Page 12 of Never Say Yes To Your Fake Husband

“I’m sure if you’re sure,” he replies.

I don’t know why I’m sure, but I am. I feel like morning will bring something monumental, if only I can find the right words and the right way to say them. One small action right now can change the future in a myriad of ways. I know that’s true because I’ve read enough fantasy and adventure and time travel books to believe in it. I just have to make that one small action become a reality.

I nod, my heart still banging against my ribs while the rest of me buzzes and flutters. “Sweet dreams, Sterling. And Beans. I’ll make sure the coffee is extra strong tomorrow morning to make up for the terrible sleep you’re going to have on the couch.”

Chapter six

Sterling

This morning smells like the very dark coffee I think I might have gone overboard with, lingering dog farts, and the potent odor of regret that off-gasses from bad decisions.

I don’t know what I was thinking last night. But I know that this morning, I have to make it right, so I started by taking Beans out early. And when I say early, I meanearly. We stayed in sight of the front door since I didn’t have keys, and I wasn’t about to go out and leave it unlocked. Not so surprisingly, the dog didn’t have a poop, which he desperately needed, judging by the smells. No matter how many times I walked up and down the parking lot, he wasn’t about to poop where he lived. I think that’s a thing with dogs. He did mark a few parking poles and a streetlight at the end of the lot, though, so that was a win.

To say I was wracked by guilt all through the hours of the night is an extreme understatement to the tune of how weather people never accurately prepare you for how bad that cold snapor snowstorm is going to be. They’re never right about that kind of thing. And I wasn’t right about this.

Beans is now back on the couch, all curled up and giving me the Beans stink eye with his only eye. It’s a look that says he knows I have a game, and it’s up. It’s so up, and his mistress is not going to be pleased, and since he likes her a heck of a lot more than me—the mystery dude he had to spoon all night when the couch is usually his—he’s definitely going to be on her side.

“You could go a little easier on me,” I whisper in his direction. “Considering that you tooted in my general direction all night and at least once right in my face, we should be on a friendly level.”

He huffs at me, rolls his one eye, and puts his head back down on the blankets, which I tried to make up as neatly as I could.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to come clean. It’s all going to be okay.”It’s all not going to be okay.

“What are you going to come clean about?” a voice suddenly asks.

Nope, it’s not the dog suddenly proving the impossible and learning the human language. It’s Weland coming down the stairs. She looks about as well rested as I am, which is not at all, but even with dark smudges under her eyes, a messy bun that looks a little sticky from the drink that didn’t get fully washed out of there yet, and no makeup, she’s fabulous. No sleep looks good on her. And so does the tunic sweater dress with owls all over it and the pair of super soft and sleek black leggings she has on. Her bare feet pad down the stairs without a sound, and she does a waggling thing with her eyebrows like they’re asking me a question themselves.

Now I’m trapped between a guilty conscience and a dog that sprawls out and sighs hard. Yeah, he knows it’s coming, and he’s not going to like it.

“I made coffee and I think I might have put in too many grounds. It’s coming out black as tar.”

“Oh, good. That’s my favorite kind.” Weland brushes past me like I’m supposed to be in her kitchen at six in the morning and not two shades past an utter stranger. She grabs two mugs from the cupboard and puts them on the counter.

The kitchen isn’t state-of-the-art. It’s small. The cabinets are white, and so are the appliances. The countertops are some kind of beige plastic, dinged and scarred. The mugs, though, give the place life. They’re the pottery, bright, handmade kind.

“I have a thing for dishes,” Weland explains. “Especially the handmade kind. I love thrifting. Always have and always will. That includes flea markets, garage sales, fundraisers, antique stores, and art markets because supporting local people and artists is important. I got these ones at a thrift store when I went with my mom, but I do have some that I bought at an art show earlier this year if you want one of those instead. If you’re particular about your mugs.”

“I’m not particular,” I tell her.

She hairy eyeballs me. “That suit of yours cost, like, I don’t know. A lot. Probably. Unless you’re a good thrifter too.”

“I…it wasn’t thrifted.” I really don’t want to get into my childhood. It’s not a particularly pretty story. I don’t think I ever bought anything new until I was old enough to work, and then I worked my ass off to have anything. Add that to the list of reasons why I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my company and keep it as mine, not have it all pieced out and torn apart.

“So your confession is that you’re here on business. And after today, I’ll never see you again because you don’t live here?” She pours the liquid tar into the two mugs. “Holy biscuits with butter and jam. You weren’t kidding about the grounds. I should have warned you. They’re from a local shop here, and they don’t messaround. I grind them myself, so I think that makes them extra potent, too, in comparison to the regular grocery store stuff.”

“That would explain why they’re in a canister and not a token coffee tin.”

“Yeah, it would. Anyway, this probably just needs some cream. Are you a cream guy? I think coffee is a bit gut rot first thing in the morning if you don’t put some cow juice in it.”

“Cow juice?” I quirk a brow.

“Ha. I probably shouldn’t call it that. One day, someone is going to clue me in on what cow juice actually is. Moo milk then? Because lots of kinds of milk aren’t moo milk.”

“I would love some moo milk.”

Beans sighs again. He’s all about calling me out on my bullshit. The guilt nearly chokes me long before I take a sip of the coffee. It’s strong enough to put hairs on the chest, alright, ladies and gents. Or like on the toes or something. Somewhere hair wouldn’t normally spring up. Never mind. I think my toes are hairy. I haven’t checked in a while, but probably. Maybe the soles of the feet? That would be weird. I can just imagine them sprouting after this liquid rocket ship in a mug. My heart isn’t just beating fast because of the adrenaline that comes with guilt and confessions. The caffeine is a hard punch to the nervous system.

“So…I have a confession to make too,” Weland says, leaning against the counter. She’s holding her mug with both hands. She looks petite and beautiful and absolutely adorable. Just looking at her is a punch to the nervous system.

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