Page 14 of Out on a Limb

“Watch yourself.” Tess levers the dishwasher open by my hip, and a hot cloud of steam billows against my legs. My leggings are already soaked with sweat, but the extra moisture sure as hell doesn’t help. Still, it’s not Tess’s fault—what else is she supposed to do?

There’s barely room for the two of us to shuffle back and forth behind this bar. We’re lucky if we get through a whole shift without stepping on each other’s feet. If the dishwasher needs to open, then it needs to open.

My best friend leans down, her brown ponytail swinging over one shoulder, and sets about emptying the clean glasses and returning them to the shelves. Her polo shirt collar is flipped up on one side, and a pang of fondness shoots through me when I see it.

Tess always looks rumpled, no matter what she wears. Always.

She’s the nicest, most frazzled-looking friend I’ve ever had. And she proved that tenfold over the summer just gone, hosting me for weeks and weeks on her couch as I desperately scanned rental listings for somewhere to live.

Even when she fell in love and got swept off her feet by a handsome veteran. Even wrapped up in the cocoon of new love, Tess still made time and space for me in her life—and in her apartment.

I owe her so much. On shifts like these, I wish I could sit Tess in a corner with a big glass of ice water and do all the work, but she’d never go for it. Believe me, I’ve tried.

It’s gone midnight before there’s a lull. The yard has emptied out, the folks out there chased away by the autumn cold, but most of the booths inside are still full. Rock music thrums from the speakers on the wall, while the orders slow down enough that we can finally catch our breath.

“Holy moly.” Tess slumps over the bar, forehead pillowed on her folded arms. I fish for the spray bottle of water that we keep in the refrigerator, then mist the back of her neck. Tess groans with relief, shaking her head from side to side.

Then she stiffens. Pushes upright and fixes me with a glare.

“Wait. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Jana.”

My mouth is dry as I swallow, and I fight the urge to spray her in the face, vault over the bar and flee—because I know exactly what this is about. This is the first time I’ve seen Tess in person since I put on Stig’s ring.

She wanted to bring it up earlier, I could tell, her eyes bugging when she spotted the sapphire twinkling on my finger, but the orders came too thick and fast for us to chat with each other. Small mercies, I guess.

“What,” Tess says, lifting up my hand by the thumb, “is this?”

The sapphire winks against my brown skin, catching the bar lights.

“I thought it was just a rumor.” Tess turns my hand, squinting at the ring. “Just small town gossip. But you’re actually wearing it. What the hell?”

A customer chooses that moment to stagger up to the bar, and lord, I’ve never been more grateful to serve a whiskey sour. You’d better believe I take my sweet time doing it, ignoring Tess’s huff as I move as slow as I dare.

It gives me time to think; to wrack my brain for a good explanation.

The only problem? I don’t have one.

Because how can I explain the instant connection I felt to Stig? The invisible lightning that seemed to arc between us, waking up my dormant body? The immediate trust I felt in his company, like I was finally safe and could stop tensing up at last, always bracing for the worst to happen?

It makes no sense. I know it makes no sense.

And the fake marriage thing is a whole separate truckload of crazy.

“He needs a wife,” I settle on saying once the customer has gone, weaving back to his booth with uneven steps. “And I need somewhere to live. Win-win.”

Tess splutters, lost for words at how batshit I’m being.

I polish a glass and set it back on its shelf, avoiding her gaze.

“A wife?” my friend bursts out at last, snatching the cloth from my hands and shaking it in my face. A bubble of humor bursts up my throat, but I choke it back down. “A wife? You don’t need to—to sell yourself like that! You can sleep on my couch again. Even if it takes months, even if it takes years, don’t you think I’d prefer that than my best friend selling herself like cattle to some stranger?”

Another completely inappropriate laugh expands in my chest. Clearing my throat, I force my expression to stay serious, because Tess is right. She’s saying all the correct things, and I know she is. If the roles were reversed, I’d be freaking out too.

“It’s not like that.” A quick glance around the bar shows Flint’s office door firmly closed, the drinkers happily ensconced at their tables, and no one within earshot. Good. “It’s an arrangement—a marriage on paper only. Stig’s a complete gentleman, don’t worry.”

“Stig,” Tess repeats, her voice faint. She looks at the cloth in her hand, confused, like she can’t remember how it got there. “You have a fake husband and his name is Stig.”

“Fake fiance, technically.” I shrug. “For now. If it all works out, we’ll tie the knot after a month.”

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