Page 4 of Real Fake Husband

Mrs. Blanchie had no living children, and her husband passed away many years ago. Her only surviving family is her grandson.HimI know very well. I’m not worried. Annoyed and ready to get it over with, butnotworried. Hell, I just kicked some guy out of the diner. I sure as hell won’t have problems handling a bully from my childhood.

Iwas five—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on my first day of kindergarten. My mom put my frizzy hair in braids, and I was wearing a brand-new red dress with white dots. Money was tight. Yet she always made sure I had new clothes on special occasions, such as the first day of school.

I was being good and doing everything I could not to get dirty. I even said no to painting, my absolute favorite activity, because I didn’t think the smock was big enough.

From the corner of my eye, I sawhimsneer. The next thing I knew, he pulled one of my pigtails, and when I turned to face him, there was blue paint all over my red dress. I cried so much they had to call my mom to pick me up.

And he was still sneering.

Ihaven’t seen him since high school. Luckily.

But can you believe the jerk wasn’t even at the funeral?

2

CAL

My gran’s apartment is pitch dark when I arrive.

I never remember her home being dark, even when I was a kid and we lived on the other side of Queens. She always kept the light on in the kitchen. I place my bags and helmet by the door, and the first thing I do is turn on the light above the stove.

The soft glow brings immediate comfort. Even though I know she’s dead, I can feel her presence. Not because I believe in ghosts, but because good memories well up in my head.

Now that I can see, I let my gaze wander through the rest of the apartment. It’s cozy. Beautifully quiet as always. Several vases and a collection of figurines, knick-knacks, and other decorative objects add a touch of her personality. The flowery dark-purple wallpaper holds a frame of my favorite photo of Gran, with her small body in the middle, between me and my childhood buddy, Theo. When the pic was taken, we were already much taller than her, and I recall we had to crouch down. Our heads are touching, and we’re all smiling from ear to ear.

Everything is exactly how I remember it.

With one major difference.

The scent.

Taking a deep breath, I run my hands through my hair and lean against the counter. Her home smells like it used to. Clean and tidy. Flowery, like rose candles and soap. Only the familiar scent of freshly baked swirled butter cookies is missing. Gran used to make them in an old-fashioned piping she inherited from her mom—who inherited it from hers—and I can still taste the crumbly, light texture melting in my mouth. They were the absolute best.

When I got the call about Gran, it was like a punch to the gut. She was the one who raised me after both my parents died. Even before then, she was the only person who understood me. She had infinite patience with me, I can see that looking back. Gran hadn’t been happy when I’d moved to San Francisco after high school, but she’d supported me anyway. Shortly after I left, she moved out of the apartment where she raised me, saying it was too big. She needed something a little smaller, somewhere that wasn’t filled with old memories.

Now I’m back, and she isn’t here.

I’m still pissed I couldn’t make it to the funeral in time. I was on the road, wrapping a few things up, and didn’t get the call until a few days after her death. Between that and several flight delays and cancellations, by the time I made it to New York, it was too late.

My eyes sting, and I shrug it off. I refuse to think about that right now.You need to be on your guard for the nightmare you’re about to walk into, I tell myself.

It’s easy not to dwell on the grief, because “the little surprise” in her will has been consuming my thoughts ever since I found out.

What in the name of all things holy were you thinking, Gran, huh?

I know Gran always wanted me to settle down and get married, but I still don’t understand why she was hell-bent on Josephine being the one. Josephine Graham. Little well-behaved “good as gold” Josie with her frizzy hair, long pigtails that begged to be pulled, scatterbrain and nosiness—Nosy Josie. That was her nickname. One I’m still secretly proud of, even all these years later.

I still can’t fathom why she’s going along with this. The grandmother of an old childhood classmate (one you obviously hate with every fiber of your being) dies and tells you that you’ll gain an inheritance if you stay married to him for a month and you sayyes?

She must be really bored—or really desperate.

Yeah, I’m banking on the desperate part. People will do anything for money.

Gran wanted us together, but I never thought she would gothisfar. But I’ll settle my beef with her in the afterlife. You hear, Gran? Right now, I not only have to prepare to get married, but it has to be to the most annoying, chaotic, and nosy person on the planet.

After I hang my biker jacket on one of the hooks near the entrance and adjust my tie, I head into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I realize I’m starving, until I remember there’s nothing here. Shit. It’s late, but New York City never sleeps. I’m sure someone is still open for delivery.

Before I can get out my phone, I hear keys rattling in the door.

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