Page 50 of Movers and Fakers

Her tone has been a little off since we got here. She’s still herself, but I can tell she’s nervous. I tried to carry the conversation during dinner, but I’m not sure if I helped or made it worse. I wish I could know what’s going on inside her head.

“I don’t know how you have time with school and ballet and work, though. Did you drop one of your tutoring clients? I know you wouldn’t give up teaching ballet.”

She’s taking and teaching ballet? I don’t know near enough about the woman I’m dating—fake dating, that is.

“I was able to drop a few clients, yeah,” Aurora says, and I look down at my lap.

When we started this whole charade, I didn’t think of how weird it would be to be paying her a hundred thousand dollars to tutor me. While it doesn’t matter to me at all, it would be difficult to explain to her parents. She must not have told them.

“Do you need any money?” Andrea’s voice lowers some but is still audible. “I got a bonus at work—”

Now I really wish I couldn’t hear them. This feels like a conversation I shouldn’t be a part of.

“No,” Aurora says emphatically. “I don’t need anything. I-I got a raise. One of the students I’m tutoring needs extra help, so they’re paying me more.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m positive.” Aurora sighs. “The ice cream is melting. We should hurry.”

Andrea murmurs her agreement, and a few seconds later a bowl appears in front of my face. Aurora drops down on the cushion beside me with a bowl of her own. Her leg presses against mine, and the easy familiarity of it warms my chest.

“How much of that did you hear?” she mutters as she breaks up the cobbler with her spoon.

“However much you wanted me to,” I reply.

Her gaze cuts to the side, then back down to her dessert.

“Rule number two.”

No lying.

I let out a sigh. “All of it, but it’s not a big deal.”

“How is it?” Andrea asks as she perches on the arm of the recliner her husband, Rob, is lounging in.

“Amazing. Thank you for this and for dinner. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in…” I trail off. Does food count as home-cooked if a chef makes it in your house? “A long time.”

“Well, you’re always welcome here. And I’ll send you home with some food, too.”

Andrea smiles and I return the expression.

“Thank you.”

“Of course! Oh, are you coming next weekend? I’m making homemade pizza,” Andrea says.

Aurora’s head snaps toward her mom. Her eyes are wide. I’m about to kindly turn her down when Andrea continues.

“It’s Aurora’s favorite, and we’re celebrating her, so it’s only right.”

My brow furrows. I glance down at Aurora, who just shakes her head.

“Is it your birthday or something?” I whisper.

“No, it’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” she mutters. Then, to her mom she says, “He can’t make it next weekend.”

Andrea’s expression falls. “I would have loved to sit with you at the recital.”

“Recital?” The word comes out of my mouth without thinking. Aurora jams her elbow into my side, almost making me drop my bowl.