Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“I’m waiting,” I prompted. “I still don’t hear an explanation.”
“An explanation,” Champ repeated, frowning.
I narrowed my eyes. I wondered if he was aware that he had a bad habit of repeating words when he wanted time to think up a lie.
“While you’re coming up with a plausible story, maybe also explain how the hell you thought you were going to pull off the whole ‘Are you Bunny Champion’s boy?’ thing. These people know Bunny Champion, okay?” I fumed.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.
“It’s bad enough that I’m going to have to wiggle out of wedding-planning fiancé double dates with Marissa since I don’t have an actual fiancé. Now I’m also going to have to convince Carlotta that you’re related to a different Bunny Champion, which is just too ridiculous—”
“I am related to Bunny Champion,” he muttered.
“The Bunny Champion?”
Champ nodded shortly. “She’s my mother.”
I thought about the Bunny Champion I’d seen at various Nashville fundraisers over the years. The woman was five feet tall, if you took away her four-inch heels and her three inches of champagne-blonde hair, thin as a wisp, and wore a perpetually cranky, mulish expression—
Huh. Okay, maybe there was a resemblance, now that I thought about it.
“Your actual mother,” I said stupidly. I looked Champ up and down, but there was nothing in his chinos and sport jacket that screamed “hidden wealth.”
“We’re not close.” Champ shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “But it’s the truth—you won’t have to explain that away. And you won’t have to explain your fiancé away either, because I’ll be sticking around. See how this works?”
“Sure, you’re here today. But what about next week—”
“I’ll be there next week too,” he assured me. “For all your wedding-planning double-date needs. I got you into this, so it’s only fair for me to be your fiancé until the wheels come off. Or until we go down with the ship. However you put it in wedding-planner lingo.”
I blinked at him. “You—the man who three nights ago insisted that we switch sides of the bed before we went to sleep so it wouldn’t seem like we each had an ‘official side of the bed,’ which would ‘imply a relationship’—are willing to be my fiancé for the next six months?”
“Six months?” he repeated, and this time it wasn’t an attempt to cover up a lie but to hide his horror. “Wait, what?”
“How long do you think wedding planning takes, my little Pecan Cluster?” I asked scathingly. “At six months out, this is already a rush job. The most desirable venues are already booked, and if Tommy Drakes didn’t have more money than God, we wouldn’t be able to get it done at all.”
“I was thinking a week. Ten days if you wanted to figure out matching outfits. What the fuck do you do for the next six months?”
“Please,” I scoffed. “There won’t be a dull moment. The whole thing is a carefully coordinated dance. Yesterday, we had the initial meeting. A vibe check, if you will. Today, we discuss guest list, wedding party, which venues are available in June, some cute fabric swatches I have in mind, and any ideas Marissa has for her decor. For example, Mediterranean elegance or minimalism or more of a laid-back, eclectic style. I’ll take a week or so to mood-board it—probably only a rough sketch since time isn’t our friend—and then we start contacting vendors for samples—”
“Sounds inefficient,” Champ blurted. “My team could plan that shit in a matter of days. And really, why wait? Get those crazy kids wed before they think better of it, amirite?” He smashed his hands together. “Why not challenge ourselves to see how fast we can get this shit sorted!”
“Uh. Because it’s not a race—”
“Question! Are all the meetings going to be at the Nashville house? Because I’m thinking maybe you’ll want to see Marissa at work, you know? Less disruptive that way. We could meet her at Tommy’s corporate office. Or at one of his dealerships—”
I lifted an eyebrow. “How did you know that Marissa works at Drakes Automotive?”
Champ went still. “Drakes Automotive?” he repeated.
I folded my arms over my chest.
“I recognized her dad from the Speedo commercial.” He shrugged with an ease I knew had to be an act. “It stands to reason she’d work for him.”
“Does it, though?” I tilted my head. “You, a former military guy who founded his own security company, just told me you’re the offspring of Bunny Champion, who’s made a career out of lunching at her club and slaying unsuspecting bridge partners. And yet you want me to believe your first thought upon realizing that Tommy Drakes was the Speedo-wearing car salesman was that his daughter must have joined the family business?” I shook my head and made a noise like a game-show buzzer. “Nnnhhh. Doesn’t track. “