Page 34 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

I know the guys are waiting for me, milling around in the foyer and talking among themselves. I need to focus. We’ve got a lot of crap to deal with today. Not only because we have to figure out how to structure Poppy’s new staircase, but also because I’m waiting for a call from the Town Hall regarding the permit I need in order to build the upstairs balcony.

Meanwhile, I’m supposed to be measuring myself for a tuxedo and preparing to rub shoulders with New England’s elite? All for a ruse?

It’s only been a couple days, but I think I’m in over my head.

“Listen, Poppy.” I pause to clear my throat. “You don’t have to do all of that. I mean, you don’t have to waste your time trying to clean me up for a gala, you know? I want to help you with this Percy guy, but I don’t think I’ll be useful to you if I have to be fake nice to a hundred Percys all stuffed in one room together.”

She frowns. “So… you don’t want to go?”

“I will. If that’s what you want. But I also don’t want you to be disappointed when I inevitably can’t live up to your standards.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Mystandards?”

“Look at me.” I gesture to my paint-stained jeans and cheap cotton shirt. “Percy is right to be skeptical. You and I—we’re very different. And I can try to fake it for you, but I’m also worried that I’m just going to make things worse.”

Poppy’s expression is difficult to read. She swallows hard and glances away.

“Okay,” is all she says.

“I mean, maybe faking it comes a little more naturally to you—”

Nope. Shoot. That isnotwhat I meant to say.

Her gray-blue gaze hardens into a glare. “I’m not fake.”

What I had meant to say was that, as the daughter of a famous person who died very tragically, she’s probably used to the spotlight. Used to putting on a brave face. She’s not a stranger to smiling in the face of adversity because she literally has no choice. She probably had paparazzi stalking her since she was in preschool merely because of who her father was.

But I don’t know what that’s like. I’m not good at playing pretend. When my dad died, it changed me. I was young, but it hardened something in me that I’ve never been able to repair.And later in life, when my wife died, I completely fell apart. I stopped working. I could barely care for the boys. I didn’t even try to act like everything was okay because nobody was expecting me to.

That’swhat I meant to say.

Instead, I’ve accidentally implied that I think she’s fake.

Sure, maybe I still tend to refer to her as Malibu Barbie in my head, but it’s become a nickname laced with fondness instead of annoyance.

“I know you’re not. That’s not what I meant.”

“No, it’s fine. If you’re not comfortable, I’m not going to force you to be fake with me, Joe. Let’s just forget it. I can handle this on my own.”

“Poppy—”

“I think you should get to work,” she cuts in sharply. “Your crew is waiting for you.”

For a long moment, I stand there and try to think of something to say to fix this. Is this an argument? Is this a professional issue? Is this going to jeopardize my role as her contractor? Do I even care about that right now?

I’m not good at this stuff. Ellie and I never had conflicts like this. We hardly ever bickered about anything.

Not that I’m trying to compare my fake girlfriend to my dead wife.

Or rather, fakeex-girlfriend, if I’m judging the look on Poppy’s face correctly.

Even though I know I should say something—that I shouldn’t leave this conversation here—I also know that it’s probably for the best if things go back to normal between us. Whatever occurred these past two days can just be a weird blip that we’ll eventually forget about.

“Alright,” I say.

As I turn to go, Poppy makes a quiet sound of frustration.

“It’s funny, actually,” she mutters. “If anyone is good at faking it, it’s you. The way you touched me last night… the way you looked at me… that was impressive, Joe. If you ever get tired of building houses, you could pursue a career in acting.”

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