“I know. I know.” I turned and picked up the piping bag. Got back to work.

“Take Thatcher with you.”

“I have to since I offered him up to my mother so I wouldn’t be stuck with Franklin Pierce for the weekend.”

She frowned. “Isn’t that a former president?”

“Yes!” I said, tossing my hands up, one holding the piping bag.

“You need backup. Support. God, I thought my family was bad. Now I know they’re just crazy.” She picked up a cloth and folded it.

“He’s a fake date,” I reminded her. She knew about Thatcher and how he was going with me. She’d been there when I shared my idea with Aunt Jean about buying a guy from the bachelor auction to go with me and had been at the community center the night before in person. “How am I going to get him to agree to go with me for the entire weekend?”

“A real date—a good one—would go with you for support. Know what a nightmare your family is—no offense—and give you lots of orgasms to keep you relaxed.”

My eyes bugged out and I started to laugh. “Mary!”

“What? You’ve got Thatcher Manning as your date. Have you seen him?”

“Uh… yeah.” Over six feet of hulking muscle and bodily perfection. Curly ginger hair. Blue eyes. A quick smile that should be considered a lethal weapon to womens’ panties.

She fanned herself.

I didn’t blame her. He was… incredible. Handsome, a gentleman and after our little chat the night before, a seemingly nice guy. Definitely a little bit of a dirty talker, too, because I’d laid awake thinking about the extra services he’d mentioned.

He wasn’t really a date. He wouldn’t have known who I was if Aunt Jean hadn’t won him. I’d shown up late because of a delivery. I hadn’t changed my clothes or even swiped on some lip gloss. Hell, I’d had flour on my cheek.

“You bought that hot cowboy.”

“Aunt Jean did for me.” I let my shoulders drop as I felt my self-confidence take a nosedive. “What woman needs her aunt to buy her a date for her sister’s wedding?”

She tapped her chin. “Um, a smart one. You aren’t the only woman who bought a bachelor last night. I’m sure none of them are complaining. Use Thatcher. For all kinds of things.”

I picked up the folded towel and threw it at her. “You’re insane.”

“You’re insane not to,” she countered, then came over to me, looked me in the eye. “It’s going to be a rough weekend, especially now. Ask him to go with you. To all of it.”

“He runs a bar and probably can’t get away.”

“Ask him,” she repeated.

“Aunt Jean didn’t bid all that—”

“Ask him.”

I laughed. “You’re not going to stop, are you?”