Page 77 of Just My Fake Husband

I’m mid-yawn when I glance over and see that Gabriel Tate is in my bed. And the urge to spoon with him this morning hits me so hard I have to physically draw my hand back from his face, back from moving a lock of his golden hair out of his sleeping face.

We kissed last night. Hallelujah and praises be. I palpitate my lips, shuddering at the memory.

I have to think, without the cloudiness in judgement that will come the longer I’m in his bed, so I’m up, sloppily dressed, and out of the house and into the morning light. Hey, this way, Gabriel is stuck with dog duty this morning!

But I know that’s not the real reason I’ve fled.

First, I pace in front of the cottage. Then, I start out down the mountain in earnest, batting away a couple of wasps who dareget in my way. If I’d had time to buy myself a new journal, since my old ones are still lost somewhere in storage, I’d be venting in that. But I don’t even have a car, and I haven’t gotten around to asking Gabriel to take me to buy a new one.

I half wonder if someone stole my journals and they’re going to put them up on Reddit and have the whole world critique them. And then everyone would know that though I look like a functioning adult, I really am just a tween still, with zits to pop and crushes on boys.

Which leads me to also wonder that if I had a journal, what would I write about last night? Would I inhale a long drag of my strawberry-scented pen and then launch into all the ways Gabriel Tate is delicious and charming? That the way he kisses is so good it shouldn’t even be called a kiss? I need to invent a new word for whatthatwas.

Would I write all that? Followed by “River and Gabriel Tate” with a bunch of hearts written in pink ink?

I want to.

Which is why I’m walking like a stampede of bulls is heading my direction. Because, as has been noted, I don’t run. But I can speed walk with the best of them, and I’m positively murdering this mountain road with the slap of my sneakers.

Last night, for the first time, our relationship felt real. All the fake stuff was gone. And when he kissed me, I wanted it. It was just him and me, nothing else.

I was disappointed when he stopped at kissing.

It’s all for the best and hallelujah he had the wherewithal to stop.

Doesn’t mean some small part of me wasn’t disappointed. I can be a woman who’s disappointed I couldn’t have more with myhusband.

He said he wants us to be married for real. To come clean about our less than favorable beginnings and have an honest marriage.

Of course, I was in his bed, half-naked in my old bathrobe that he, for whatever reason, loves. That could have been why he said those things, right?

The small splotches of color beginning to form on the quakies’ leaves are shining in the sunlight. Up ahead, I see Sebastian-and-Elianna-shaped forms. I guess walking along their own road is a normal thing for a married couple to do on a Sunday morning.

“It’s River! Hey!” Elianna’s blonde curls piled into a high side pony bounce as she and Sebastian make their way to me.

Elianna is in an adorable teal Lycra get-up that screams ‘90s Barbie doll. However,TheSebastian Tate in an old holey T-shirt with a faded graphic of Honey Grahams and basketball shorts with one of his pockets turned out like he just picked them up off the floor?

Did I wake up in a different dimension?

He gives a formal wave—which is more on brand, thank heavens—and then Elianna says to him, “I’ll be home in a bit. I’m going to talk to River.” And she kisses his cheek and joins me on my rage walk.

I don’t feel much like talking, which she senses immediately, so we just walk for a while. When we reach the black Hardi Board house she helped Sebastian finish, we keep walking.

“Being married to a Tate is complicated,” she finally says. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s amazing. Those men know how to love strong. They are just big hearts in nice bodies, I’m telling you. But you guys moved so fast, I guess I’m just wondering how you’re doing? Now that you’ve been married a whole what . . .?”

“Two weeks!”

“It’s a lot of changes all at once.”

“It is,” I agree. “But we don’t regret it.”

She gives me side-eye but nods. “How’s Skye doing with the transition?”

“Far too well. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“You think something’s going to happen? Like, she’ll want to come home or something?”

“No. I mean, I was convinced we were days or weeks from her wanting to come back home to me. Not that she and I have a home anymore.”

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