concocting this scheme.
Thanks to Lucas everything was on track, and soon they could get on with their separate lives. Or as separate as possible while living under the same roof.
Lucas introduced Cia to his brother, Matthew, and Mrs.
Wheeler steered everyone into the plush living area off the main foyer.
“Cia, I’m happy to have you here. Please, call me Fran. Have a seat.” Fran motioned to the cushion next to her on the beige couch, and Cia complied by easing onto it. “I must tell you, I’m quite surprised to learn you and Lucas renewed a previous relationship at my birthday party. I don’t recall the two of you dating the first time.”
“I don’t tell you everything, Mama,” Lucas interrupted, proceeding to wedge in next to Cia on the couch, thigh to thigh, his heavy arm drawing her against his torso. “You should thank me.”
Fran shot her son a glance, which couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than a warning, while Cia scrambled to respond.
Her entire body blipped into high alert. She stiffened and had to force each individual muscle in her back to relax, allowing her to sag against Lucas’s sky-blue button-down shirt as if they snuggled on the couch five times a day. “It was a while back. A couple of years.”
Matthew Wheeler, the less beautiful, less blond and less vibrant brother, cleared his throat from his position near the fireplace. “Lucas said four or five years ago.”
Cia’s heart fell off a cliff. Such a stupid, obvious thing to miss when they’d discussed it. Why hadn’t Lucas mentioned he’d put a time frame to their fictitious previous relationship?
“Uh … well, it might have been four years,” Cia mumbled. In a flash of inspiration, she told mostly the truth. “I was still pretty messed up about my parents. All through college. I barely remember dating Lucas.”
His lips found her hairline and pressed against it in a simple kiss. An act of wordless sympathy but with the full force of Lucas behind those lips, it singed her skin, drawing heat into her cheeks, enflaming them. She was very aware of his fingertips trailing absently along her bare arm and very aware an engaged man had every reason to do it.
Except he’d never done it to her before and the little sparks his fingers generated panged through her abdomen.
“Oh, no, of course,” Fran said. “I’m so sorry to bring up bad memories. Let’s talk about something fun. Tell me about your wedding dress.”
In a desperate attempt to reorient, Cia zeroed in on Fran’s animated face. Lucas had not inherited his magnetism from his father, as she’d assumed, but from his mother. They shared a charisma that made it impossible to look away.
Lucas groaned, “Mama. That’s not fun—that’s worse than water torture. Daddy and Matthew don’t want to hear about a dress. I don’t even want to hear about that.”
“Well, forgive me for trying to get to know my new daughter,” Fran scolded and smiled at Cia conspiratorially. “I love my sons, but sometimes just because the good Lord said I have to. You I can love because I want to. The daughter of my heart instead of my blood. We’ll have lunch next week and leave the party poopers at home, won’t we?”
Cia nodded because her throat seized up and speaking wasn’t an option.
Fran already thought of her as a daughter.
Never had she envisioned them liking each other or that Lucas’s mother might want to become family by choice instead of only by law. The women at the shelter described their husbands’ mothers as difficult, interfering. Quick to take their sons’ sides. She’d assumed all new wives struggled to coexist. Must have horrible mother should have been on her criteria list.
And as long as she was redoing the list, Zero sex appeal was numero uno.
“Isn’t it time for dinner?” Lucas said brightly, and everyone’s gaze slid off her as Fran agreed.
The yeasty scent of baked bread had permeated the air a few minutes ago and must have jump-started Lucas’s appetite. She smiled at him, grateful for the diversion, and took a minute to settle her stomach.
Andy and Matthew followed Fran’s lead into the dining room adjacent to the living area, where a middle-aged woman in a black-and-white uniform bustled around the twelve-seat formal dining table. A whole roasted chicken held court in the center, flanked by white serving dishes containing more wonderful food.
Lucas didn’t move. He should move. Plenty of couch on the other side of his thigh.
“Be there in a minute,” he called to his family and took Cia’s hand in his, casually running a thumb over her knuckles. “You okay? You don’t have to have lunch with my mother. She means well, but she can be overbearing.”
“No.” She shook her head, barely able to form words around the sudden pounding of her pulse. “Your mother is lovely. I’m … well—we’re lying to her. To your whole family. Lying to my grandfather is one thing because he’s the one who came up with those ridiculous trust provisions. But this …”
“Is necessary,” he finished for her. “It would be weird if I never introduced you to my parents. For now it’s important to play it like a real couple. I’ll handle them later. Make something up.”
He didn’t understand. Because he’d had a mother his whole life.
“More lies. It’s clear you’re all close. How many other grown sons go to their mother’s birthday party and then to dinner at her house in the same week?” Cia vaulted off the couch, and Lucas rose a split second later. “I’m sorry I put you in this position. How do we do this? How do I go in there and eat dinner like we’re a happy, desperately in love couple?”
“Well, when I’m in an impossible situation, and I have no idea how to do it, I think to myself, ‘What would Scooby do?’”
In spite of the ache behind her eyes, a shuddery laugh slipped out. A laugh, when she could hardly breathe around the fierce longing swimming through her heart to belong to such a family unit for real.
“Scooby would eat.”
“Yep.” Lucas flashed an approval-laden smile. “So here’s a crazy idea. Don’t take this so seriously. Let’s have fun tonight. Eat a good meal with some people I happen to be related to. Once it’s over, you’ll be one step closer to your money and I’ll be one step closer to Manzanares, which will make both of us happy. Voilà. Now we’re a happy couple. Okay?”
“We’re still lying to them.”
“I told my parents we’re engaged to be married, and that’s true.”
“But there’s an assumption there about us—”
He cut her off with a grunt. “Stop being so black-and-white. If anyone asks, don’t lie. Change the subject. My parents are waiting on us to eat dinner. You’ve got to figure it out.”
She took a deep breath. One dinner. One short ceremony. Then it would be over. “I’m working on it.”
“Maybe you need something else to think about during
