Page 59 of Just My Fake Husband

I shrug. “No prob!” But inside, there’s nothing casual about this. Because I’m trying so hard not to get invested, I’m suddenly having visions of Celine loving me, thinking of me as her daughter, splurging on the reception to make it special for me.

I know, I know. I have to stop.

“Can we keep the reception small?” I ask, finally allowing myself to rotate in my seat so I can better see him. He turns to me, but seeing his chest reminds me of the way I clung to it last night.

“My brothers and their wives. Your sister and a few friends. My aunt Stella and her kids. I like the idea of keeping it small.”

To avoid staring at him, I dig in my bag, find a tube of lip gloss, and run a slip of it over my lips. “Good. That’s settled. I suppose it’s important for us to have one. I just don’t even know where to begin.”

“I imagine that by your lunch on Friday, my mom will already have most things planned.”

“She’s Celine Tate. I know she’ll come up with something classy. I—” I sigh, thinking of every protest I can but nothing’s good enough. “It will be good to get it over with.” I fluff my hair. “I’ve gotta go. But another thing we need to decide is when we’re going to your parents’ place.”

“My parents’?”

“You know. To show them the rings and to be all happy and in love in their presence. Solidify the story.”

“Right. Except my dad’s out of town.”

“When he gets back then.” I nod, shoring myself up at that thought. I’ve heard the stories about Thomas Tate. How he’s ruthless, unyielding, and honestly, kind of a dirtbag. Those traits helped him become rich, but he’s a pain to be around.

I do feel rude for thinking my new father-in-law is a dirtbag, but in the face of strong evidence, how can I not?

“Oh, and I emailed you the press release I wrote about us getting married. If we get it sent out ASAP, I bet it will resonate with the board and start the process of them seeing you in a new light.”

“Thank you for writing that up.” Gabriel’s face stills and he gives me a pleading look. “Can I promise you something, River? Because my dad can be . . . difficult.”

“Gee, really?” I offer quietly.

“I know you know that, as it’s partly why we’re in this . . .” he pauses and then shakes his head. “. . . situation. And I know doing this for a year is going to be difficult. He’s going to pester and pry and make assumptions. He’s going to look for the holes in the story we’re presenting, because that’s what he does. But I promise I’ll protect you from him, okay? You don’t have to worry.”

I start to shake my head, like he doesn’t need to do that. But again, his serious expression tells me he is in this. He’s glad I’m partnering with him. And he didn’t mind us waking up in each other’s arms. “Okay,” I say.

Because he’s right. For all the hard times Sebastian and the others might have given us, that’s nothing compared to how Thomas Tate could respond. Guilty until proven innocent. That’s what’s going to happen here.

On Friday, I see Celine in the first-floor eatery before she sees me, and it gives me a chance to notice all the things about her that she shares with Gabriel. Dark blonde hair, eyes like a rugged mountain lake, the trim, long physique, an effortless and classic sense of style. She’s wearing a sheath dress in a pale blue cotton and pumps. Thank goodness I decided to forego my self-imposed “Casual Friday” for my burnt orange suit and ivory blouse.

Crisis averted.

My next thought isI shared a bed with your son, Celine.

Geez, that phrase sounds wrong, like it’s implying more happened than actually did.

If you could call snuggling together in the middle of the night “things,” then “things” did happen.

He was so warm. Not in a too-hot way but just right. He was the bowl of “just right porridge” in this little fairy tale we have going. How I felt comfortable to sleep so soundly in his arms, I don’t know. It’s not like me. I usually need a free perimeter of at least a couple of feet around me to be able to sleep.

But the next morning, he went to a big box store and got a new air mattress, and we’ve kept our polite distance ever since.

Celine smiles when I make my way to her small corner table, and I swear, she’s genuinely happy. I was bracing myself, wondering if she would see me as a gold-digger or maybe even think there was a baby on the way and that’s why we rushed into this.

Gabriel told me he shut the “bun in the oven” rumor down so fast that his brothers haven’t ever brought it up again.

All this to say, it’s intimidating being here.

But then, the pressure in my chest begins to diffuse when she gives me a hug and then gushes over the ring. “Gabriel got his sense of style from me,” she says, laughing. More pressure is released the moment she orders chili cheese fries as her lunch entrée and a large Coke, not Diet, no ice.

And apparently, as far as possible mother figures go, I can be easily persuaded to allow myself to feel something tender because when she takes out a small notebook and pen and begins asking me what I envision for the reception, I see something in her expression.

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