Page 48 of Just My Fake Husband

“Great.”

He glances back at the oven. “This will take another twenty minutes or so. Want to play a game, or . . .?”

“Like, a board game?”

“Or cards. I have both.”

“Like this is a slumber party?” I smile but shake my head. “I need to call Skye and unpack. And prepare myself for tomorrow.”

“Good plan. I should probably do the same.”

And so we do, going our separate ways as much as possible in this place. The rift of awkwardness is as tangible as the sunset shining through the trees when we’re out at the car getting my luggage.

Back in the bedroom, I notice there are two chests of drawers across from the foot of the bed and that he’s left one empty for me. So, I unpack my suitcases while I talk to Skye, who’s happily telling me the minutiae of the rest of her evening so far. I admit I miss some of what she’s saying. The cell service up here is spotty. Or maybe my phone is just super old.

I end the call when I hear the beep of the timer on the stove and before I know it, we’re at the banquette built into the wall, a cozy, two-person nook with plush, sage green velvet cushions and the moon shining through the tall windows, eating pasta primavera and baked ziti.

“There’s not a whole heck of a lot that can’t be solved with a creamy plate of pasta.” I say, once the hunger has started to abate.

“Even a fake elopement?” he asks, his glance flicking to me before he uses a fork to wind angel hair pasta against a spoon.

“I don’t know if it’s strong enough to do that.”

His fork stills on the way to his mouth, telling me my words have gotten to him. Still, his expression is unreadable. “We’re going to get used to it.” He doesn’t say the words casually. There’s a firmness to his tone, a sense of resolve.

This is starting to set in. Sebastian’s going to freak and their dad’s going to be suspicious.

They’re all going to be suspicious.

I spend the rest of my wedding night playing games on my phone, sprawled out on a mattress so soft it might smother me in my sleep, nursing a bad case of indigestion from eating too much pasta.

Lovely.

And I have to get up a couple of times in the night to visit the restroom. There’s only one—an oatmeal-colored tile heaven with elaborate fixtures and a bidet. And each time I pass through the dark living room, I put my hand up to block my view of where Gabriel is. As oddly curious as I am about how the man sleeps—does he sleep on his back? His side? With one arm flung out?—I don’t want to look. I can’t. Seeing how he sleeps is crossing a line.

The weird thing is, I don’t hear him sleeping when I get up the second time. Come to think of it, I didn’t hear him the first time, either. It seems like he’s awake, staring up at the ceiling.

The feeling of aloneness is suffocating.

When my alarm goes off at seven, I move to the bathroom again to shower, my stiffly hair-sprayed hair from the day before dissolving under the massager showerhead. I’m pretending it’s a normal day, trying not to think of the firestorm that’s about to hit the fan. My getting ready game is suffering, though. I’m dumping my stuff out of plastic bags and digging through my makeup boxes like I’m a preteen just learning how.

By the time I get out, he’s already got his mattress put away and is pouring a bowl of granola.

“Good morning!” I offer cheerily. Just because this situation is weird and fraudulent doesn’t mean I have to act all weird and fraudulent.

He glances up before sitting at the banquette. “Uh . . .” He takes in the robe I’m wearing, his gaze flicking at me up and down.

I wrap my hands around my middle, like I need to protect myself.

“There are eggs in the fridge if you prefer that, but today I felt like granola and yogurt,” he says. “There’s plenty if you want that. Oh, and there’s bread and jam in the fridge, too.”

Before I can even say anything, he adds. “Nice robe.”

“I—” I start to snarl. “Does the old terrycloth bathrobe my grandma gave me when I was twelve offend you?” I realize I overreacted to his comment. I don’t even have any idea what he meant by it.

He hesitates, looking at me again before his eyes flutter shut. “Yes. It’s hideous, and I’m trying to eat breakfast.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s the last gift she gave me before she passed away.” I yank the matching belt tighter. “And it still fits me, so I’m going to keep wearing it.”

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