Page 76 of The Fake Husband Play
The realization hits fully, sending me rocking back on my heels.
I’ve never wanted to be famous or have my life examined under a microscope by strangers. That’s the reason I’ve always wanted to go into print journalism, not anything on camera. That’s why I used a fake name for my podcast and adopted a “Luvvy” voice pitched lower than my own.
Being the most talked-about girl in twelfth grade was all it took to teach me that I never want to be the focus of gossip ever again. And that was just the few hundred kids in my high school and their parents. This is…the entire world.
Staring. Judging.
Googling…
Oh, shit. They’re going to find out! About the podcast! I don’t know how, but I’m no cybersecurity expert. I’m sure I’ve left a digital trail connecting me to Luvvy. And then the whole world will learn that I’m a creepy fangirl who married my NHL crush. But worst of all,Grammercywill know.
Grammercy, who will be even more embarrassed.
And blindsided.
And who will probably decide he doesn’t want to keep kissing me or caring about me, and will never call me “his wife” in that sexy voice ever again.
“I have to sit down,” I mutter as I sink to the warm concrete at the edge of the lot. My bottom hits the pavement, and I lean forward, dropping my head between my spread knees as I try not to hyperventilate.
Grammercy, of course, is right there beside me, his big hand gentle on my back as he mutters something in French that I can’t understand.
But somehow, I know he’s beating himself up, even though he’s done nothing wrong. Head still down, I grope for his free hand. When I feel it in mine, I squeeze his fingers, “This isn’t your fault. You were great last night. You’ve been amazing since the moment we met. I know we can figure this out. It’s just…a lot right now. But I’ll be okay. I promise.”
He sits down beside me on the ground, wrapping his arm around my back as he hugs me to his side. “That’s good to hear,chère. I don’t want to lose you. Or Mimi. You’re…” He trails off, pressing a kiss to the side of my bowed head before adding in a softer voice, “You’re important to me. And you make me happy. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”
I lift my head, tears pricking at the backs of my eyes as my gaze locks with his. I’m on the verge of telling him, of letting it all spill out and the chips fall where they may, when he adds, “I’m falling hard for you,chère. Hope that’s okay.”
Every ounce of breath wheezes out of my lungs. By the time it wheezes back in, I’m fighting happy tears and everything but the miracle of this moment is forgotten. “I’m falling hard for you, too,” I say, my throat tight. “Last night was one of the best nights of my life.”
His smile is so beautiful, so pure and open and fearless, I suddenly think this might work out all right, after all. I mean, if anyone can handle being internet famous, it’s two people with their feet firmly on the ground, who care more about each other than what a bunch of strangers have to say.
And these days, people have the attention spans of fruit flies with ADHD. If we can just get through the first forty-eight hours or so of fallout, the world will forget, and we can go back to being us again.
Us…
That isn’t pretend anymore. Wearea team, a fact we prove by talking through our strategy, promising to have each other’s backs, and kissing for a long, sweet minute before heading back to the party.
There, Grammercy effortlessly charms Chelsea and Miranda, makes the kids giggle when he pretends to be scared of alligators, and wins a new fan by posing for a picture with the owner on the way out. Turns out Barb of Barb’s Gator Sanctuary is psyched about Grammercy getting traded to New Orleans.
Same, Barb,I think as I buckle Mimi into her car seat and tell Grammercy we’ll meet him at home.Same.
And hopefully that will be enough to get us through whatever comes next.
Chapter
Twenty
GRAMMERCY
The smell hitsme the second we step out of the elevator—garlic and onions and a hint of spicy cinnamon that takes me back to dinners as a kid and the way my mama’s cooking made even the shittiest days better.
Maybe it still can…
At the very least, a cooking ambush means she isn’t as angry as she was earlier.
Or, it could mean she’s so pissed that she decided the only way to purge her demons was to invade my kitchen and dirty every pot and pan until I get home as punishment for making her wait so long for a text…
“Is that smell coming from our house?” Elly asks.
