Faking It with my Billionaire Grump

1. Tilly

1

Tilly

I yank my suitcase onto the bed and heave a sigh. Gazing around my new living arrangement—my parents’ converted barn—my shoulders slump, and I drop myself right next to the suitcase, trying to ignore the protests of the old mattress.

The décor in this bedroom looks like it’s right out of another century, with swirly wallpaper, a dresser that I swear was handed down from Jane Austen, and, hanging on the walls, ancient pictures surrounded by dull wooden frames.

Dad converted the barn when Grandma May got sick. She passed a few years back, and since then, it’s been left as it was. There’s also that soft whiff of old people. Because they totally have a smell, right?

This is not exactly a lifestyle choice. I mean, who actually wants to move back home at the age of thirty?

Okay. Well, not move back, exactly. More like running away.

My boss thinks I’m taking a two-month sabbatical, but everyone at the office knows the real reason I left the city. He’s five foot nine with blond hair. But I don’t want to think about him. I need to figure out what I’m going to do next. My living situation is more fluid than the Hudson River, which would be more fluid if it wasn’t filled with so much junk.

Funnily enough, it was only two days ago that I was standing and looking out over the Hudson, contemplating what to do. Apart from throwing myself in, that is. But I eventually made my decision, and now I’m back in Baskington, the tiny town where I grew up, trying to find freedom.

I look around and shake my head.

“Some freedom.”

Most kids can’t wait to move out of their parents’ homes. I was one of them. Yet, here I am, a woman on the cusp of her thirtieth birthday, right back where I started.

My dad’s worried, my mom’s thrilled to have me home, and my friend, Mel, who never left this tiny town, thinks I’m nuts. Her advice, when I called her with my dilemma, was for me to stay in the city. She thinks coming back here is regression, and to be honest, I tend to agree with her. But what choice did I have?

Note to self: don’t give up your apartment and move in with someone who is going to end up being a complete control freak.

“Hello,” Mom’s light and excited voice travels up the open-plan wooden stairs.

“I’m up here,” I say, pushing myself off the bed.

When I get to the ornate railing that Dad carved himself—the only thing stopping me from toppling down into the living area below—I lean on it and gaze down at my smiling mother.

“I made lunch,” she declares.

“Be right there,” I say, trying to figure out how much I really want to tell them.

My mom is a pretty woman who doesn’t look her age at all. Maybe it’s all the country air. Dad always said I inherited my looks from her, and we’ve often been mistaken for sisters. We have matching thick chestnut hair, though mine’s far longer, and deep brown eyes. She also blessed me with high cheekbones and a beautiful smile.

Shame I didn’t inherit her ability to choose a good man.

My common sense and intellect, I inherited from Dad. Not that my mom isn’t clever, but Dad and I often lost her in conversations on so many subjects when I was growing up. I suppose you might call her a little ditzy. Loveable, but ditzy.

When I get to the kitchen, Dad’s sitting in his usual scruffy chair in the corner of the dining room. I swear that chair is older than me, but the man will never part with it. Over the years, my parents have saved and updated each part of their house; they don’t believe in credit, but still, that darn chair remains.

When he sees me, he puts his paper down and comes over to me, his arms wide. I hug him back, even though he hugged me for like ten minutes when I first got here. He wraps his strong arms around me, and I feel the muscles move in his back. Running his own carpentry business keeps him fit and strong. Mom always brags that she got the tall, dark, handsome one, and she’s not wrong.

“You okay?” he asks, his brow furrowed, his intelligent eyes searching my face.

“I’m fine, Dad. Really.”

“Of course, she’s fine,” Mom pipes up from the kitchen.

She’s grabbing a bowl and plates and trying to lift a jug of water, but she doesn’t have enough hands.

“I’ll get it,” I offer.

When we finally settle around the dining table, just like the good old days, as Mom calls them, she picks up her role of motherhood as though I’ve never left. Taking the plates, she puts out salad, meat, and bread, then hands me the plate.

“Thanks.”

“You need to eat,” she says, her brow creasing. “You must have lost ten pounds since I saw you last.”

“I took up yoga,” I lie.

Dad gives me a look like he doesn’t believe a word of it, and Mom carries on plating food and telling me that I’ll waste away if I lose any more weight.

Actually, I’ve always wanted to take up yoga. I just never found the time. The truth is, I’ve been pretty stressed over the last couple of months, and Mom’s right; the pounds have fallen off. Not quite ten, but a few. It’s just more noticeable because of my already slender figure.

“It’s so good to have you home,” Mom continues. “We hardly get to see you now that you live so far away.”

“She comes to see us every three months, Bella,” Dad pipes up in my defense.

“Still,” Mom continues, “a day here or there isn’t quite the same.”

Dad pulls a comical face and rolls his eyes, and I have to cough to stop myself from laughing.

“So,” he says, digging a fork into his salami. “How long are you here for?”

“Gerry!” Mom gasps. “She’s only just arrived, and you already want to know when she’s leaving?”

Dad shakes his head patiently. “No, dear.” I can hear him trying to keep the sarcasm from his tone, which makes me want to laugh again. “I’m simply trying to gauge the situation. Tilly knows she can stay for as long as she likes.”

“Our daughter is not a situation to be gauged,” Mom huffs.

“Guys. It’s fine,” I say, jumping in before there’s a nuclear explosion over the salad. “The answer is, I don’t really know. I made a bit of a rash decision, and now, I’m in limbo.”

Mom gives me a sympathetic glance. “What happened, darlin’? We thought you were happy with Bryan.”

“I thought I was, too,” I sigh. “The thing is, we’ve grown apart. We want different things, and it’s just not working out.”

I refrain from telling Dad the whole truth and nothing but the truth for fear he’ll grab his ax and make his way to the city to give Bryan a new hair parting.

“But you were together for three years,” Mom says, as though that makes some difference. “We thought we were going to hear wedding bells soon.”

“You thought,” Dad corrects her.

“Well, whatever,” Mom says. “Did you guys have a fight?”

“Mom, we’ve had lots of fights.”

Dad peers at me from across the table.

“Nothing physical,” I say quickly. “But you know something is wrong when you’re fighting more than you’re laughing.”

Which is exactly how things have been for the last nine months or more. Neither of us are happy. We haven’t been for a long time. It’s just that Bryan doesn’t want to admit that.

That’s because he’s a control freak and doesn’t want to let you go.

Yes, I’m well aware.

“Your father and I fight all the time.”

“You do it because you’re bored and need to entertain yourselves,” I quip. “It’s not the same.”

Mom grins and looks at Dad, who half smiles and shrugs in agreement.

“Can’t you guys talk about it and maybe patch things up?” Mom continues.

“Bella,” Dad says. “Why don’t we cut Tilly some slack? She’s only been home for an hour.”

Mom smiles sheepishly at me. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry, darlin’. It’s just—”

“It’s fine, Mom. I know you only want the best for me.”

But while Mom and I wash the dishes after lunch, she still doesn’t quit, and in the end, I can’t take any more of her defending Bryan. Well, not really defending him, but pushing me back to a place I never want to return.

It’s not her fault. I mean, I haven’t really told her or Dad the whole truth. Maybe it’s because I’m stubborn. Besides, I don’t want them to worry. Neither of them ever wanted me to move to the city. Both of them were born here in Baskington, and when I spread my wings to go and see the big wide world, they were scared to death.

I’ve got to go back sometime, and I don’t want them worrying any more than they need to.

That being said, Mom is driving me nuts right now. I need to get out of this house. I need a breath of fresh air.

“Can I borrow the truck?” I say, looking over at Dad.

He doesn’t answer and instead digs in his pocket, then throws me the keys.

“Thanks.”

“Where are you going?” Mom blurts.

“You know she’s nearly thirty, right, Bella?” Dad says, lifting his eyebrows at her.

“I know that, but she’s only just gotten here, and…”

While Mom continues, I head toward the door. “See you later,” I call out, and without waiting for a reply, I hurry out to the yard.

When I reach the truck, I climb inside. Holding onto the steering wheel, I take some long breaths. Maybe I made the wrong choice coming back here. I love Mom to death, but at this rate, I’m going to strangle her.

“Tilly.”

I grit my teeth when I hear her voice, and glancing over, I see her running to the truck.

“Are you going to the store?” she asks.

I nod, trying to contain my frustration. “Sure. What do you need?”

She hands me a piece of paper. “I was going to go later, but if you can pick this stuff up, it’ll save me the trip.”

“Okay,” I say, taking her list.

Maybe I owe her that. I mean, she is going to fuss over me for the length of time I’m going to be here.

“Thanks, darlin’.” She turns to head back to the house when she stops and looks over her shoulder. “Jake Coulter’s still single.”

I start the engine, slam my foot on the gas, and peel out of the driveway.

Really, Mom?

By the time I pull into the parking lot of the town store, I’m still fuming. Jake Coulter? Did she really go there? After years of being away from home, after coming back because my life is a mess, she thinks mentioning my high school sweetheart is somehow going to make me feel better?

Holy cow!

“Well, as I live and breathe,” Mrs. Windrow says from behind the counter when I walk into the store. “Tilly Collins.”

“Hi, Mrs. Windrow.”

I don’t stop to chat. She’ll interrogate me enough later when I get to the register with my groceries. Instead, I push my cart around the corner. I’m so busy avoiding the old woman that I don’t look where I’m going, and a second later, I crash into another cart.

“Oh, I’m so—”

I halt and just stare ahead of me. It’s like my mother manifested him out of thin air, for there before me stands Jake Coulter.