Mama’s Boy by Avery Flynn

Chapter Thirteen

Fiona

Watching the Beckett cousins reminded Fiona of the time she went to her brother’s poker night strictly as an observer. Ford, Frankie, and Finn had basically spent the entire night giving one another shit and belching. Dixon, Nash, and Griff were basically the same, minus the beer-powered burping contest.

Using the excuse of freshening up, she’d snuck away to the private bathroom almost as soon as she’d gotten out from underneath the mistletoe. The bathroom was just as dolled up as the rest of the train car, with an actual oil painting of a house that looked part mansion and part Dalí dream hung on the wall. Hiding in the bathroom wasn’t very Fallon of her, though, so Fiona had sucked it up, shoved her shaky nerves underground, and strode back down the short hall to what was basically a fancy living room on train tracks.

The cousins sat on the fragile-looking furniture, seeming out of place because of their size and yet fitting right in at the same moment. It wasn’t fair—especially not when it came to Dixon, with his wavy dark hair that was too long for the stereotypical CEO but absolutely perfect for Mr. Darcy.

Nope. Do not go all soft English teacher who loves Jane Austen. Be meaner than that. Be an algebra teacher—or better yet, the football coach forced to take on American civics.

Her snarl increased, her annoyance grew, her feet stayed in exactly the same spot, and her stomach flipped and flopped like a fish tossed out onto the shore. So much for calling up her inner badass.

“My date will be a disaster,” said the gruff cousin who’d given her shit about the mistletoe.

“Just as long as she exists,” said the one with blondish hair and a too-easy grin. “Or will she live in Canada and that’s why we’ll never meet her?”

Dixon smacked the blondish one’s shoulder. “You mean like Jenny?”

“Oh yeah, poor Jenny.” The shit disturber threw his arm across the back of the settee, relaxing into the blue velvet. “She never could leave…what was it, Saskatchewan?”

“Alberta.” Grumpy Tats glared at the other men before shooting them an evil grin. “What about your date, Nash, or have you already resigned yourself to staying in the tower?”

Mr. Blond aka Nash shrugged a pair of broad, muscular shoulders that must be embedded in the Beckett DNA. “I never worry when it comes to women.”

When Dixon didn’t say anything in response, Burly Bob threw up his hands in obvious disgust. “What, he doesn’t get shit for that?”

“No,” Dixon said, “because he can actually talk to women.”

“Fu—” Mr. Grumps glanced over to where she stood, still half in the hallway, and his cheeks went pink. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

Before she could stop herself, she lifted her hand and did an awkward little wave. But then her brain and pride caught up, and she jerked her arms behind her back and clasped hands so she wouldn’t be tempted to embarrass herself further. “Hi.”

All three Becketts were staring at her.

Okay, then, I’m just gonna melt into the Jacquard wallpaper here.

“Where are our manners? I’m Nash,” he said, standing up and giving her a friendly smile. He patted the now-empty seat beside Dixon. “Sit down, relax, can I get you a drink?”

“I’m good,” she said and did the silly wave thing again.

Closing her eyes as embarrassment slapped her face red, she let out a deep breath. She was gonna superglue her hands together—it was the only option. Desperate times and a really hot dude in a cable-knit sweater called for it.

“Are you sure?” Nash asked. “We have hot chocolate like you’ve never tasted before.”

Trying for calm when her nerves were jumping like Pop Rocks poured into a Coke, she made her way over to the sitting area without falling on her ass despite the bumpy train tracks’ best efforts. As soon as she got close, Nash plopped down next to Snarly Tats, leaving her with one option if she didn’t want to end up on her ass as the train jolted this way and that. She straightened her shoulders and sat down next to Dixon. Even though the settee had been big enough for Dixon and his equally muscular cousin, it was as if she and Dixon were sharing one teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy cushion.

Dixon leaned in closer. “You have to try it or Griff will pout,” he said, referring to Mr. Tats.

“Sure, thank you.” The agreement squeaked out, which was so not the cool-girl, bitchy vibe she was going for. Scrambling for a distraction, she said the first thing to pop into her head. “You guys sound like my brothers.”

“How many do you have?” Dixon asked.

“Three.”

“No sisters?” he asked.

And here it came. “Three.”

All of the Beckett cousins stared at her.

“There are seven of you?” Griff asked, blinking rapidly.

Her family was always a shock for folks, even when she didn’t explain that she was a triplet. “Yeah, and all of us have names that start with F.”

Nash handed her a lemonade. “There’s a joke there.”

“Nash, don’t be an asshole.” Dixon glared at his cousin before turning back to her and giving her a reassuring smile. “Ignore him—we do.”

“Believe me, I’ve heard it all before.”

“So what made you agree to date our cousin?” Nash asked as he sat down next to Griff.

Dixon tensed beside her. This was the game right here. She could ruin his plan to make his cousins think they’d fallen for each other at first sight right now and still stay true to her promise to come to his grandmother’s house for the weekend. It would serve him right for having his assistant lie to her face about him not being in while she literally stood on the other side of the glass wall as he ate pad thai. And she would have. But then—like a sap—she glanced over at him. It wasn’t his Regency-era-hero hair or crinkles around his eyes, as if he was the kind of guy who laughed alone instead of stomped on people’s dreams that got her. It was the stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his long fingers spread out over his jeans-covered thighs. She knew that feeling; it was the oh-shit-I’m-out-here-alone gut punch.

After a lifetime of living as one of the Hartigan triplets in Waterbury, being out on her own in Harbor City had been an adjustment—a slow and painful one that had left fresh scars the size of Cheater Chad the Assbag on her heart.

Girl, will you ever learn?

Not today, apparently, because once again she was listening to her own bad judgment instead of running in the other direction as fast as possible. Pushing out every other instinct and focusing on selling the lie she was about to tell, she practically had an out-of-body experience.

Fiona took Dixon’s hand, twining her fingers between his and pressing it close to her heart. “Who could turn this guy down?”

“Really?” Nash asked.

“He had the best bio on Bramble. Really, it’s about time that someone stood up to the tyranny of foodies and the lock-step obedience of tipping.” She inhaled a deep breath, expanding her chest to the fullest before letting it out as she looked googly-eyed at Dixon. “I knew the moment we met at the museum and he asked me if I really hated dogs.”

And that was the moment she realized she was holding Dixon’s hand so it was squashed right between her boobs—not touching them but waaaaaay too close for her to be anything but mortified. Where was the villain with the twirly mustache ready to tie her to the train tracks when she needed him?

Fiona Muriel Hartigan, you are a straight-up mess.