Page 55 of The Fake Husband Play
“No, thank you. I’m waiting for my husband,” I say, holding up my left hand as I scoot away. Grammercy’s ring catches the light, dazzling even in the shadows around the church.
Brad squints at it like he’s trying to solve a math problem. “Oh, fuck. Wow. You don’t look old.”
“Thanks,” I say wryly. “I’m not. Just married. But have a good night.”
Sadly, this none-too-subtle hint doesn’t penetrate for Brad, either. “Husband, huh? Why’d you get married so young? Doesn’t that suck? Aren’t you bored? Don’t you like to party?”
“I party with myhusband,” I say, hitting the word even harder this time. “I’m all good, happy as a clam, I promise.”
“Come on, Brad,” one of the guys in a nearly identical polo calls out from behind him. “We’ve gotta go. Ben needs another beer, and Kip wants to get to the club before the lady with the forked tongue goes on at ten.”
“Her tongue is two tongues,” a bleached-blond guy says with a laugh. “What is that even about?”
“So fucked up, man,” Brad agrees, laughing at the non-joke as he lurches closer again. “So, pretty girl in theblack dress, are you sure you don’t want to play hooky with us? I mean, if your husband was so great, he wouldn’t have left you all alone on Bourbon Street, right?”
“Come on, Brad. For real!” His friends hover near the street, looking torn between fetching their friend and self-preservation.
“Come on, baby girl,” Brad coos in a gross “seductive” voice, I hope has never worked on any girl. Ever. “At least let me buy you a drink while you wait. We could go back to the bar we were at before. They got shooters as big as my hand, and?—”
“No, thank you,” I say more firmly as I press back against the wall.
“Aw, don’t be like that. I mean, you don’t get dressed up like that if you don’t want men to look at you. Right? You’re kind of asking for it.”
My jaw locks as “asking for it” leaves his puffy mouth.
Three words only ever used by men who are definitelynotgood guys.
“Leave me alone. Now.” I put pure steel in my voice this time, but Brad’s too drunk to notice.
“You know what I think?” He pokes his tongue around the edges of his mouth before his lips spread into an uglier grin. “I don’t think there is a husband. I think you’re just one of those girls who wears a big fake ring when she goes out to cockblock the guys she doesn’t like. Which is fucked up, lady. Real fucked up.”
My heart starts racing for all the wrong reasons now. His friends are still there, but they’re distracted by something on one of their phones. And a jazz quartetsuddenly started playing around the corner, making it harder to hear…everything.
Like a woman calling for help, for example.
For just a moment, despite the crowd and laughter mere feet away, I feel very alone and unsafe.
Brad’s voice drops into his “sexy” register again, “So, why don’t you stop playing games and have a little?—”
“Excuse me, friend, but you’re standing too close to my wife.”
The deep voice cuts through the night like a hot knife through butter. Calm. Controlled, but with an edge that makes the hair on my arms stand up even as my shoulders sag with relief.
Grammercy.
Thank God.
Brad jerks back, and I can see past him to where Grammercy is walking our way, cutting through the dazed frat boys, looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had come to life. His black button-down clings to his broad shoulders, his sleeves are rolled up to reveal my favorite forearms on earth, and his lips are set in a line that says he isn’t about to take any shit.
But it’s his eyes that make my belly flip-flop and do a swan dive onto the pavement. Dark. Focused. Fixed on Brad with an intensity that makes some primal part of me very,veryhappy.
I’m a strong woman, capable of fighting my own battles, but damn…I like knowing that this time I don’t have to.
This time, my sexy fake husband is going to scare the gross guy away with his manly awesomeness.
“Oh. Um. Hey, man.” Brad tries to straighten, clearly realizing he’s made a tactical error. Even drunk, he cansee he’s outclassed. Grammercy has four inches and at least forty pounds of muscle on him. Also, he’s sober. Andpissed. “We were just talking.”
“No, you weren’t.” Grammercy steps between us with his innate, athlete’s grace, angling his body to shield me from Brad’s breath. “You were bothering her. And now, you’re going to apologize and find somewhere else to be.”
