Page 36 of Fall For Me
“Okay,” I say, strangled, cutting my thoughts off before they spiral further into inappropriate territory. I need to get a grip. To focus. To stop imagining my fake husband naked.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles, feather-light, and then he releases me and rings the doorbell.
14
PEYTON
The door swings open, and golden light spills across the threshold.
A woman stands framed in the glow. She must be Liam’s mother despite no familial resemblance. In her late fifties, with highlighted blonde hair swept into an elegant twist, she looks nothing like her son—except for the full lips, though I can’t tell if she’s had help with fillers.
Her eyes are a regular blue, not the stormy gray of Liam’s, but they share the same analytical intensity as they sweep over my unruly hair, my borrowed clothes, and the antique ring on my finger.
“You must be Peyton.” Her face breaks into a radiant smile—polished, polite, but not exactly warm. “How wonderful to meet the woman who captured my son’s heart. I’m Margaret.”
Before I can offer a handshake or a curtsy or flee into the bushes, she pulls me into a hug that envelops me in a cloud of expensive perfume.
As Margaret Rockwood releases me, Liam’s hand finds the small of my back. The pressure of his palm steadies my pulse.
“Hey, Mom.” He leans in to kiss her cheek. “How was the flight?”
She cups his face with both hands, studying him with maternal affection that seems genuine. “Look at you.” Her voice softens. “Marriage suits you, darling. You look happy.” She lets him go.
Liam turns toward me and smiles. And if I didn’t know better, if I hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours bickering with him, I’d believe he was gone for me. He pulls me tighter against his side, his fingers splaying over my hip.
“I am happy,” he lies as effortlessly as breathing.
A deeper voice calls from within the house. “Are you going to stand in the doorway all night, or come inside?”
Liam’s father appears behind his wife, tall and broad-shouldered. And it’s like looking into a mirror that shows the future. He has the same gray eyes as Liam. The same aristocratic cheekbones. The same commanding presence that fills a space before he even speaks. His salt-and-pepper hair is still thick, swept back from a face that’s handsome in a severe, unforgiving way. So this is where Liam gets his intensity.
The older man eyes me with open curiosity, making no attempt to hide his appraisal. I feel like I’m a horse at auction, and he’s checking my teeth.
Apparently, I pass the audit.
“Well,” he rumbles. “Welcome to the family, Peyton. I’m Charles Rockwood.”
He shakes my hand and claps Liam on the shoulder with enough enthusiasm that his son’s bad leg buckles slightly before Liam shifts his weight to compensate. Only the tightening of his fingers on my hip betrays the jolt of pain.
“Damn time, son.” A grin splits Charles’s stern face. “I was worried you’d stay a bachelor forever.”
“Just waiting for the right one, Dad,” Liam says through a grit-toothed smile.
With the formalities over, we’re ushered inside.
The house is what I expected: tasteful, expensive, filled with antiques and family photos in silver frames. Everything is arranged to perfection. Not a pillow out of place, not a magazine askew on the coffee table.
Margaret links her arm through mine as we walk toward the dining room, separating me from Liam. I glance back at him, my safety blanket yanked away. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod.You’ve got this.
I so don’t.
Margaret’s questions come in rapid succession. Where am I from? What do I do for work? How did we meet? I stumble through the rehearsed answers, trying to sound natural while reciting the lies we crafted. The story sounds absurd coming out of my mouth, but she nods along. I need to relax. They have no reason to suspect that none of this is real. She’s not an interrogator out to catch me in a lie. I still keep my replies vague about my life before and don’t mention Matt. And when she asks me the inevitable, why we got married so suddenly, I give her the line we practiced: “When you know, you know. We didn’t want to wait anymore.”
The dining room is formal and intimidating. A table that could seat twelve dominates the space, but only four place settings are arranged in the center, facing each other. Fine china, multiple forks, crystal glasses.
A woman in a simple black dress appears at my elbow. Staff, I realize with a jolt.
“Good evening,” she says quietly. “May I take your drink orders?”
