Mama’s Boy by Avery Flynn
Chapter Eighteen
Fiona
If it was possible to die of spontaneous combustion, then death by extreme embarrassment should be, too. Of course, Fiona figured she was pretty damn lucky. She was still living and breathing despite her phobia of being trapped, her fat ass stopping her escape, and the fact that she was staring into the very amused face of an older woman with steel-gray hair in loose waves. The woman sent her a well-used smile as if Fiona wasn’t wearing Dixon’s sweater a few minutes after screaming at the top of her lungs for him to do it harder—which the woman obviously had to have overheard.
Figuring it couldn’t get any worse, she stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Fiona Hartigan.”
She shook Fiona’s hand with a firm but friendly grip. “Alexandra Thomas, housekeeper and goose ranger.”
“You’re much more than that!” Dixon said, wrapping the other woman up in a bear hug. “She’s also part fairy godmother.” He turned to Fiona. “When we were kids trying to get away with anything, Alexandra always seemed to pop up out of nowhere and keep us from doing dumb things.”
“Seems I still am.” Alexandra nodded toward the open door. “This old house can be really drafty.”
Fiona’s bullshit detector went into overdrive. “Must have been some draft,” she said. “That’s a solid oak door.”
“Your rooms are ready,” Alexandra said, ignoring the implied question. “You’re in the peacock room, Fiona. Why don’t I show you the way?”
“Don’t worry,” Dixon said, slipping Fiona’s hand into the crook of his arm. “I can get her there. It’s right on my way anyway, and I’m sure my cousins are up to something that will lead to trouble.”
The housekeeper chuckled. “Without a doubt.”
They were halfway up the wide, grand staircase when Fiona had to let the words bubbling up inside of her out. “That was a total setup.”
“Without a doubt,” he responded, echoing Alexandra’s words. “We’re gonna have to pay them back.”
“I’m definitely all in on that.” No one pranked a Hartigan and expected to get away scot-free—especially not when…
Her step faltered as her mind replayed what she’d said while stuck in the window. Give it to her harder? Get her off? Fiona’s cheeks blazed, and her heart sped up as embarrassment washed over her.
Oh. My. God.
She was going to have to see Nash and Griff and Alexandra again, and they’d all probably overheard what she’d said while they’d giggled on the other side of the closed door.
I don’t know. Maybe it was an accident and no one heard a thing.
Even if Old Naive Fiona was right, Dixon had heard it, and seen it, and felt it when she’d landed on him with all the grace of Maurice the goose on ice skates. Why did this sort of stuff always happen to her? She peeked at Dixon out of the corner of her eye and—of course—he caught her. Good Lord. She couldn’t even do that right. And she was wearing his sweater. His super-soft, very warm, totally-smelled-like-him sweater, and it was doing things to her stomach and making her heartbeat speed up.
She was a miserable failure at being a Fallon, because Old Fiona was totally in charge right now, and she kept tucking her hair behind her ear so she could take covert sniffs of Dixon’s sweater.
You cannot be trusted.
God, it was so true.
They got to the top of the stairs and took a right, walking down a long hall decorated with original paintings and sculptures that managed to straddle the line between serious and fantastical.
“When I was fifteen, I got a public boner while wearing joggers,” Dixon said.
Fiona jerked to a stop. Dixon looked at her like he’d just told her the sky was blue, the Ice Knights were the best hockey team, or that nothing felt better than towels right out of the dryer.
“Do you have any idea how impossible it is to hide that? Completely.” He kept her arm tucked into his but didn’t try to move them forward. “So there I am, sitting with a pillow on my lap while everyone in our Swiss ski lodge is just lounging around the fireplace, drinking their wine, and pretending they’re all just the best of friends instead of low-key frenemies who’re always trying to one-up the others when they saw one another. One of my mom’s friends was wearing this super-low-cut sweater and, well, I was fifteen and a light breeze would have set me off. The timing of all this couldn’t be worse because I’m stuck.”
Don’t do it, Fiona. Don’t start feeling sorry for him. Everyone has embarrassing things happen to them and—
Realization hit her right between the eyes. But how could he know that she was embarrassed? Really, she’d had to practically tell Cheating Chad the Assbag things six times in a row before he maybe got her feelings on something. She hadn’t said a word to Dixon. Not a single one.
Here you go, giving everyone pure motives again.There had to be a catch. There always was.
“There is no way for me to stand up without revealing everything, and my mom is in the middle of telling everyone how I just took first chair for violin. I know what’s going to happen. Dread has the back of my neck slick with sweat and I’m ready to puke, but I can’t get rid of this ridiculous hard-on. I’m thinking about algebra, imagining swimming in the half-frozen lake out back, and living the rest of my life as a hermit, but none of it is working. Then it happens. My mom picks up my violin and brings it over to me, insisting that I give an impromptu concert for everyone. When people ask about what superpower you want if you could have any, telepathy is always my choice because of that moment. Instead, I declined and declined again and told my mom no a third time, but she wasn’t having it.”
Fiona cringed. She didn’t mean to. It was automatic. Who wouldn’t get secondhand embarrassment listening to this story?
“By now, everyone was watching the two of us. I ended up sprinting from the room with the pillow still strategically placed in front of my junk but not fooling a single person. No one laughed out loud, and my mom apologized afterward, but I haven’t worn joggers since.”
Then, without saying anything else, he led her down the hall, not stopping or saying anything until they were in front of a huge white door. “Here you are. Grandma Betty’s Peacock room.”
Still vacillating between he’s awful and maybe he’s not so bad, Fiona said, “I don’t need you to try to make me feel better. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Whatever you say.” But the easy shrug of his shoulders and his soft smile said otherwise. “I know you’re not a fan of dogs, so I’m sorry about this.” He opened the white door. “Peacock was Grandma’s prized standard poodle.”
Fiona didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Walking through the door, she became surrounded by Peacock. There were huge oil paintings of the dog on three of the four walls, poodle-shaped pillows, photo frames decorated with paw prints that held pictures of Peacock and a woman who had to be Grandma Betty. To the left of the French doors was a life-size statue of a poodle done in bronze. The name on its bone-shaped name tag was Peacock.
Jaw slack, she turned to Dixon. “Please tell me that doesn’t come alive at night and need me to rub its tummy.”
He laughed. It was a warm sound that a woman could grow used to—another woman, but not her.
“I’m unable to confirm or deny,” Dixon said. “I haven’t slept in here before, but I’m right next door if it does. If you need me, just knock on this wall.”
He rapped his knuckles on the wall underneath the painting of Peacock snoozing in front of a roaring fireplace. A miserable-sounding whimper followed right after. Fiona jumped, her hand pressed to her chest over her heart. A low yowl came from the other side of the closed French doors.
Ready to defend herself from ghost dogs, Fiona hustled over to the doors and swept aside the curtain to reveal a white poodle sitting on the stone patio outside her room.
“Is that Peacock?” And why did her voice shake like that? It wasn’t really a ghost dog.
“Peacock One has been gone for years,” Dixon said, stepping close to stand practically shoulder to shoulder as they stood looking out into the night. “That’s Peacock Four. I’m sure if you just leave the curtain closed, he’ll go back to the kennel.”
“Isn’t it lonely out there for a dog?” she asked, barely able to stop herself from throwing open the door and bringing the poor pooch inside.
“The kennel is more a smaller version of this house, complete with heat, air-conditioning, and running water. He’ll be—” Dixon stopped abruptly and gave her a smug smile. “Wait, you weren’t worried about a dog, were you? A confirmed dog hater like you?”
That stupid Bramble bio. Past Her really sucked for deciding to play along with it. Well, it was too late to back out now. “Just because I don’t like them doesn’t mean I want one to be miserable right outside my door.”
“Whatever you say.” Dixon tipped an imaginary hat at her and left.
Fiona grumbled about know-it-all, rich jerks all the way through getting ready for bed. She got as far as turning out the lights before the little doggie whimpers started again. Heart aching, she turned toward the French doors. Peacock had fur. There was a kennel nearby. He—
Another sad whine followed by the unmistakable sound of a dog scratching at the door.
She didn’t make it another moment longer and flung open the door.
“You tell no one,” she said to Peacock after he pranced inside as if he’d known the whole time she’d let him in. “And you’re out of here at dawn.”
The last thing she needed was for Dixon to find out that she didn’t hate dogs at all.
