Page 81 of Just My Fake Husband

“Our place,” River says.

I’ve already got the Benadryl out and measured. “Are you sure?” I ask. “River, it’s pretty bad.”

“Do you have any stings on the face?” Sebastian asks.

She shakes her head, and I grab her chin to make sure.

“If she doesn’t, she might not need the doctor,” he says.

“I’m not having an allergic reaction,” she insists. “It feels like I’ve been attacked by a dozen porcupines, is all.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to have you looked at by a doctor.” I help her with the medicine and ice packs.

But the look she gives me is one of iron will. “Just take us home, Sebastian.”

When I get her settled on the sofa inside the cottage, I’m pulling up my phone for home remedies for wasp attacks.

“Dr. Internet insists I get you in the bath.”

Another curse word from her and half a smile. “I can get myself in my own bath, thanks.”

“I’ll draw it for you.” I don’t wait for a response but go in the bathroom, turn on the water, grab a box of baking soda from the kitchen, and start dumping the whole thing in.

Back in the living room, River’s arms are even redder through the cakes of mud.

“Are you having trouble breathing at all? Any itchiness?” I say, scrolling through my phone. “Maybe we should take you in just to be safe.”

“I need the pain to stop. I don’t need to sit in an ER for an hour or more.” She’s rubbing her arms and legs, and once again, I feel helpless.

“Get in the bath. This is going to sound weird, but I don’t feel comfortable with you being in there alone before we know if you’re going to have a reaction. I saw the movieMy Girland it scared the crap out of me, okay?”

She’s scratching her arm, dried mud puffing into the air. “I’m not going in the tub with you sitting on the freaking toilet.”

“What if I stand?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine. I’m not showing any signs of allergy. And if I do, I’ll yell for help.”

“What if you can’t yell?” My stomach wrenches again with fear.

“I will keep the door unlocked and open a crack and you can stand out here and speak to me through the crack.” Her tone is rough, but tears still dot the ends of her eyelashes. “If I don’t respond, you have my permission to enter the bathroom, okay?”

“That sounds good.”

“And Gabriel? I swear if you don’t give me the privacy I deserve, I’ll . . .” She doesn’t finish her sentence, just groans and enters the bathroom.

I speak through the small opening, closing my eyes tight. “I won’t peek. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

I hear her clothes hitting the floor. She turns the water off and that’s when I hear her humming that Chicks’ song about a cowboy taking her away. The water makes a sloshing sound as she climbs in.

Don’t peek, man.

Every couple of minutes I touch base with her by voice and she responds with a “I’m fine!” And now, I start thinking of words to nursery rhymes in my head so I can get the image of her washing herself out of my mind.

She must be feeling better because her voice perks up. “Last night, we mentioned coming clean to your family. What are your thoughts on that today?”

Coming clean isn’t the real issue here, and we both know it. But it’s a slightly more temperate topic than the scorching hot one of making this the kind of relationship that lasts.

I sigh and she speaks again. “There are things about last night that I may or may not be ready to talk about, okay?” A light lilt of laughter, a shyness, comes over her. “But this is important. Because I also think we should tell them at some point. I mean, if you still want to try to make this thing . . . not pretend, not business . . . we need to come clean and have a fresh start.”

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