Fake It Till You Make It Page 7

  Though she was curious about the Bellini, Sloane decided to err on the side of caution. Plus, it had been a hot minute since she’d had a glass of true Alabama sweet tea. Though Nashville had tried. “Sweet tea sounds great.”

  They settled in around a long table with eight chairs. Brady sat at one of the ends and smiled slyly at her. He looked like he’d just become king for the day.

  Missy acknowledged Brady, and before long, everyone had made introductions to everyone else. The woman in polka dots was Arnesha King, a town council member, and quiet. She didn’t say a word as Missy and Ruby ping-ponged opinions back and forth about if they had gone viral, how they’d be feeling.

  Sloane grinned and bore it.

  Brady drank his Bellini.

  Maybe this won’t be that bad, Sloane dared to think. Maybe they’ll just talk at me instead of with me.

  She took her own sip of her drink and delighted in how sinfully sweet it was as the conversational tide started to wash over her. She wondered where Marcus and his bride-to-be were. The Robertsons, with the exception of their father, who never seemed to attend garden events, were a social package deal. Surely Marcus would show up with fiancée in tow.

  How would she feel when she saw them together? Sloane wondered. What she told Brady was true. It wasn’t like she was pining over Marcus anymore, in secret or otherwise, but seeing him in person at the bar? Well, that had felt weird. Probably because she knew a lot that he didn’t, right?

  Would it feel even stranger to see him with the woman he planned on marrying? The near-perfect Felicity Fairchild in all her glory?

  Would she feel jealous?

  Would she be self-conscious?

  Would her old feelings of first love try to sway her back to thinking about him nonstop?

  Sloane looked at Brady. His eyes were more green than hazel, she decided. A forest filled with trees in full bloom during the spring.

  He could destroy her if he wanted. All he had to do was give Marcus’s name out, and that would be that. Carol, the town, and the internet would gobble her up. The Girl Who Said Nothing would become the pathetic creeper who had said the wrong thing.

  Yet he hadn’t sold her out.

  And she had a sneaking suspicion that part of why he’d offered to help her was because he was genuinely being nice.

  Brady’s eyes slid to hers. Sloane couldn’t help but smile into her glass.

  “You know, Brady, I was surprised to hear that you two are together,” Ruby said, cutting off whatever Arnesha had been saying. She had lipstick on her teeth. It reminded Sloane of a shark mid-feed. “I mean, you know, considering.”

  “And, may I ask, why’s that so hard to believe?”

  He gave her a look that conveyed barely veiled annoyance. Ruby, no matter if you knew her or not, had the magical ability to turn people off just by existing. She was, as Sloane’s mom would have said, a cup of tea without a drop of sugar in it.

  Ruby remained undeterred. “Oh, I guess because of Felicity.” She shrugged. “I heard you were head over heels, never would have eyes for another woman in love with her. Y’all were together for three years, right?”

  Sloane sputtered into her glass. What in the double fuck?

  Ruby had to be mistaken. Brady and Felicity?

  No. No way. It wasn’t like they swam in the same social circles. Maybe she was just confused.

  Surely, if Brady was in love with Felicity, the last place he’d want to be was sitting across from her and her new fiancé, and, surely, he would have brought it up.

  Sloane looked at Brady, waiting for him to jump in and shut down the preposterous rumor, but saw instead a man tight-lipped with a quick side of grumpy.

  Then it clicked.

  That’s why Brady was all too gung ho to fake date. It wasn’t to help Sloane; it was because of Felicity. Somehow and for whatever reason.

  Nice, my ass.

  “We broke up more than a year ago,” Brady finally said, tone missing his usual humor. “We’ve both clearly moved on.”

  Sloane could hear Ruby take in a breath, no doubt gearing up to press on the crack in their armor she’d just found, when movement made them all look outside the greenhouse.

  Carol and her sun hat were walking around the fountain. In tow, the newly engaged couple.

  They were smiling and happy and perfect.

  They had no idea how fucking annoying their uncomplicated happiness was.

  Sloane eyed the nearest exit.

  Antarctica was looking really good right about now.

  Chapter Seven

  Well hot damn if a lot of things didn’t go wrong, right, and confusing all at once.

  Sloane nearly choked to death on her sweet tea.

  Marcus and Felicity showed up just in time for a distraction from the truth bomb Ruby had just dropped.

  Felicity was in the same vicinity as Brady for the first time since she’d shit on his heart a year ago, and he didn’t quite know how to feel about it.

  “Oh, dear, are you okay?” Mrs. Robertson had a hand on Sloane’s back faster than Ruby could lean in to the obvious surprise that had caused the sweet-tea fiasco.

  Sloane tapped her chest and nodded, looking like she was still trying to find her voice.

  Brady went for her other hand, but she snaked past it for a napkin instead. She didn’t meet his gaze. He had a feeling when she did, it wasn’t going to match the smile she’d been giving him before Ruby had opened her mouth.

  That smile had been unexpected. For a moment, Sloane De Carlo had looked almost happy. With their plan, their act—with him. Who cared that they’d been in their roles for only a night and a morning? It was a vibe he’d been feeling himself.

  But no. Ruby “Once Got Drunk and Admitted She Wanted to Be Adopted by the Robertsons” Cartwright had to piss in their Cheerios.

  Though, in hindsight, Brady admitted that maybe he should have warned Sloane about his ex. Especially since that ex was getting hitched to her once, and maybe current, true freaking love.

  Details, details.

  “Well, what did we miss?” Carol went into detective mode, ready to uncover the “hot goss” that she’d missed. Ruby opened her mouth again. Brady didn’t think Sloane could take another round. He stood up and extended his hand to Marcus.

  “Some damn good Bellinis and sweet tea,” he answered Carol. Then to Marcus: “Thanks for letting us crash your lunch, man.”

  Marcus was all smiles as he took his hand.

  The worst thing about Golden Boy Robertson? He was actually a decent guy. Brady had talked to him a few times over the years at the bar and hated to admit that, if Marcus had belonged to any other family, he’d probably be buddies with the man. As it was, he was a red flag walking just by proxy. Now that he was marrying Felicity? There was no way in hell Brady was going to rub elbows with the man. Decent or not.

  “Not a problem at all.” He thumbed over to his sister. “Though, let’s be honest about who’s the boss around here. I almost didn’t get in because I was late.”

  Carol huffed. Then Felicity moved into view. Everyone around them got quiet.

  Brady cleared his throat. “Nice to see you again, Felicity. Congrats on the news.”

  Felicity had what Brady used to call a politician’s wife smile. She wore it every moment she was in public. A default polite. A mask she put on alongside her pristine makeup in the morning. It was only behind closed doors that she’d let her hair down and slip into something more comfortable.

  Now wasn’t one of those times.

  Her hair, the color of whiskey, was pinned back in a long ponytail that was just as neat and put together as the makeup around her bright green eyes and the patriotic red, white, and blue striped dress wrapped around her long body. Brady noticed she must have been working out since they’d split ways. He could see
it in her arms and, with a brief glance, her legs.

  There was no denying that Felicity Fairchild was a looker. That much he could always say, no matter how he felt about her. She could have been a model, hands down, had she not been so driven about climbing the ladder in her marketing career.

  “Thanks,” she said, standard smile not slipping an inch. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  She took the seat across from Mrs. Robertson while Marcus settled into the one opposite Sloane. When Brady sat back down, he moved his chair a little closer to hers.

  “And I’m sure Sloane here needs no introduction, but, just in case, this is Sloane De Carlo.”

  “You definitely don’t need an introduction,” Felicity was quick to say. “I’ve been hearing your name around town for a week straight! That must be so exciting!”

  Sloane was regaining some of her normal coloring, but the smile she gave was a little uneven. She really didn’t seem to like being the center of attention.

  Which worked out well for their host.

  “Look at us! We all sound like we’re on repeat, I’m sure,” Carol exclaimed, scooping up an untouched mimosa. She let her sun hat go free and waved over an older man in an honest-to-God butler getup. Brady hadn’t seen him before but did appreciate the platter of food he had. And boy howdy, he’d have to tell Dixon that there were tiny sandwiches on it. “Why don’t we give Sloane and her very new beau here a break and talk about something that affects us all.”

  Brady and Sloane shared a look of confusion.

  Mrs. Robertson spoke before her daughter’s dramatic pause ran out. “The Sailors and Mermaids Festival is officially two weekends away, and this year we’d really like to make a big splash.”

  “Pun intended,” Marcus added.

  Sloane and Felicity laughed.

  Brady readjusted in his seat as Butler Man dropped two tiny sandwiches onto his plate. Another server appeared out of thin air like an Oompa Loompa and started at the other end of the table.

  Carol looked unamused but couldn’t get a word in before her mother continued.

  “And not to keep you in the spotlight, shug, but—” Mrs. Robertson turned around her seat so that she was facing Sloane head-on. Her eyes widened as the older woman took her hand and the tiny sandwich she was holding with it. “We were wondering if you’re going to be here for it because, if so, we’d love for you two to be in the Sailors and Mermaids Pageant!”

  She said the last part in a rush of high-pitched words and, simultaneously, a squeal. The noise and volume made the meaning behind the words take a little bit longer to sink in for him.

  “The pageant? Well, I, uh—”

  “It’ll mean so much if you say yes,” Arnesha piped in. “It would definitely boost exposure for the town.” Brady felt like giving her the stink eye. Woman had barely said a word, and now she was reppin’ a pageant?

  “Not to mention the bar,” Mrs. Robertson added.

  “But, Mother, we’re not going to force them to do what they don’t want to,” Carol said, for once not as enthused. “The pageant is always the highlight of the festival, with or without celebrities. We don’t need to bother them.”

  Mrs. Robertson waved her off while keeping her sights firmly set on Sloane. The weakest of them all.

  “You’ve already bared your soul to the great wide web, so what’s a little walk and twirl onstage going to really do?”

  Sloane, hands still caught in their Robertson trap, glanced at Brady. Everyone else was so focused on them, he decided shaking his head and saying “hell no” probably wouldn’t go unnoticed. Plus, he could feel Felicity’s gaze on him.

  One of their frequent arguments? His apparent inflexibility. That had usually revolved around him not wanting to leave the bar, but it had occasionally crept into other disagreements.

  Being in a pageant? Definitely something he wouldn’t normally do.

  Which was why he was going to let Sloane talk them out of it, not him. He couldn’t be called inflexible if she was the one who stayed rigid.

  Sloane turned back to Mrs. Robertson, poor smooshed tiny sandwich in hand.

  And betrayed him.

  “I—I can’t think of a reason why we would say no.”

  Arnesha and Mrs. Robertson actually cheered.

  “This is going to be great!” Arnesha exclaimed. “I bet we could double our attendance!”

  Mrs. Roberston agreed. They abandoned talking to Sloane directly. It was only after Arnesha and Mrs. Robertson turned to each other that Marcus leaned forward and mock whispered.

  “You know, I’m glad we don’t have to suffer this alone. Last year I was trapped backstage with Dewey and his girlfriend, and I swear that man only talks about the weather. Even when he’s in costume.”

  Dewey, the local weatherman, might have been a smart cookie when it came to meteorology, but that same smart cookie was dreadfully dull and soggy. Even with some drinks in him, Dewey clung firmly to talk of nebulous clouds, storm fronts, and wind velocity.

  “Glad we can suffer together,” Brady responded, voice also low. However, he wasn’t kidding.

  The conversation around the table kept to the festival, with the occasional mention of the food. Brady and Sloane were keyed in to gossip leftover from the last few festivals—like Brenda Ballard making out with Levar Thomas after the kissing booths had already been torn down and Rebecca Callers drunkenly booing the Arbor Bay Academy’s performance in the play Little Fishies in the Bay—and all talk of the blog stalled out. Sloane loosened up, smiled more, and even chatted with one of the servers for a bit.

  It wasn’t until they’d finished off their food and he was thinking about another Bellini that Felicity decided to talk to him. Which quieted everyone else.

  “You know, I saw the list of businesses participating in the different festival activities, but Cassidy’s Place wasn’t on it.” Her brows pinched together, and she looked close to scolding him. “I know you don’t like stepping out of your comfort zone, but it might be a good idea to try to do something. Especially since the bar hasn’t been that popular lately, what with The Drinking Spot moving in.”

  There it was.

  The tone.

  The pity.

  The you poor, dreamless fool.

  “Actually,” Sloane started, “we were hoping to throw a party at the bar.” Smiling, she reached out and placed her hand on top of Brady’s. “Like a kickoff event Friday night.”

  “Really?” Felicity looked at Brady.

  He squeezed Sloane’s hand, trying to remind her of their secret code.

  “It was Brady’s idea, but I turned it down at first,” Sloane continued. “I thought for sure we’d get caught together, but now? Well, now everyone knows about us, so why not?”

  “That would be wonderful,” Arnesha chimed in, practically salivating. “Even more opportunity for publicity for the town.”

  Marcus seconded the sentiment. “Not to mention, it would be nice to have an option to drink after spending, I’m sure, countless hours on a parade float we all know is going to lose against Carol and her gardening club.”

  Queen Bee, once again, didn’t look amused with where the conversation had gone.

  “We usually have drinks here the night before,” she said. “It’s unofficial, of course, but a lot of the people participating in the parade show up.”

  “But that’s unofficial, dear.” Mrs. Robertson looked at Brady this time, something she hadn’t done much since they’d sat down. “We could make Cassidy’s Place the official kickoff party spot. Hosted by the internet’s new favorite couple! What do you say?”

  Sloane pumped his hand twice.

  Brady in turn pumped up his smile.

  “Sounds like it’ll be one hell of a time.”

  …

  Sloane was walking fast. There was no watc
hing her footing on the stone path or trying to keep from looking like a wild animal scurrying away to hide. She was full speed ahead to Brady’s truck with her date trailing behind.

  Sloane had already decided that once the food was eaten and the drinks were drained, she was going to get out of the Robertson garden with an excuse and a prayer. No lingering small—or any—talk. Just smiles and waves and a confirmation or two of when the next time they’d see each other might be. Simple, polite, and sanity-saving. Then, when she and Brady were alone in the truck, she’d get loud and complicated about everything that had happened during the lunch.

  For a moment Sloane thought that this plan would work out for her. She was so close to the truck that she was already mentally opening her door and sliding in to the passenger’s seat. Yet, you know what they say about being close. It only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

  Barely a step off the stone path and Sloane heard laughter behind them. It was the same laughter they’d heard throughout their meals. Felicity and Marcus. In tandem, totally and annoyingly in sync. All while Sloane and Brady had been silently sparring with their eyes when no one was looking their way.

  Sloane slowed her pace so Brady could walk beside her, hopefully lessening the image of her in retreat. He matched her stride and then lowered his voice for a hurried statement.

  “Let me open your door.”

  Sloane, a woman who was smart, capable, and proficient in several kinds of customer-service smiles any other day, lost all her common-sense marbles at the request. The heat to her cheeks came on swift wings as the image of Brady spreading her legs flew across her mind. It was brief and unnecessary—he was obviously talking about the truck door and not some kind of euphemism for her downstairs arena—yet her libido was apparently still Sherlock working with Watson to solve a case. All he’d done to get her there again was lower his voice and just exist.

  “I don’t know if opening a door is going to convince them we’re anything like them,” she said, matching his volume and skirting past her naughty thoughts. “I think the table might have heard you growl when I signed us up for the parade.”