Page 7 of The Make-Believe Marriage

“You don’t look fine. What happened?” She looks adorable, all concerned, her hair a mess. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt with a large bright-pink pig printed on it. I recognize it as the logo for a chain of local grocery stores. She turns, and I spit water all over myself at the sight ofI dig the pigwritten in large pink letters across the back.

“Seriously, what’s wrong with you? Are you having a stroke?” she asks, whipping back around and handing me a towel when she sees the mess I made.

“Hot coffee.” It’s a lame excuse, but it’s all I’ve got.

“Right.” Krysten looks at me like I’m losing my marbles and pours herself a cup. “That is pretty hot,” she says after a cautious sip.

“Hmm...” It’s better than theI-told-you-sothat’s stuck in the back of my throat, the words burning right along with the coffee.

“Do you want me to make you some eggs?” she asks.

I raise an eyebrow, continuing my effort to stick to the advice my mother gave me many years ago. When you don’t have anything nice to say and all that. It’s served me well so far but has never proven to be as difficult to follow as it is right now.

“Fine. Toast? I can make toast.” She walks to the pantry and pulls out a loaf of bread, throwing four slices into the toaster.

While it heats and I recover, she grabs butter and jam from the fridge.

“Thank you.” I give the coffee another try, this time more cautiously. I can’t taste it, but it is no longer causing me bodily harm, and I need the caffeine.

“What’s the plan for this dinner tonight?” Krysten asks, spreading butter and jam on two slices before sliding the plate toward me.

“I’ve been thinking about it. There’s no way I can teach you to cook, and I have a meeting at the office this afternoon. Best course of action will be to order something and have you warm it back up and put it on platters. I’m sure I can find someone from a local restaurant that will put something together.” I go through a mental list of places to call.

“A friend of mine works at Rooted. I can give her a call. The chef does some catering on the side. As long as we keep it simple, I’m sure he won’t mind cooking for us tonight.” Krysten bitesinto her toast. A bit of strawberry jam gets stuck on her lip, and I have a hard time looking away.

“Rooted would be perfect. Do you mind picking it up?”

“Not one bit. I’ll call you when I get a hold of someone.”

The call comes in before lunch, and Krysten handles everything beautifully.

“That sounds perfect. I know this is a sensitive topic with women your age, but how would you feel about wearing an apron? You know, to sell the whole cooking thing.” I’m nervous about pulling this off and hope the right accessories will keep my old-fashioned boss and his wife from realizing this is all a big sham. One I’m not feeling particularly proud of. But I’ve worked too long and too hard for this promotion to risk coming clean now. In a couple of weeks, I’ll tell them. Or come up with some story about a separation. No matter what, I’m not letting Mindy take this away from me, too.

“Seriously? An apron?” I’m willing to bet money that Krysten is rolling her eyes.

“If you’d rather?—”

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll play your pretty trophy wife and wear an apron. Anything specific you want me to buy? And don’t even think about one of those tacky ones with vegetable print fabric.” She tries to sound serious, but I can hear the amusement in her voice.

“I’ve got it covered.” I hit the buy button and have a nice linen apron ready for pickup during my lunch break.

It looks as adorable on her as I imagined it would.

“You’re seriously going to make me wear this?” Krysten asks, admiring herself in the hall mirror.

“Up to you, but I’d hate to see you ruin that blouse and skirt of yours. You look nice, by the way.” I lean in and brush a strand of hair out of her face.

“Thank you. I hope it’s not too much.” She twirls around, showing off her hair, makeup, and the two-inch heels that make her legs look like they’re a mile long.

“You look stunning. Thank you for doing this.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She adjusts the apron ties and walks back into the kitchen, where the dishes the chef from Rooted prepared for us are lined up on the counter.

By the time our guests arrive, all evidence of the switch and bait has been removed, and the duck is slowly reheating in the oven, making the entire place smell like Krysten’s slaved in the kitchen for the past six hours.

“You have a lovely home,” Lydia Martin, my boss’s wife says when they walk in the door at seven o’clock sharp.

“Thank you,” Krysten and I say in unison, and I realize the comment was directed at my make-believe wife.

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