Page 75 of The Plus One Pact

Who isn't?

I know how to massage the truth to my advantage when I know what someone wants to hear. But I'm lost here.

This doesn't fit the vision I have of my mother. The romantic who believes love conquers all.

Surely, all includes something as minor as paperwork.

I need to get a pulse on her. See where she is. Ivy might be right. She might be wrong.

Sure, I'm full of shit, but it's only fair. How can she tie my inheritance to marriage? A wedding present, really? That's even more full of shit.

Mom will put the money in a trust early if she really is retiring to the Amalfi coast, the way she always dreamed. After all, why do the paperwork twice?

But if she doesn’t, can I convince Ivy, or some other sucker, to marry me? It’d be the only way to get the funds right away.

With that cash, I don’t need Daniel as a co-investor. But I want to do this with him anyway. It’s our dream. Our project. The way to honor our family.

How am I supposed to build a coffee shop of brotherly love by myself?

Besides, I can’t marry some other poor woman. The image of a wedding to a stranger feels like a betrayal. Which is strange. Ivy is my fake girlfriend. We've agreed to a week. We've had sex twice. And only one of those times was real—

Was it real?

What the hell is real, anyway?

No, I can ask existential questions later. Right now, it's time to fix breakfast.

I move into the kitchen, where Daniel is already hard at work, slicing peppers into tiny cubes.

We’re competing to see who can make the breakfast closest to our lover’s ideal. Though I’m not sure if that’s a breakfast closest to our lover’s favorite or the best tasting breakfast (for two, of course). Mama isn’t exactly a whiz with rules.

Either way, Daniel has a leg up. He lives with Cynthia.

He looks both ridiculous and perfectly in place in his matching oversized linen suit. That explains Cynthia's outfit. He loves that sort of cheesy shit.

I always thought she saw it as ridiculous, the way I did.

But sitting out there with Ivy and Mom, she looks—

Well, she and Ivy both look like people trapped in a conversation with a poet before they've had their morning cuppa. At least, I can help Ivy with that.

First, my brother in the kitchen.

Daniel, in the linen, the master of the brunch. Pan preheating on the stove. Oil, eggs, goat cheese, sundried tomatoes, pour over.

An omelet with intense flavors. His favorite.

Cynthia wouldn't object—she's never been all that picky—but she doesn't love it either. She was always more into the stuff dad likes. Homemade barbacoa with Trader Joe's salsa.

Daniel is more into his expensive tastes.

Ivy is a good match for him that way, I guess. She sips gin and tonics. She drinks tea. Her fridge was filled with fresh fruits and vegetables.

What does that tell me?

She told Mom she's not particular. So, she's not a foodie, either. She keeps it simple. Classic. But subtle, the way tea and gin are.

What else do they have in common?