Page 128 of Morally Black Betrothal

“Jesus, Owen. Leave your manners at home?”

He swallowed and grinned. “We’re all out in the open here, aren’t we? No pretenses. No secrets to hide.”

Something prickled up the back of my neck.

Simone looked at me, confused. “Help us with what?”

“With your little act.” Owen shoved a bite of Wellington into his mouth and swallowed before continuing. “I support what you’re doing here, but you need an alibi, and I need something to do now that my workload had decreased so much.”

I rolled my eyes. “Owen, you’ve just been promoted to the fucking COO. You have more than enough to do, so stop bitching about your little project.”

My brother ignored me. “So it hit me: I need to get to know Simone here better. Make it look like we’ve formed afriendship or something. Dad thinks I’m making nice with you and overlooks the whole mortgage failure bullshit. I make it look like your relationship is legit so you can be head honcho. Simone here gets her cash and maybe a little bonus at the end. Everyone gets something they want, right?”

By the time he was finished talking, Simone’s face had turned the same color as the flour dusting her bread loaves.

“I told him,” I said quietly. Then I glared at Owen. “Though I didn’t think he would be such a fucking ass about it.”

“You, brother, have always underestimated every person in this family and their ability to be an ass.”

He wasn’t wrong. “Not sure if your relationship with Simone is really all that important in the grand scheme of things.”

He chewed a big bite of steak and swallowed. “Can’t hurt, though, right?”

I couldn’t argue with that. Honestly, I didn’t want to. While I had no intention of looping my brother in on Simone’s and my charade beyond just telling him about it, I wanted to get this dinner over with as soon as possible.

Simone stared at her plate and blinked furiously. My throat thickened as I realized she was warding off tears.

Of what? Frustration? Anger?

Sadness?

“Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, Simone,” Owen said. “Where are you from?”

“You know where she’s from,” I snapped. “I told you all last weekend.”

“I know where yousaidshe’s from,” Owen countered before taking a sip of wine. “I don’t know where she is actually from.”

“I grew up in Vermont,” she replied while she pushed a bit of Wellington around her plate. She still hadn’t taken a single bite.

“So that part was true.” Owen stuffed another forkful of potatoes in his mouth. “What do your parents do?”

She finally looked up at me.

I nodded. “It’s fine.”

Her chin jutted out with a bit of defiance that made me want to kiss her all over again. “My mother died when I was young. My father’s a dairy farmer. We have a farm in Woodstock called Dandelion Farm.”

Owen paused. “Dandelion Farm? You know, I think I’ve heard of that.”

I could see the wheels turning in his head. If I had recognized the name of her farm from the list of bad mortgages he was handling, I knew he would in a second.

“We once distributed dairy products all over New England, so I’m not surprised.”

“Right, right, I remember now.” He gave me a pointed look.

Questions were coming. Since figuring out her connection to the farm, I’d been pulling strings left and right to remove it from the sale I’d ordered. It was proving difficult, but I was doing my best.

Now, Owen knew why.