The love plot, p.6
The Love Plot, page 6
Wow. His words stung. In insulting his sister-in-law, he was also insulting me because I knew he didn’t think my jobs counted as something worthwhile. “Why is striving to be an excellent mother and running charitable events not ambitious? Why can’t giving her intelligence and kindness and capability to her children and others count as something useful?”
“I’m surprised. You strike me as a feminist, but this isn’t very feminist of you.”
I stiffened. “Of course it is. True feminism is supporting each other in whatever endeavors we pursue. So being a stay-at-home mom isn’t any less important than someone who goes to work every day in an office. If someone wants to turn their nose up at Pippa for choosing that path in life, then they’re not a true feminist.
“Equality for all is something I will always fight for, and a woman should never feel guilted or forced into or out of a career or the life she wants. But I also won’t tear someone down for choosing to live their life the way they want to live it. The problem with our society is that we’re so fixed on either outdated ideals or pushing for progress that we forget to just allow people to be who they want to be. Why the hell, as long as it isn’t hurting anyone, can we not just allow people to live their lives the way they want to and stop pressuring them to live the way anyone else dictates they should? Isn’t that why we’re here, right now? Because in your world ‘being thirty-three and a bachelor is concerning’? Which is bullshit, and we both know it.” I drew in a sharp breath, needing it after my rambling tirade.
He was silent so long I didn’t think he’d respond. I studied him, the way the muscle in his jaw flexed as he stared at me as if he’d never seen me before.
“You’re right,” he agreed quietly, shocking me. “You’re absolutely right. I . . . I’m focusing my frustration with Pippa on the wrong things. Of course I’m proud of how well she’s raising Charmaine. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
Rafe continued to stare, his eyes washing over my face in a way that made my breath quicken.
“Well . . .” I let out shaky laughter, trying to defuse the sudden tension between us, “Wonders never cease. You admitted you were wrong.”
“I happen to do that on occasion, but don’t get used to it.”
I smiled, looking away. “I won’t.”
“I guess we’ve covered all we need to for now. You know my niece is eight years old.”
“It seems like you and Charmaine are close?”
Rafe’s expression warmed. “She’s a sweetheart. And, uh, my brother works a lot, so I try to be there for her when I can.”
Don’t make me like you, Whitman.
After another moment of tension-filled silence as we stared at each other, Rafe abruptly stood. “I’ll collect you tomorrow at three thirty. We do dinner a little early on a Sunday.”
We were done? Okay, then. “That’s fine.”
As I closed the door on him, I considered that he hadn’t bothered to ask me anything about myself beyond what his PI had already told him. His lack of interest in me stung. It was also kind of rude.
He lost some points for that.
Which was good.
Because I seriously did not want to feel anything remotely positive toward the brooding pain in the ass.
Chapter Seven
I swear I had plenty of time to get ready for Rafe picking me up for the dinner at his parents’ house. It was a rare Sunday off work, so I thought I’d do some grocery shopping in the morning, clean my apartment after that, and then read for a while before I had to get ready.
But it was almost time for Rafe to arrive and I was still half naked in front of my laptop. It was perched on my kitchen counter and Roger’s, Kendall’s, and Jude’s faces peered out from the screen.
“This has to be it. This is my lucky dress. I was wearing this when I scored free coffee at Blue Bean, when I met that guy at that art gallery thing and had the best sex of my life, and I got half off the dress in the first place.” I huffed out the last part, feeling sweaty and not at all ready to meet my fake boyfriend’s fancy parents.
“There was nothing wrong with the other six,” Jude retorted. “And why does it matter? I thought this guy wanted you to just be you during all this?”
“He does. But I’d put effort into dressing for a boyfriend’s parents.”
“You’ve never met a boyfriend’s parents in your life,” Roger teased.
“Uh, she hasn’t had a boyfriend since she was a kid,” Kendall corrected him. “Just a series of casual love affairs, like that guy from that art gallery thing.”
I just laughed at her teasing because it was true. I was the biggest commitment-phobe I knew. Why was I freaking out about what I was going to wear to meet Rafe’s parents? Like this was real. I was acting out of character.
I slumped with my dress half on. “You’re right. I should wear what I want.”
“And I just lost thirty minutes of my life for nothing,” Jude grumbled.
Kendall slapped him on the arm. “Shut up.”
“It’s true!” I yanked up the short sleeves of my blue dress. “I’ve wasted your time and mine. This is a job. I should wear whatever I would wear for any other job. Now I’m a sweaty mess for no good reason.”
“You are not,” Roger assured me. “You look beautiful, and this dress is perfect.”
It was a comfortable but inexpensive short-sleeved maxi dress, fitted at the waist, with a tiered skirt that wasn’t overly voluminous like some of my other dresses. It was blue and white polka dot and I could dress it up or down. I quickly slipped on my espadrilles that had an ankle strap, not ties (tie espadrilles were a pain in the butt).
“Jewelry?” I asked my friends.
“Ooh, what about those earrings—the white ones with all the dangling petals?” Kendall suggested.
“Yes!” I pulled my jewelry box out from under my sofa bed and found the earrings. Grabbing a mix of white, blue, and gold bangles, I shoved a bundle on my wrists so I jingled as I walked.
Fluffing my hair, I stood in front of the laptop. “Okay, I’m good?”
“Beautiful!”
“Gorgeous.”
“Yeah, I’d do you.”
I beamed at my friends. “You guys are the best. Thank you for putting up with me. As you were!”
“Text me when you get there and when you get home,” Roger ordered before I could end the video chat. His tone was stern. “I’m still not convinced this guy isn’t a serial killer.”
“Fair,” I agreed. “I’ll text you. I promise. Love you all!”
“Love you.”
“Love ya, babes.”
“Yeah, yeah, you too.”
I grinned and closed my laptop just as my door buzzed.
* * *
• • •
I’d told Rafe to wait for me, but he’d insisted on coming up to my door to collect me. It was kind of an old-fashioned gentlemanly gesture.
I would not admit to liking that facet of his personality at all.
Or that I got no small amount of pleasure out of the way his eyes drifted over my body when I opened the door. There was a flicker of something that could have been mistaken for a positive reaction. Almost as if he liked what he saw.
However, he quickly wiped the reaction from his features and gruffly gestured for me to follow him, so I probably imagined that brief flare of appreciation.
Outside my building, parked on my street, and drawing attention from people passing by, was the coolest car I’d ever seen. I knew very little about cars, but I’d seen enough old movies to know it had to be an American classic. Whoever had restored it did it lovingly. I was gawking at the impressive silver-blue shininess, wondering who it belonged to, when Rafe walked right up and unlocked it.
He opened the passenger door for me. “Ready?”
Mute with shock, I hurried across the sidewalk and slid into the car ass first. I lifted my skirt so it didn’t get caught in the door, flashing my legs as I pulled in my feet. Looking up at Rafe, I saw his gaze lingering on my bare skin for a split second before he slammed the door shut.
I blinked against the abrupt motion and then turned to take in my surroundings.
Holy shit.
I was almost afraid to put my hands on the seats—they were a perfect ivory leather. Even the interior of the door was lined in ivory leather with chrome detailing. The steering wheel protruded from the dash and was much thinner than modern steering wheels. It was finished in a tan leather. The dashboard was a trip back in time. No computer system, no fancy-schmancy stuff. Just cool chrome-covered dials and a speedometer.
Rafe got into the driver’s side. His seat was pushed back farther than mine to accommodate his long legs.
He didn’t say a word about the fact that he’d turned up in the coolest car ever, so cool that even I, who was not “into cars,” thought it was the coolest car ever. I thought Rafe would show up in a practical SUV. Or worse, a supercar.
Not this. It was like sitting next to Danny Zuko without all the hair oil.
A few seconds later, the car growled to life and we were gliding down the street, turning heads.
“What kind of car is this?”
Rafe’s hands were light and relaxed on the steering wheel. I noticed how long and graceful his fingers were, in contrast to his large masculine knuckles. A tingle between my legs startled me, and I wrenched my gaze from his seductive limbs.
“It’s a 1965 Pontiac Catalina.”
Definitely an American classic. “Where did you get it?” I was endlessly curious since the car and Rafe seemed like contradictory beings. If a car could count as a being. I was pretty sure car enthusiasts everywhere thought that they could.
My fake date flicked me a look before focusing on the road. “I restored it.”
I think my jaw hit my lap. “You? You restored a 1965 Pontiac?”
“Catalina,” he murmured, as if that part was very important. Maybe it was. I wouldn’t know. “When I was sixteen, my father offered to buy me a car like he did my brother before me. We lived in New York, used a town car most of the time, so we didn’t have need of one, but we also had our summer home in Harrison—now my parents’ full-time home—and my brother used his car during the summer months. But I’d been obsessed with classic cars since my grandfather bought me a set of mini classics to play with when I was six years old. So I told my father that I wanted to buy a 1965 Pontiac Catalina.” The corner of his mouth kicked up. “Dad told me that a fully restored Pontiac Catalina would cost more than what he had in mind, so I would need to buy one that required a lot of work. I think he thought I’d balk and just ask for a new car. Instead, I asked him to buy me a piece-of-junk Pontiac.”
“And you turned it into this?” I was in awe.
Rafe chuckled, his fingers lovingly stroking the steering wheel.
“Eventually. It took a long time. Dad ended up buying me a Mustang for the summers. And I spent all of my free time trying to restore this baby. When Dad retired a few years ago, we finished her together. I’ve only been driving her for a year. I keep her in a garage in the city.”
“You spent sixteen years restoring a car?”
He frowned. “Yes, so? I’ve been busy.”
“No, I don’t mean it like that. I meant . . . wow. I don’t think I’ve committed myself to anything for that long. That’s impressive. And I like that your dad helped. You’ll always have those memories.” I reached out to touch the dashboard. “So . . . Was she—or he—just a shell when you bought her?”
“You like cars?”
“No.” I snorted. “But this one is the coolest freaking car I’ve ever seen.”
That’s when Rafe Whitman smiled at me for the very first time.
I swear my heart and clit swelled in unison.
“Yeah?” He looked boyishly pleased about my interest in his car. It was such a sexy look and I hated that I thought he was sexy. “Well, she was a shell. Part of the reason it took so long to restore her was because sourcing original parts is not easy. For a start, someone had taken out the engine. It took time, but I finally tracked down a 421-cubic-inch two-plus-two V8 engine. The 1965 was the only model that featured that type of engine. She’s got a four-speed synchromesh manual transmission with the Hurst shifter,” he relayed as he stroked said shifter. Who knew talking about cars could be so sexual? Or maybe it was just Rafe talking about cars.
“The chrome work, the paint work?”
His expression was wry. “We learned what we could about restoring her and got a lot of help from my dad’s old mechanic friend at a garage in Harrison, but the bodywork . . . I left that to the professionals.”
“She really is a beauty. Not at all what I expected you to drive.”
Just like that, his frown returned. “What did you expect me to drive?”
I shrugged. “Something practical.”
I knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say because the atmosphere inside the coolest car ever suddenly did not match the car’s vibe.
“So, do you remember everything from yesterday?” Rafe’s tone was formal, detached again.
Apparently, the “practical” comment offended him. After the things he’d said to me?
You’d think someone who could dish out the honesty could take it in return.
We spent the rest of the journey upstate going over information about his family. He added things he hadn’t told me yesterday, but he was right. It was all fresh in my mind for meeting them.
Something occurred to me, however, once we were in Harrison. We’d driven down leafy, tree-lined streets and had just turned onto a street separated into entrance and exit by an island of beautiful, perfectly trimmed trees. “Uh, we haven’t discussed how we supposedly got together after meeting at Pippa’s?”
“I told my family I got your number from the company you work for. That I lied and told them I wanted to hire you. My mother found it pretty romantic,” he said dryly.
I chuckled, the tension releasing a little now that he was being more affable. “Okay. And where did we go on our first date?”
“I took you to Konbanwa, my favorite sushi restaurant in Manhattan.”
I grimaced. “I hate sushi.”
“Seriously?”
“Don’t act so surprised . . .” I faded off as I noted the enormous homes we passed. Rafe took a left down another tree-lined road, passing a few more large houses on either side of a traffic circle with a large tree in the middle. He drove off the circle and toward a low stone wall with white gates. He picked up a key fob from the center dash and clicked it. The gate swung open and we drove onto the circular brick-paved driveway of a stunning house nestled among the aspens.
“Holy . . .”
It was a two-story red brick with white trim and . . . it was sprawling.
I swallowed hard.
Rafe parked his Pontiac behind a Porsche. There was a fancy white SUV in front of the Porsche. “Don’t act so surprised . . . ?” He reminded me I’d been in the middle of responding to him about sushi.
“Oh, yeah.” I looked away from the mammoth house to him. “That I don’t like sushi.”
He shrugged. “Then we’ll say that. Though it’s a travesty.”
“That I don’t like raw fish in my mouth?”
Rafe wrinkled his nose adorably. “Well, when you put it like that . . .”
I grinned, ignoring the nervous butterflies in my belly. “And our subsequent dates?”
“Movies, dinner, walks in Central Park. The usual.”
“I really feel like we should have practiced this more.”
“We’ll be fine. Just be yourself.” Something wicked glimmered in his eyes. “That will be interesting for all involved.”
Chapter Eight
At first, I didn’t notice any specific details about his family home because Rafe had taken hold of my hand to lead me. He didn’t just clasp my hand either. He linked our fingers together and gave me a squeeze of reassurance that shocked me.
My skin tingled, little sparks of feeling shooting up my arm. And that was all I could concentrate on until I was forced otherwise by the introduction to his family.
That was when I realized the Whitman house was exactly how I’d imagined inside. Vaulted ceilings, a modern farmhouse vibe, and lots of gigantic windows overlooking the sprawling backyard that had total privacy from the woodlands beyond. From what I could see outside the windows, the backyard had terraced levels that led down onto a lawn, a tennis court, and a massive pool.
Oh, how the other half lived.
Thankfully, I was not easily intimidated and I didn’t believe that having money made a person superior to me. My uncharacteristic nervousness as I met Rafe’s family was all about our deception. I kept reminding myself of the money and the road trip to freedom it would afford me.
It might have been better if the Whitmans weren’t nice, but they welcomed me into their vast home with a friendliness I’m not sure I was expecting considering how unfriendly Rafe was.
His mother, Jennifer Whitman (who insisted I call her Jen), embraced me as if I were a long-lost family member. “I’m so happy to meet you,” she greeted me with genuine enthusiasm, holding my biceps as she studied my face. The joy in her eyes brightened. “And you’re so beautiful.” I could almost sense her visualizing how pretty my children with Rafe could be, and I suddenly understood what might have driven Rafe to hire me.
