We rode to the diner, my diner, for the reception. We had a cake and three kinds of pie, and Trixie had done the flowers that lined the counter and bloomed beautifully in a small vase at each booth and table. Max had bought the diner outright for me. He called it an early wedding gift back when I was pregnant with Liam, saying he didn’t want me worrying about a mortgage. I had been right that he took charge, took care of me, of all of us. It was beautiful and safe, and more than I’d ever dreamed of having in the days when I was scrimping and saving for a down payment.
We laughed and danced and ate way too much. Sadie had insisted we serve grilled cheese for part of the dinner, so we feasted on her specialty before cutting the cake. When Sadie took a little bit of frosting on the tip of her finger and gave it to Liam to taste, he kicked his chubby feet and squealed.
“I think we may have another baker on our hands. You may have some competition in the kitchen soon,” Max told me.
I beamed up at him, “That suits me just fine. Especially since we’ve made a climber out of Sadie and she’ll probably want to start chopping down trees with you soon.”
“Hey, I’ve loosened up a lot but I’m not ready to let our seven-year-old loose with a hatchet just yet. Overprotective habits die hard,” he teased.
“That’s probably for the best,” I said.
“This is all for the best, my love. Forever,” he said, and my handsome husband bent to kiss me softly on the lips.
The End
My Fake Husband (Sample)
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1 Trixie
“He’s a bum. I’ve told you a hundred times. You have to get out from under this guy,” Kiera said.
“Believe me, I’d like to. I just can’t afford it right now. He never listens to me,” I lamented.
“Are you eating? What are you eating? I can hear you.”
“Nothing,” I said, trying to swallow too-big pieces of BBQ chips.
“It’s crunchy. It’s chips isn’t it? God, I miss chips.”
“Sis, give up the Keto. I’m telling you, pork rinds are bad news. They are not better for you than these sweet ass barbecue chips I have here. Totally wholesome. Made from potatoes, not pig fat.”
“Don’t disrespect pig fat. Bacon is excellent,” she protested.
“Yes, it is, but it’s not everything,” I told her.
“I miss potatoes so much. Sometimes I lay awake and think about how much I’d like to have, like, a real burger with a bun and some fries. Not just a big slab of meat with more meat on the side.”
“You’re allowed to have vegetables,” I said.
“I know, but vegetables suck. All the good ones are potatoes.”
“That’s it. For your birthday I’m getting you a five-pound bag of Idahos.”
“You bitch. I’d probably eat one raw,” she said. I laughed.
“What am I going to do about this pipe? I’ve looked it up on YouTube and tried to fix it myself. Six different ways. Nothing works. It’s been leaking for months and that rat bastard Jimmy won’t call me back.”
“He knows you want him to live up to his lease agreement and have the plumbing fixed before you drown in your own flower shop. So of course he’s not answering you.”
“You have a point,” I sighed.
“Tell me again why you can’t just buy the building?”
“Um, I don’t have a trust fund. It will cost thousands of dollars to fix the plumbing, plus the cost of the building and the taxes on it. I’m doing fine with the shop, and I make my house payments on time, but I just got my industrial cooler paid off last year. I don’t have enough collateral for the bank to take a chance on me. I’m a small business owner in a small town. And I’m a woman. Unmarried,” I smirked to myself.
“So if you were an unmarried man with a business they’d be like, look how dedicated he is to his work, he’s going to be successful, let’s give him the loan? Once he’s established, he’ll start a family. But with you it’s like, she’s wasting those ovaries working all the time, and she’s not getting any younger. I know.”
“Yeah. And my ovaries are over here, creaking with age, mumbling about how I’m too busy to even go out with anyone.”
“You could always deliver flowers to the fire station by mistake,” Kiera teased.
“That’s a stupid mistake. The fire department is all men. Who sends flowers to a guy? I mean, not in a sexist way, but we are in rural North Carolina. It’s not like traditional masculinity isn’t loud and proud.”
“You’re missing the point—stay with me here. You can be like, ‘oh, I must’ve written the address down wrong, silly me! Why, Damon, I’d forgotten you worked here. How have you been?’”
“You’re doing a stupid high-pitched voice. I do not sound like that,” I said.
“You so do. Besides, he’s still single, right?”
‘Yeah. I can’t figure out why. I mean, look at him. Tall, great body, gorgeous smile—he’s a fireman, and he coaches little league. His resume says boyfriend material, but that grin says let’s do it in
