Festive Faking (Rust Canyon #1)

2. Mac

Chapter 2

Mac

“This is why I didn’t want to fly commercial,” I grumbled.

“Do you hear yourself right now?” Aspen scoffed from the seat beside me. “‘This is why I didn’t want to fly commercial,’” she repeated my words in a mocking tone. “Check your privilege for a minute. You’re seated in first class—”

“You’re welcome, by the way.” I upgraded our seats the minute she sent over the flight details, but I never received a thank you.

Her blue eyes narrowed. “But you’re complaining that the food and beverage service was disrupted by turbulence. You’re not going to die in the next two hours if you don’t eat. I promise.”

My stomach rumbled over the hum of the jet engines, and I shot her a pointed look. “I might.”

“You’re gonna need to tone this down before we land because there’s no way anyone is gonna believe I brought home some entitled pretty boy who’s never gotten his hands dirty a day in his life.”

A smirk tugged at my lips. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Pretty annoying,” she shot back like we were slinging insults back and forth on a school playground.

Aspen Sullivan was feisty; I had to hand her that. It was far too much fun riling her up.

Though I’d never admit it to her face, she was a gifted architect. Whoever hired her after graduation would be lucky to have her. Her designs were next-level.

And don’t get me started on how beautiful she was. Strawberry-blonde hair hung in loose, natural waves around her heart-shaped face, which didn’t have a stitch of makeup on it more often than not. Those freckles dusted across her porcelain skin mesmerized me. I might tease her about them, but I’d never seen someone embrace their natural beauty the way Aspen did. For some reason, it drew me to her.

Not that it mattered much since she decided she hated me on the spot two years ago, when we started our master’s program. She took one look at me—at my last name—and wrote me off as just another rich kid born into wealth.

Yes, I could agree that having money made certain things easier, but she didn’t understand that it also came with conditions. Most days, I felt shackled by my family name and wanted nothing more than to have been born into an average, working-class American family.

“Here, you big baby.” Aspen tossed a granola bar in my direction, and I caught it out of mid-air.

“Come to Papa.” I tore through the wrapper, devouring the chewy snack in only two bites.

“Good Lord, slow down and enjoy it.” The woman by my side made no effort to conceal her disgust.

Licking my sticky fingers, I smacked my lips to annoy her. “Why don’t we go over your immediate family again, so I don’t look like some schmuck who got pulled into this last minute?”

That was me. I was the schmuck.

A week later, I was still wrapping my mind around what had possessed me to offer to be her fake boyfriend for Christmas. Claiming temporary insanity seemed like the only explanation. That, or her sad blue puppy-dog eyes when she realized her ex-boyfriend—and, apparently, the several who came before—was gay, and she had to explain to her family why she was coming home alone.

I still couldn’t understand how some heterosexual man hadn’t snapped her up ages ago. Guys usually fought for the attention of girls like her—smart, pretty, with a flash of fire.

Aspen’s head dropped back against the seat’s padded headrest as she let out a sigh. “Not really instilling a ton of confidence in your ability to pull this off, Mac.”

“That’s why I want to go over it again.”

“Fine.” She breathed in deeply through her nose. “My dad is Jett. He’s a cowboy through and through. Used to be a bronc rider in the rodeo circuit before I was born. Now, he’s a stock contractor. Basically, that means we breed and raise the bucking horses used in competition on our land.”

I noted the important details aloud. “Jett, cowboy, horses.”

A laugh fell from Aspen’s lips. “He’s gonna eat you alive the minute he sees the way you’re dressed.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” My voice rose in pitch.

Peeking down, I surveyed my outfit: charcoal slacks, white button-down rolled at the sleeves with the collar unbuttoned, and brown loafers. I thought I looked perfectly respectable for a meet-the-parents moment.

The girl to my left bit back a smile. “Oh, nothing.” She circled a hand in front of me. “Just screams ‘city boy,’ is all.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She gave up the fight, gracing me with a full flash of her pearly whites. “It is to Jett Sullivan.”

“Noted. Who’s next?”

“My mom is Daisy. She used to be a teacher at the school in Rust Canyon. Now, she’s the principal.”

Wait, did she say . . .

“ The school? As in, only one?”

“Yup. In a town of six hundred, there’s no need for more than one school. You’re with the same kids, in the same building, from kindergarten through graduation.”

I blew out a breath, reality sinking in at just how small her hometown was. There had been more than six hundred kids in attendance at my prep school.

“How does your mom feel about those of us from the city?”

“She’s a navy brat, grew up all over the place. One of the few transplants to Rust Canyon. Practically everyone else is born there, raised there, then dies there.”

“Sounds like a small world,” I mused.

“You have no idea,” Aspen breathed out, eyes sliding closed. “You don’t have to worry about Mama. She’s as sweet as they come.”

“And you said you have a brother?”

“Tripp. He’s two years younger than me. Helps run the ranch and does a lot of the traveling with the horses during rodeo season, carting them all over the state.” She paused before pinning me with her bright blue stare. “Meemaw’s the one you wanna watch out for.”

My brows rose. “Who’s Meemaw?”

“My grandma. Dad’s mom.”

I couldn’t help my arrogant snort. “Pretty sure I can handle a sweet old lady.”

A corner of Aspen’s lips twitched, and she patted my shoulder with a condescending, “Sure you can, buddy.”

Her dad might be a tough nut to crack, but I was confident I could win over the matriarch of the family with my signature charm. Women went nuts for it.

Yeah, all of them except Aspen.

Okay, maybe I’d do well to heed her warning if Aspen had inherited her spirit from her grandmother.

Either way, it was full steam ahead on what appeared to be an ultra-rustic country Christmas.

“Hey, where are you going?” I called out to Aspen’s back as she hustled through the terminal of Will Rogers Airport in Oklahoma City. “Sign said the rental car counter is that way.” I hitched a thumb over my shoulder to indicate a turn we’d passed.

She didn’t slow her strides but peeked over her shoulder at me. “Who told you to rent a car?”

I paused so suddenly that the person walking behind me rammed right into me, knocking me off balance.

“Hey! You can’t stop in the middle of the walkway!” That’s all I got as the woman hustled past me without a backward glance. No apology, not even an “excuse me.”

Aspen’s snickers reached my ears, and I shot her a death glare.

“Come on. Our ride’s waiting down at baggage claim.”

My chest rumbled in annoyance, but I hastened my steps to catch up with her.

“Didn’t you say it was a two-hour drive to your parents’ place? Who would want to drive four hours round-trip just to pick—”

Before I could finish that sentence, Aspen took off running, squealing, “Daddy!” as she flung herself into the arms of a man leaning against a support beam.

He wrapped her up in a bear hug, the two of them embracing long enough for me to reach where they stood.

Sharp, blue eyes landed on me as they broke apart, and he did a visual sweep from head to toe. “Headed to a funeral later, son?”

My gaze shifted to Aspen, who didn’t bother to conceal her giggles and a gloating look that said, I told you so.

Her father extended his hand. “Jett Sullivan.”

Meeting him halfway, I gave him a hearty handshake while scanning his appearance and what he deemed acceptable clothing.

Jett couldn’t have been much over fifty but had lines on his face suggesting he spent a fair amount of time outdoors, which made sense considering Aspen had explained he worked the land, along with his animals. A dusty, black cowboy hat rested atop his head, hiding whether he’d begun to go gray or not.

He seemed fit, trim for a middle-aged man—something you didn’t often see in the corporate world, where indulgence took precedence over exercise. He wore a flannel, partially hidden beneath a thick, wool-lined camel jacket and tucked into well-worn jeans. On his feet were scuffed-up cowboy boots.

“Mac Blaze,” I offered my name in greeting as our hands broke apart.

Jett’s dark eyebrows drew down. “Thought it was Mike?” He peeked at his daughter, who looked like a deer caught in headlights, but must not have noticed because he shrugged. “Guess I must’ve heard it wrong. My mistake. So, Mack like the truck?”

I shook my head. “Actually, it’s short for Macallan, like the scotch.”

“Huh. You know, I’ve heard of that. Not that I’ve ever tried it. Our bar doesn’t carry anything that high-end.”

Mental note: Make sure to have a bottle sent out before Christmas.

Slapping his thigh, Jett declared, “Well, we better get a move on.” To Aspen, he said, “Your mama’s dying to see you, darlin’, and we don’t want to keep her waiting.” The man curled his arm around his daughter’s shoulder and began walking away.

It took me a moment to jolt back to reality and grab our bags to chase after them.

We crossed the walkway into a parking garage, where Jett led us to a red two-door pickup truck with a chipped paint job that looked older than him.

I inwardly groaned, bemoaning the loss of the luxury SUV I’d rented, when it sank in that we’d be riding three across on the bench seat for the next two hours.

This was gonna be one hell of a bumpy ride, and I only prayed it wasn’t a foreshadowing of how this week would play out.