Page 6 of The Make-Believe Marriage

In less time than it took me to get the water boiling the first time around, he whips up some garlic and olive oil pasta dish with parsley. He serves it up on simple white plates with freshly grated parmesan cheese.

“This smells amazing.” I look at the dish in front of me. I’d happily order this at my favorite Italian restaurant. And he cooked it right in front of me in less than half an hour. Impressive.

“Taste it. You may not like it.” Some of his spark is back. He doesn’t look nearly as tired as he had when he first walked in the door.

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” I ask.

He looks at me, eyes wide.

“You like to cook,” I add.

“I do. At least I do most nights. I don’t get around to cooking anything more complicated than this most of the time.” He rolls some of the spaghetti in their rich, creamy sauce around his fork, and I do the same.

“Why would you? This is to die for.” I’m not joking. It’s without doubt the best pasta dish I’ve ever had.

“It’s all in the ingredients. You can’t mess it up if you use fresh garlic and good olive oil.”

“Trust me, I could.” I dig in again, savoring every bite.

“Maybe you’re right.” He doesn’t look angry. A little disappointed maybe, but so far, he hasn’t kicked me out.

“And that’s a problem. With the dinner party?—”

He holds up a hand and stops me. “Let’s not worry about it. I am too worn out to even think about that darn dinner. Let’s just eat and relax for the night.”

That’s exactly what we do. I insist on cleaning up the kitchen, sending him into the living room to find us something to watch.

By the time I return with a small plate of cookies for dessert, he’s stretched out on the couch, a movie playing in the background.

“I love Elf,” I blurt out when I recognize it.

“Me too.” He takes a cookie, looking surprised that it’s edible, when he cautiously bites into it. Can’t say that I blame him, but lucky for me, the cookies are fine and the movie is as good as I remember. I put down the plate, grab a cookie for myself, and curl up in the oversized chair, pulling the throw I bought earlier in the day across my legs.

We laugh at Will Ferrell’s antics and sing along with him.

“The place looks great. Sorry I didn’t say anything earlier,” Tom says, doing his best to suppress a yawn.

“You were a little distracted by the threat of a fire in the kitchen.” I smile, trying to put on a good face, but it still bothers me that I failed yet again at cooking a meal. It really shouldn’t be that complicated. Even Buddy knew how to make spaghetti, though his choice of toppings is questionable.

“We’ll figure something out.” Tom’s eyes return to the TV screen, and we both lose ourselves in the last bit of the movie.

I glance over at him when the end credits roll, surprised he hasn’t said anything. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and even. Tom’s fallen asleep. I get up, trying hard not to make a sound, and carefully drape the throw across him.

He rolls on his side but doesn’t wake up. I tuck the blanket around his shoulders, noticing how much softer his features are in sleep. The worry lines across his forehead have melted away, and the strong jawline I like so much has softened a bit as well.

I tiptoe upstairs and get ready for bed. When I see my reflection in the bathroom mirror, it hits me. I’m falling hard for this man who’s come to my rescue and is counting on me to pull off the impossible.

Chapter 4

Tom

Idon’t remember when I made it to my bedroom last night, but my neck is paying for the hours I spent sleeping on the couch. I pour myself a cup of coffee and think about the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

“I can’t believe I thought moving her in and having her pretend to be my wife would fix this.” I take a big gulp and yelp, scorching hot liquid rushing down my throat, burning a layer of tissue along the way.

“Tom? Everything okay?” Krysten rushes into the kitchen, her bare feet hitting the tile floor in a fast staccato that helps take my mind off the pain.

“Fine,” I bite out, reaching for a glass of water.

---