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Suspicion clouded the older woman’s eyes. “Right.” Gail opened the door wider and motioned for them to enter. “Okay, I want to hear this story. Come on in, you two lovebirds. And Emilie, stop calling me Miss Gail. Dean stopped a long time ago, but you make me feel like an old lady.”
Emilie giggled as Gail led them through a home bursting with plants, candles, and fake flowers. The enticing, craft-store smell reminded Dean of paper, perfume, and his mother’s cinnamon potpourri. Gail gestured to the bar stools and poured lemonade into two glasses. “Okay. Spill. Dean said nothing about this yesterday.”
Emilie turned in his direction, and Dean shrugged. “It didn’t come up. I was unpacking your car yesterday, and Gail brought over the cinnamon bread. I told you about it last night.”
“Oh, right.” She was not a good liar. “He wouldn’t unpack my car unless we were involved. Thank you for the bread, by the way.”
“Yes, he would.” Gail’s voice was matter-of-fact. Fat chance they could get something past her. “Dean’s just that way. That boy would fly over the moon for you. And you’re welcome.”
Heat rushed into Dean’s cheeks. The older she grew, the more dangerous her mouth got. They should leave before this got sticky. Before they could sit down, Dean reached for Emilie’s arm. Gail intercepted him and led them both to their usual bar stools.
“Sit down, please. You just got here.” She laughed again, making his nerves jangle. He hated lying, especially when the person knew the truth. “I’m having fun. Tell me, when did you get engaged?”
While they sat, he tried to catch Emilie’s eyes, but she avoided his gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Three weeks ago.”
Gail’s eagle eyes scanned her left hand. “Where’s your ring?”
“Getting resized.”
Gail grunted. No holes for her to poke through yet. “How did he propose?”
“On one knee.” Two points for Emilie.
“Where?”
They hadn’t discussed an answer for this question. Dean glanced at both women. Emilie opened her mouth, but no words came out. Why couldn’t she think of things on the fly? Finally, he couldn’t stand the silence.
“In the park,” Dean said at the exact moment Emilie said, “In the kitchen.”
Why did he have to open his mouth, and why couldn't she think of a more romantic place?
Gail fist-punched the air and squealed. “Gotcha!”
Without thinking, Dean turned to Emilie. “The kitchen? How romantic does that sound? Here, hold the eggbeater while I pull out this ring.”
“I called it,” Gail cheered. “You two are not engaged.”
Emilie let go of Dean’s hand and spoke without batting an eye. “We’re fake engaged.”
Gail studied her face. “Fake engaged? Is that what kids are calling it these days? I told your mom I would always care for you, but what should I do about this?”
Dean turned to Emilie whose smile wavered. “We saw Finn at Busy Bees the other day.”
“That ruffian. I never did like him.”
She was in good company. Dean felt the same, and Gail had every right not to like him. “Anyway, he had the gall to invite Emilie to his wedding.”
Gail took a sip of her lemonade and her face puckered. “I heard he was engaged. He’s always had a knack for bad timing.”
He needed to wrap up the conversation without upsetting Emilie. “He asked if she’d be having a plus one, and I couldn’t take it. I lied and said we were engaged.”
Gail raised an eyebrow and pushed the drinks toward them. Dean picked his up and drank half the glass, but Emilie left hers on the table. She had to be struggling with how to tell Gail about Ava.
Dean looked over in time to see Emilie stab her fingernails into one leg. He wanted to stop her, but held back.
Emilie cleared her throat. “Turns out, he’s engaged to—”
“Ava.” Gail finished her sentence without a flinch.
