Carrie wriggled out from under his arm and set aside the cell phone. “Who says I haven’t adjusted?”
Mike raised his brow and trailed a finger down her tearstained cheek. “Wild guess?”
Carrie dropped her head. “I would never accept an offer like that from a stranger.” Even one who sent her stomach all aflutter like him, Carrie told herself. “Particularly not knowing you well enough to really know what you expect in return.”
“No problem. I can tell you that.”
Carrie looked up and arched both eyebrows.
“Class of Ninety-two.”
“The plan is impossible,” Carrie said, stabbing into her salad with her fork.
“Improbable, maybe,” Mike said, biting into his burger. “Nothing is impossible.”
“But you’re talking about walking into a big group of my relatives and friends and convincing them we’ve been an item for—what?—a year and a half now? They’ll see through it in an instant.”
“Not if we’re convincing,” Mike said, shaking his head. He set down his burger and picked up his bottle of imported beer. “Besides, how much do these people really know about Wilson Haywood anyway? You said the two of you met in New York.”
“That your relationship was mainly on weekends.”
“Sometimes there, sometimes here—right in quaint little Mill Creek.”
“What, precisely, is your point?” Carrie asked, sipping her iced tea.
“My point,” Mike said, taking a swig of beer, “is that your relationship with Wilson wasn’t exactly…normal.”