Mama’s Boy by Avery Flynn
Chapter Twenty-One
Fiona
The next morning, Fiona woke up with a pinch in her neck from sleeping curled up in one corner while Peacock stretched out in glorious repose on the rest of the queen bed. The dog had to have grown six sizes while he slept and then shrunk back to normal as soon as Fiona woke up from a restless night of made-for-porn dreams.
The bright sun bouncing off the grounds outside and beaming into her windows should have scattered those dreams completely, but they lingered, making her skin sensitive as she showered and got ready for the day.
They stuck with her as she opened the French doors and peeked out to make sure no one would see her sleepover guest scampering out of her room. The words Dixon had whispered in her sleep as he lathered soap down her back in a shower that never seemed to run out of hot water hovered around her, refusing to be forgotten as she made her way downstairs to the dining room.
Dixon sat alone at a large circular table that could probably seat the entire Hartigan family and a few extras. His plate was covered in the most delicious-smelling food—homemade croissants so buttery, the light-brown crust practically glistened; fluffy, pale-yellow scrambled eggs; three slices of crisp, aromatic bacon; and more. Fiona’s mouth was watering enough that she was afraid to say hello as she walked into the room.
“Good morning,” he said, picking up a piece of bacon and snapping it in half. “How did you sleep?”
She started to reach up to massage the crick in her neck but managed to stop herself just in time. “Like a babe.”
“I imagine you’re hungry.” Dixon nodded toward the seat across from him, where there was a covered dish. “Don’t worry, I told Alexandra all about your eating preferences.”
Mouth still watering from seeing his breakfast, her stomach dropped and deflated like a ruined soufflé. “You did?”
“What kind of totally fake-in-love boyfriend would I be if I didn’t make sure you were taken care of just the way you liked?” He winked at her and slathered red jam—strawberry? raspberry?—on a triangle of golden-brown toast. “Gotta keep up appearances, you know.”
Fiona was too hungry to be snarky about that. “Thank you.”
She sat down and lifted the silver dome off the plate and clamped her jaw together so she wouldn’t cry. A single small bowl of plain oatmeal and a glass of water. Two slices of pale cantaloupe sat on a plate next to them.
He scooped a spoonful of mixed blackberries and strawberries into a bowl and then covered it with a huge dollop of whipped cream. “I hope the addition of the fruit isn’t too much.”
“No,” she said, glancing down at her eating-is-for-nutrition-and-not-pleasure breakfast. “It’s perfect.”
Fiona took a bite of bland oatmeal, spooning in another and another as she watched Dixon eat. Instead of a sweater, he had on a gray Henley, the material highlighting his muscular arms as he lifted the croissant and took a big bite. If she’d done that, she’d have flakes all down her shirt. Not Dixon. It was like the rules of pastry eating didn’t apply to him. He took another bite, his eyes closing in appreciation, and then set it down on his plate. She held her breath, eating breakfast vicariously with him as she chewed the tamest of all breakfast fruits. When he swiped his thumb across the open slit of the croissant and then sucked the filling off, she let out a soft groan.
“Is that a chocolate croissant?” she asked, more than ready to give up the fight and beg for a bite.
“Nutella.”
The way he said the word made it sound like the best kind of sex dirty talk. God. How in the world was she supposed to survive on oatmeal alone?
“I do not understand how you can pass this up,” he said as he finished off the croissant. “They are so damn good.”
Fiona finished the rest of her breakfast, keeping her attention focused only on the bowl of gruel in front of her and not on the man at the other end of the table who was letting out little groans of pleasure as he described the deliciousness of his food.
“So I know you aren’t into eating for pleasure, but the next part of the date involves a lunch picnic out on the island.”
“Are your cousins coming?”
“No, they’re going to be warm in front of the fire in the pool room.”
“So why are we going out into the elements?”
“Because the more I play along, the more convinced they’ll be that I’m either telling the truth and have already fallen for you or that I’m going to soon. I’m sure they’ve already heard about what happened in the reading room yesterday—we can definitely use that to strengthen our position.”
The reminder of the reading room mixed with his choice of the word “position” had her brain going straight back to the dreams she’d had last night. They’d tried a lot of different positions—some there was no way she was flexible enough for in real life. Dream Fiona was a gymnast, pole-dancing dynamo. Real-life Fiona was a third-grade teacher who was only willing to run if there were zombies chasing her. Men didn’t pursue her; maybe that’s what made her such easy pickings for Cheating Chad the Assbag and why she couldn’t seem to keep her head straight when it came to her deal with Dixon. Time to Inner Fallon it up.
“What is this experiment of yours all about?” she asked, leaning into the bluntness of the question, gathering it to her like a shield.
“Does it matter?” Dixon shrugged his broad shoulders, then grimaced as if having second thoughts about his answers and said, “It’s just a bet.”
Something about how he said it reminded her of all the times Chad told her she was being paranoid about him never wanting to go to his place or only ever meeting at odd hours in out-of-the-way places. Was she just letting herself get fucked over again when she thought she was playing it smart this time? Was she being a total and complete fool?
Suddenly, she was glad she didn’t have a stomach full of food because she would have thrown it all up there and then. “A bet?” She shoved back her chair and got up. “To what, fool the clueless woman? To humiliate her by making her fall for you? Is that how you shitty rich guys get your kicks?”
“No,” he said with a firmness that had her plopping back down in her chair. “That’s not it at all.”
“Isn’t that exactly what an asshole would say.” She grabbed her phone from where she’d laid it on the table and made it as far as opening up the sibling group chat before she stopped dead in her tracks, her thumbs hovering over the keys.
What was she going to say? Hey, guys, your gullible sister fell for it again. Can someone come pick me up? Beware the attack geese. Yeah, so much for burying Old Fiona in a ditch.
“I understand why you’d say that—and you’re right—but this isn’t about hurting you or anyone else,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “Really. I promise. You can trust me.”
She didn’t want to. She shouldn’t. But part of her did, damn it. She was fucking hopeless. “So what is it, then?”
“Like I said at the museum, to be the last man standing. The one who isn’t in love,” he said. “That’s why one of my conditions had to be no relationships. Six dates and done. I didn’t want you to think this could ever be more.”
Just when she thought he couldn’t be any weirder. “The goal is to be alone? That’s your bet?”
He nodded. “One I have to win.”
For a full-on minute, she sat there staring at him as if she could pick out the one thing that would tell her he was lying. On TV, it was always a look to the left or a subtle eye twitch or the way the person fidgeted with their sleeve. In real life, it wasn’t that easy. The real liars knew how to cover their sins—until all those layers collapsed under their own weight or their girlfriend showed up at your coffee shop to confront you, whichever came first.
The thing was, if she was going to become New Fiona—really become her—then she needed to be able to practice not falling for someone or their stories. This could work. She would make it work and guarantee Operation Nana was a success.
“Fine. I’ll stick with the agreement.” She gave him her best Fallon don’t-make-me-end-you look. “No date number seven and you will still owe me a huge favor—huge—at the end of this.”
“Agreed.” He let out a breath that sent the hair hanging over his forehead flying.
“What is it for?” It made absolutely no sense. No one won just because winning was the thing to do. They wanted to win because they wanted the thing at the end more than anyone else. So what would someone like the rich born with a silver spoon one percenter want? “Is it for control of the company? The deed to this house? A private island somewhere?”
“None of the above,” he said, grinning at her as if he was having fun, not just trying to drive her to drink before noon.
That answer stunk to high heaven. Obviously she just hadn’t thought big enough. “But you’re not telling what it is actually for?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
She couldn’t wrap her head around it. Every one of the Hartigans was competitive, but this was just beyond the normal. “Do you want to win just to win or because you really want whatever the prize for winning this bet is?”
“Both.”
“You ever think your priorities might be out of whack?” Like really, really, really out of whack.
He lifted an eyebrow and laid his arms on the table. “This is coming from the woman who is pretending to be someone she isn’t?”
“What makes you say that?” she asked, her voice all breathy.
She wasn’t enthralled into a Marilyn Monroe impression by the way his forearms looked with the sleeves of his Henley pulled up. She wasn’t. She was just— Oh God, she couldn’t breathe for a second. This was getting ridiculous. Then it got worse. Dixon stood up and walked over to her side of the table, each step deliberate and powerful, his intent gaze never leaving hers. She couldn’t look away. Her stomach was about to take flight from all the butterflies suddenly inside it. Her heart hammered in her chest. And when he stopped behind her, his hands going to the top of her chair? Passing out was totally a possibility. Forget being Fallon. She was all Fiona again.
Dixon leaned down so his face was next to hers, his lips so close to her ears that she could feel an electric spark.
“I see you even when you think I don’t, Fiona Hartigan,” he said, his voice low. “And I don’t know why you’re hiding, but you shouldn’t—at least not from me.”
He saw her.
Not one of the Hartigan triplets.
Not one of the seven Hartigan kids.
Not just another anonymous woman in a city of millions.
He.
Saw.
Her.
The air whooshed out of her lungs. Her heart stopped. She couldn’t move. It was like the entire planet had jolted to a halt. There was just Dixon and her, and if she turned her head even just a little, tilted her chin even just a bit, they’d be kissing. Would that really be the worst thing?
“Your picnic basket’s packed,” Alexandra said, her loud, cheerful voice breaking the moment as she bustled in, a wicker basket on her arm. “I included some of your grandmother’s secret-recipe hot toddies. It’s rather nippy out there today. You sure you want to go all the way out to the island for a picnic?”
Suddenly, sitting outside in the fall chill seemed like the perfect way to spend an afternoon. If her fingers went numb, she wouldn’t be tempted to reach out and touch him.
Right?
“I think it’ll be just what we need.” Okay, just what she desperately needed.
Alexandra made a tsk-tsk sound but didn’t offer any more reasons why they should stay in the nice warmth of the house.
Dixon pulled her chair back so she could get up. “The island awaits.”
