A Hollywood Deal(60)

I cut my eyes at him and give him a look that says, Your mother?

He flicks his gaze toward my parents.

Of course. That makes sense. Ryder would never invite his mother on his own, but my parents want to see the kind of family I’m marrying into.

Geraldine’s gaze moves to each of my relatives in turn, cataloguing everything. Even though my family’s done their best, their clothes will never be as high quality as hers, and they’ll never look like they come from old money.

Her face is set in an arrogant mask, and it pisses me off that she’s judging them…especially in Ryder’s own home, when he wouldn’t dream of being such an obnoxious snob.

A few moments ago I wasn’t sure if I was going to enjoy myself. Not when I’m going to have to deceive my family. But now I’m determined to have a great time—and make sure my family does, too.

Geraldine Pryce is not going to ruin this.





Chapter Twenty-Four



Ryder

The determined set of Paige’s jaw does not bode well. Mom is aware of how her little inspection must look, but she doesn’t seem to care that she’s being rude to my guests. And all that “mother” stuff…of course she doesn’t mean it.

Her whole show is humiliating, and I start to get pissed off. Meanwhile, the weight of Simon’s gaze comes to rest squarely on me. Paige’s stepfather studies me with disapproving eyes, probably wondering what the hell is going on.

“Dinner is served,” Sue announces. She’s dressed in a uniform that makes her look like she’s from a Victorian movie.

I clasp my hands together and force a smile. “Let’s all move to the dining room. The chef has outdone herself, or so I was told earlier.”

“Aren’t we waiting for your father?” Paige’s mom Maggie asks.

“Unfortunately he couldn’t make it.” As good of an actor as I am, it’s hard to fake disappointment, especially when Paige is looking at me like I’m speaking in tongues. “He lives in Virginia. It’s a bit too far for an impromptu visit.”

Just as I finish speaking, somebody’s at the door. Mom smiles serenely. “That must be Julian.”

Sure enough, a few moments later the housekeeper leads not just Dad but Wife Number Six toward us. Dad’s in a dark bespoke suit with a white dress shirt. Number Six is fashionable in a bright magenta Dior dress and a Louis Vuitton bag in her manicured hand. Her dark curls tumble around her shoulders, and she clings to Dad like a squid.

Incredible. “How did you get here so fast?” I didn’t text him until three.

“I was in Vegas,” he says smoothly. “And of course, I didn’t want to miss a chance to meet your intended and her family.” His voice lacks warmth and betrays very little.

He offers his hand to Paige and her family. Unlike Mom, he doesn’t fake cordiality. He merely shakes hands and introduces Wife Number Six. “This is my wife, Tiffany.”

Number Six beams like she’s competing for the title of Miss Universe. Paige’s family all say hello, but it’s obvious they’re a bit surprised and uncomfortable. It’s in the way Maggie and Simon glance at each other, and Bethany and her husband sort of move back, trying to blend in with the furniture.

The corner of Mom’s mouth rises. “Tiffany. What a lovely name.” Her voice is so sweet I feel nauseated.

“Thank you. I love your name too. Gerry, right?” Number Six says.

Mom’s gaze cuts like a surgery laser. It’s a miracle that the airhead doesn’t fall bleeding to the floor. “Geraldine.”

The younger woman flinches. “Sorry. Geraldine.”

Dad flushes, but he says nothing. He knows Wife Number Six is no match for Mom, who’s been trained from birth to put people in their proper place. Besides, defending his wife will only cause a scene and draw more blood—from him and Number Six.

Paige clears her throat. “Why don’t we all move to the dining room?”

Thankfully nobody argues, and we can eat.

Well. Attempt to eat.

The formal table is long and dark, made of teak or something like that. I don’t remember exactly, since I gave my interior decorator a blank check and then left everything to her. Lights blaze from the three chandeliers and the tableware gleams; gilded china, crystal wine glasses and silver utensils polished within an inch of their lives. The thick white cotton napkins are folded just so into cool origami shapes, and the centerpiece features red and pink carnations and baby’s breath. The walls have murals of Provence over the four seasons that I commissioned a few years back. The artist is a temperamental asshole who disdains money as much as he craves it, but I liked what I saw in his gallery, which meant I had to have his art in my home.