Page 127 of Real Fake Husband

Cal watches me from the doorway, a smile on his face. “I love you. I’m proud of you. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

We drive to the art show, holding hands in the back seat. I’m starting to feel more nervous than excited, and not even a smoothie from my favorite place is enough to calm me down. Cal’s hand draws lazy circles on the back of mine, helping me stay focused.

“Relax. You have nothing to worry about,” he tells me. “Don’t be nervous.”

“So, areyounervous too?” I ask him.

“No.” He arches an eyebrow. “What do I have to be nervous about?”

“People are going to see a ton of naked drawings of you. I mean a ton. Like, half the pieces being showcased are you.”

“Then they’ll all be jealous of Mrs. Josie Ashford’s trophy husband.”

I laugh, leaning over to give him a kiss. “You’re the best trophy husband a girl could ask for.”

“I know.”

We pull up outside the art gallery, and my heart does a little flip-flop. There are a lot of people around. And I mean, a lot. Fancily dressed people are filing into a building that has two large blown-up pieces of my artwork hanging on either side of the door, with my name in big letters.

“Showtime,” Cal says with a grin.

My jaw wants to drop on the floor, and it takes everything in me to act calm and cool.

Dennis pulls up to the curb and gets out to open the door for us. Cal steps out first and extends his hand to me. I graciously accept.

Everything after that is a whirlwind.

We’re swept inside where Mr. Armbruster is waiting with flowers and open arms. Immediately, he starts to introduce me to people, and I smile and shake hands, trying to remember their names but knowing there’s absolutely no way to keep them all straight in my head. Especially with pregnancy brain.

Thank God Cal is here.

“And, Josie, this is someone I’ve been dying to introduce you to,” Armbruster says, leading us over to an older man. He’s about as tall as Cal, with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back from his face and glasses over his brown eyes. He’s wearing a sharply tailored suit with rings on almost every finger. “This is Mr. Pedro Piersanti,” Armbruster introduces. “He’s the new art critic forArt Dream Monthly.”

“Oh, it’s nice to meet you,” I say, my heart skipping a beat. “Thenewart critic ofArt Dream Monthly?”

“Yes, yes, sadly, Osgood retired recently,” Pedro says with an impatient wave. Then he leans into me, and in a low voice, he says, “It was about time too, if you ask me.” He stands tall again, and continues in his loud voice, “I’m happy to meet you, Josephine. I like your work.”

His eyes land on Cal and go wide.

“My goodness…and is this your model?” he asks, sidling up to Cal, eyeing him up and down. “How do you do? Pedro Piersanti. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Callum Ashford,” Cal says as he extends his hand. “Model, stimulus, muse—and husband to this talented woman.”

“Oh. Well, color me jealous,” Pedro says, shaking Cal’s hand, not letting go. “Josephine, you have smashing taste.Smashing. May I steal your husband away for a few minutes? Come, Mr. Ashford. Show me which one of these is your personal favorite.”

Giggling to myself, I watch Cal get swept away by Pedro.

Mr. Armbruster shakes his head. “Sorry, Pedro can be a bit much, but he means well and will give you an honest review.”

“I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with Professor Ramstraat anymore,” I say. “I was dreading the thought of him being here.”

“Josie, you have nothing to worry about. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”

That’s what Cal said to me, and I feel silly for having stressed myself out way too much beforehand.

Mr. Armbruster wanders off to mingle, and I take a moment to breathe everything in. I can’t believe it’s really happening. I’m standing in an art gallery, surrounded by my own work. I stare at the portraits, smiling at each piece as I take them in. Pedro and Cal are standing in the center of the room in front of the one I did of Cal sleeping all those months ago. I giggle again at Pedro’s playful staring and flirting, and Cal taking it all in his stride.

Just as my shoulders relax, I see him only a few feet away: a white-haired man with a black hat pulled low over his forehead contemplating my art, his cane tapping against the polished wooden floor with each slow step. He’s wearing a black coat—and a stern expression. My body stiffens. I recognize him immediately. Professor Ramstraat. A recent article featured his photo front and center, portraying him as the “The Art Judge,” emphasizing the critic’s power to render a quick verdict on each work he encounters, and talking about how a positive review from him can make a career, while a negative one can destroy it. I even showed the article to Cal, just to get his hilarious, over-the-top eye-roll reaction.

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