“If you must know, my mother hates curse words.” I smoothed my hands down my dress and turned back toward the party, thinking of how miserable events like this made me and always had. Much to my mother’s chagrin. “She’s a complicated woman. This is a woman who marched with over one hundred thousand men and women on Washington in 1977 in ninety-five-degree heat to demand an extension on ratifying the Equal Rights Amendment.” I was extremely proud she did that. “But this is the same woman who has very specific ideas about men and women. She believes in our equal rights and she believes a woman can do anything a man can do, career-wise. She does not, however, have a problem with a man cursing but believes for a woman to do so is extremely unladylike.”

Rhys shrugged. “Again, you’re a grown woman. You can do whatever the hell you want.”

That’s what everyone said out loud, but I had to believe I wasn’t the only one who could still be reduced to childlike status by my parents. I loved my mom and dad. They’d given me a lot of opportunities in life and they loved me. It was in my nature to people-please, especially my parents, so denying them anything was hard. And I’d denied them a lot over the years.

“I’ve disappointed them,” I admitted. “My parents. In different ways.” I flicked Rhys a look and found him watching me, curiosity in his gaze. I glanced away and gave the party a breezy smile. “The least I can do is keep my mouth clean for my mom.” I chuckled but was desperately searching for a passing waiter with a tray of ten champagne flutes I could divest him of.

“If that’s true, why do I need to keep my mouth clean?”

Thinking about it, I had no answer. Perhaps her distaste had become my distaste, but truthfully, I was growing used to Rhys’s cursing. It was just who he was. And it wasn’t as if I was ever going to introduce my cussing fake boyfriend to my mother. I didn’t want my parents to know I’d stooped to lying to make my career happen, and I didn’t want to lie to them and get their hopes up that I’d found someone I was serious about.

“I guess you don’t,” I conceded as I straightened my shoulders. “We should find Fairchild and remind him I exist.”

Rhys decided to give me that, not pushing the subject of my parents, which I appreciated. We moved down to the middle deck where Fairchild conversed with a group of men while women in string bikinis lounged behind them in a hot tub.

It was a clichéd scene that belonged in the 1980s. This yacht was my worst nightmare.

“Ah, there he is!” Fairchild spotted Rhys. “Men, you have to meet Morgan. Morgan, come here.”