“I can’t go in there.”

“Well, we’re not going to spend the entire week outside.”

“Seriously.” I’m clutching the door handle. “I can’t do this, Andrew.”

“Hey there.” He pats the crown of my head in an attempt to be comforting. “Don’t worry. Everyone will be really nice to you. Even my dad. At least to your face.”

Sweat pools beneath the thick layer of my cardigan. So, naturally, I flail my hands under my armpits like little fans. Because the best thing to do with pit stains is draw needless attention to them in front of the handsome man who wants to fake-marry you.

“This—this was a mistake. We can’t get married. I can’t spend a week with your family.”

“Yes, you can.” He shuts off the engine. His voice is cutting and impatient, almost as if two million dollars were on the line. “Because you have no other choice. We’re already here.”

Chapter Seven

“You must be Ellie!”

Someone screeches these words the second Andrew opens the front door. I barely have time to consider how I would draw the entryway—high ceilings, oak paneling, large windows lining the backside of the house—before I’m accosted by a pair of soft arms that encircle me in a surprisingly tight hug. The anxiety I felt in the car moments before begins to seep out of me and into the arms of this woman who smells like red wine and ginger cookies. God, when was the last time someone hugged me?

“Sugar, it’s so good to meet you!” the woman coos into my hair. “And such a pretty little thing! Let me get a good look at you.”

The woman seizes both my shoulders and holds me at arm’s length, and I finally get a good look at her, too. She is an elderly white woman who can literally only be described as boozy. There’s a poof of gray hair circling her head like a chaotic halo, orange lipstick not quite colored in the lines of her mouth, a ruched top cut low enough to reveal a spectacular (if somewhat wrinkled) pair of breasts.

In describing his meemaw, Andrew neglected to mention that she is incredibly Southern, six feet tall, and the human antidote to an anxiety attack.

“Bless you.” She gives me another hug, and I never want to let go. “Aren’t you a doll?”

Then Meemaw plants a wet kiss on my cheek, and even though I can feel the imprint of her orange lipstick, I really don’t mind. “Welcome to the family, sugar.” She eats the r at the end, so it’s a musical suga rolling off her tongue.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Prescott.”

She swats my arm. “None of that formalness. You can call me Meemaw, and this here is Lovey.”