Page 25 of Real Fake Husband

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I hear the tightness in her voice. “I’m not judging. I worked pretty much every job I could get before I found what I wanted to do.”

She shifts to face me. “Oh, like what?”

“Construction mostly. I enjoy working with my hands and building something from nothing. I remember those early days in Cali before Ecclestone, bouncing from couch to couch until I saved up enough money to replace my first bike. It fell apart not long after I reached the Golden Gate Bridge, and I was too broke to get another one right away. Bit by bit, I rebuilt it, buying parts with whatever money didn’t go toward food and rent. That first ride after it was finished—I’ll never forget.”

“It’s not that I don’t know what I want to do,” Josie tells me. “I just don’t have the time or money to do it.”

“What is it?” She doesn’t answer, so I nudge her. “Come on, you can tell me.”

“Art,” she finally admits. “I love art.”

“Get out of town. That’s great. I didn’t know you were that into it. I mean, I knew you were good at art in school, but you were good at everything in school.”

“Anyway, I don’t have time to do much art nowadays,” she says. “But hopefully, one day soon.”

The inheritance. She’s talking about the inheritance.

That’s why she’s going through with this marriage. I feel bad that my earlier judgment of her was so off. “Maybe you can show me some of your stuff later.”

“Absolutely not.”

Hmm. Okay, then.

“Did you eat?” I ask, peering at her from the corner of my eye. She throws me a look that betrays her hatred. Hey now. Isn’t that a way too strong a reaction just because I asked her if she had eaten yet? It must be a woman thing. She must think I’m implying she’s too fat.

“Not since lunch,” she says.

“Perfect. I’m taking you to dinner.”

“I don’t want to go to dinner,” she mutters, letting out a long breath. “I just want to go back to the apartment and lie down.”

“You have to eat,” I insist. “Also, we don’t have groceries.”

Josie makes a noise of annoyance. “Shit, that’s right. Fine. If you stop somewhere along the way, I’ll get a sandwich. I don’t want to go out anywhere.”

“You’re already out.”

“You know what I mean.”

This woman is so goddamn frustrating. Why can’t she just accept my invitation without arguing with me? She’s turning a nice offer into a back and forth. “Geez, Josie, it’s just dinner. I didn’t ask you to suck my cock, dammit. I’m not taking you back home so you can fall asleep hungry.”

At first, there’s fire in her eyes—I’m fully expecting her to tell me she’ll never suck my cock—but then she sighs softly, settling against the leather seat. “Fine. I’ll go to dinner. But wherever we go, it needs to be cheap because I’m trying to save money.”

“I invited you. It’s my treat.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“Stop twisting my words,” I grumble. “I didn’t say you did. Jesus. Has anyone ever given you the rules?”

“The rules? No! What rules?”

“Woman. I’m trying to wave a white flag here.”

“You make it sound like we’re at war.”

“Aren’t we? Now, I’m man enough to cop the fact that I haven’t been the best at keeping the peace either. But if we’re going to survive this marriage, we need to be on the same page. I think this dinner is exactly what we need.”

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