
“My grandma is a self-proclaimed Georgia Peach. I spent many brutal, humidity-filled summers out on her screened-in porch, rocking on chairs with her as she filled me in on the latest town gossip.”
“Really? Whereabout?”
“Peachtree City.”
Her eyes widen in delight. She presses her hand to her chest. “I grew up in Fayetteville, just east of Peachtree. Wow, what a small world.”
Yes. Yes, indeed. Especially since my grandma actually resides in San Diego, and I’ve never been to Georgia, actually, but they don’t need to know that. They also don’t need to know I recognize her accent because I dated a girl in college from Peachtree City. All semantics.
Delighted with the small connection I’m making in Dave’s world, I turn toward him, only to be met by a very territorial-looking man. Uh-oh. Jaw clenched, brows narrowed, his eyes find no humor in our small . . . very small world.
Dude is practically marking his territory with that angry snarl. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started circling Ellie and peeing all around her.
Given what he knows about me, flashy, a flirt, Mr. Page Six—not recently, thank God—he must think I’m a threat. Which, I’m not. I mean, yeah, Ellie is a petite bundle of blonde. Pretty, with blue eyes, but she’s also pregnant—total nightmare—and she’s engaged, therefore, completely off the market.
But given what my brothers said, Dave probably doesn’t see it that way when it comes to me.
Which means, I need to salvage this and fast.
But how . . .
How can I possibly make it—
*Light bulb*
Did you see that brilliant flash of light? Yeah, an idea has emerged. It might not be smart. It’s definitely not the most intelligent thing I’ve ever thought of, but Dave seems to be growing more and more tense by the second, so . . .
Here goes nothing.
Please don’t come back to bite me in the ass—famous last words.
“Fayetteville, huh?” I wet my lips. Here goes. “Wow, crazy. I think my fiancée’s parents are from Palmetto. Isn’t that just north?”
Yeah, fiancée. Told you it wasn’t intelligent, but it’s the best I’ve got.
“Yes, Palmetto is just north of it,” Ellie says with such joy, while Dave moves his hand around her waist in a protective embrace.
“Fiancée?” he asks after clearing his throat. “You’re engaged, Cane?” There’s genuine interest in his eyes and the tension that was collecting in his shoulders is slowly easing.
“Yup.”
“Huh, I’m surprised.”
I can’t read him. Does he believe me? Is he testing me? Am I making this exponentially worse? I hope to fuck not. I don’t want to lose this deal.
I refuse to let it slip through my fingers, not when I’m so close. To have those properties would be exponentially beneficial to our portfolio, especially with what we have planned for them. And to snag a deal with the illusive Dave Toney would make me that much more victorious. My business mind takes over, leaving my common sense to the wind.
So, before I can change my mind on what’s about to come out of my mouth, I swallow hard and say, “Yup, engaged and . . . expecting.”
The minute the lie leaves my lips, a gross feeling takes over, because fuck, I know how hard some women try to get pregnant, and to lie about something like that . . . hell, it doesn’t feel right. But like I said, common sense is nowhere to be found at this moment, it’s pure idiotic instinct.
“Really?” Ellie cheers. “Oh my gosh.” She rubs her belly. “So are we. Dave, isn’t that exciting?”
“That really is.” Dave’s face morphs from unsure, protective boyfriend to . . . to a look I haven’t seen on him before. Compassion.
Understanding.
Dare I say—camaraderie?
I stick my hands in my suit pants pockets to keep them from fidgeting as I tell the biggest goddamn lie of my life.
“Yeah, my grandma introduced me to her back in Peachtree. It was one of those love-at-first-sight meet-cutes.”
Ellie clasps her hands together. “Oh, I love meet-cutes.”
I shrug. “Yeah, and we hit it off quickly.” I attempt to gaze off toward the sky as I think about my imaginary pregnant fiancée and how much I *gulp* love her. “We did things a little backwards, with getting pregnant first, but I guess we’ve never done anything right, according to society’s timelines.”
“Same,” Dave says, and I see it, right there in his eyes. A new appreciation for me. This is what the boys were talking about. This was what Dave needed, to see me as a “human.”
This is me, meeting Dave on a new level. Connecting on a new level. In this moment, he doesn’t see me as the flashy, take-no-prisoners businessman, but rather, someone he can ask out for a beer and talk through his worries about becoming a father.
This might very well be exactly the kind of in I needed. A little chitchat, an acute white lie that isn’t going to hurt anyone. He doesn’t have to actually meet this imaginary girl. He doesn’t even need to know much about her. Just the idea of her makes me that much more appealing.
Huh, maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Maybe this was actually pure brilliancy at its finest.
Mark my words—by this time tomorrow, he’ll be calling me up, no longer willing to sit on my offer, but more likely willing to take it.
Huxley Cane, you’re an absolute genius.
“Dave, wouldn’t it be absolutely divine to have Huxley and his fiancée over for dinner?”
Ehhh, what now?
Dinner?
Ellie clasps her hands together and continues, “It would be so lovely to talk with people in our same situation.” Leaning forward, Ellie says, “Family has been less than thrilled about us waiting to get married until after the baby is born. My parents are quite traditional.”
Sweat breaks out on my upper lip as I try to keep my face neutral.
A dinner date.
With my “fiancée.”
Oh . . . fuck.
Abort, Cane. ABORT!
“That would be wonderful,” Dave says with a jovial smile.
FUCK!
“How does Saturday night work?” he continues.
Saturday night?
Double fuck!
That’s four days from now.
Four fucking days to not only find a fiancée, but a pregnant fiancée.
Huxley Cane, you’re no genius, you’re an absolute moron.
“Oh, give him a second to talk about it with his girl,” Ellie says. I’d say thank God for Ellie, but the anxiety-ridden dinner date was her idea. “Why don’t you get back to Dave and then let me know if it’s a go. I love cooking. I could make us a real southern meal if you’d like.”
My mind is already formulating excuses as to why my fiancée and I won’t be able to make Saturday work.