Page 82 of The Re-Proposal

Because my biggest regret was not showing up to our wedding.

But I don’t feel like sharing any of that with my fake son.

“None of your business,” I growl.

Joel glares at me, but it falls flat. He looks a little too weak to make much of a threat.

According to Vargas, he’s been on an intense round of medication. The waning sunlight falls on the pucker marks all over the kid’s pale skin.

‘If you’ve agreed to take care of him, you should do it properly’. Clarissa’s scolding from earlier wiggles through my brain.

Damn. I can’t say no to her.

Even if the request is about the wheel-chair-bound bane of my existence.

Softening my tone from Siberian winter to freezer ice, I ask, “How are you feeling?”

Surprise flashes in Joel’s eyes. He hides it quickly. “Why do you care? I’m not going to croak before our contract expires.”

“How longisour contract?” I ask. I didn’t get those details from Vargas. I didn’t even want to know.

“One month.” He scratches at one of the pucker marks. “I’ll know if I qualify for a new heart by then. Whether or not I even need the money for heart surgery depends on that.”

I stare at the kid. “Being sick must suck.”

His eyes meet mine and then a slow smile spreads on his lips. “Yeah, man. It really does. What sucks even more is people telling me how sorry they are.”

“Must get old.”

“Imagine everyone who meets you looking at you like you’re a puppy in the rain.”

“Damn.”

Joel laughs and then he stops mid-chortle and seems to remember we’re mortal enemies. His eyes narrow. “I’m not going to change my price just because you pretend like you understand me. I want a date with Clarissa.”

“Yeah, yeah.” My teeth on edge, I wave him off. “Just get out of the car. We’ll discuss that later.”

My driver helps set up Joel’s wheelchair. Stubbornly independent as always, Joel climbs out of the car on his own and moves at a snail’s pace until he’s seated. By the time he accomplishes the task, there’s sweat on his brow and he’s breathing hard.

“You alive there, buddy?”

The color returns to his cheeks as he flushes with anger.

I keep prodding him, preferring to see those eyes glinting with fury than lifeless and disappointed. “Your heart’s not going to kick the bucket before we cross the threshold, right?”

He slants me a dark look. “Har, har.”

I push him up the grassy knoll.

“So what’s the play here?” Joel asks. “Am I supposed to call you ‘dad’ or something. Are we the father-son combo that goes camping and wins three-legged races? You want me to sing your praises?”

“They wouldn’t buy it for a second. Just be yourself.”

“I’m supposed to be your fake son.” Joel chews on his bottom lip.

He’s nervous.

If I step into his shoes, I can see why.

---