Free The Billionaire's Girlfriend by Ava Claire Page B

eyeballing my dad. “What did you say, Earl?”
    “Dad didn’t say anything,” I fumed. “It doesn’t take world-class espionage to figure it out—especially when your new bffs aren’t known for their discretion.”
    Her shoulders slumped a little, her face falling as she realized she was caught. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s just been like a real life movie over the past few weeks!” She let out a rueful sigh, like she was recounting something majestic but from the look on Dad’s face I had a feeling it was closer to a nightmare.
    She stepped around me, eyes on the old coffee table. Pictures were scattered all over the glass top, creating a virtual timeline of my life. It started with wide eyed baby photos, trailing through the awkward adolescent years, and leading up to snapshots from my college graduation.
    Mom swiped a couple, holding them up like they were a prize. “Some were offering money for copies. They said they’d be worth a pretty penny once you become Mrs. Whitmore!”
    I looked at her like she’d just grown an extra limb before my very eyes. “Mrs. Whitmore? We’ve barely been a couple for a month and you’re already planning our wedding?”
    She let out a dismissive chortle. “People have gotten married with a lot less time under their belt than that.” She kicked off her heels and fell back into the loveseat. “Don’t try to play coy with me Leila Rae. I’ve seen the pictures of you and that boy gallivanting all over the world, looking positively cozy .”
    The emphasis she put on cozy made my cheeks darken but I reined the embarrassment back in. I wasn’t a child anymore. Her meddling had real consequences now. I wouldn’t allow my mother’s desire to create a gossip sensation dictate my love life.
    “I thought I made myself crystal clear on the phone,” I began, “But just in case, I’ll say it again. I don’t want you talking about me or Jacob to the press, paparazzi, your book club, the bingo girls, anyone.”
    She pouted , blinking up at me through spider like eyelashes. “I really don’t see the harm.”
    “We both know that’s not true.” She opened her mouth to plead her case, but I didn’t even take a breath. “I don’t want you talking to them. I’m begging you, Mom. For me.”
    She chewed on her bottom lip, her brown eyes conciliatory as she gave me a slight nod. “Okay.”
    “Thank you,” I relaxed a little, even though I knew that she’d probably conveniently forget about our agreement in a few days. A week, tops.
    “ So tell us all about your trip,” she said, changing the subject like a pro.
    I gave her a small smile. “Italy was amazing. The architecture, the smells, the food, the art …”
    Jacob made sure we did everything under the sun, but I still felt like there were countless things to unearth and discover. Her eyes widened as I told her about the hotels and dresses and the jets and cars. I left out the bits about Rachel, she still was a client and now that my mother was buddies with people dying for a juicy story, the last thing I needed to do was serve Rachel up on a platter.
    “So wh en do we get to meet Jacob?” Mom was practically salivating, rubbing her hands together with anticipation. I didn’t dare tell her that he wanted to come home with me today, but I wasn’t quite ready for the ‘meet the folks’ stage.
    “He’s pretty busy getting settled back in after the trip.” I lied, a lmost blushing at how easily the lie rolled off my tongue.
    You want to meet them?
    Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I want to meet the two people that helped create the most deliciously stubborn woman I’ve ever met?
    “Well maybe you can bring him to Mass one Sunday.” When she saw the ‘hell no’ written on my face, she added. “Or Sunday dinner.”
    My mother was from the South, born and bred in the church and since my dad was pretty much a Catholic in name only, he adopted her faith. I had not so fond memories of Sunday school and