Page 41 of Real Fake Husband

I miss mornings like this with Matilda. It reminds me of the old days when I first started.

As glad as I am that she’s been taking time for herself and considering retiring—she deserves it—I’m going to miss seeing her every day. We take time to finish our coffees, and I’m feeling much better after.

Matilda heads into the office to get some things done, and I get ready to start my actual shift.

Despite how busy the day turns out to be, Cal’s naked body keeps randomly popping into my head. I don’t remember ever drawing that fast in my life. It’s not only the subject that was good. The drawing itself came out great. I’m my worst critic, and even though it was a quick spur-of-the-moment sketch, I couldn’t find fault with it when I was done.

I hear the ding of the bell in the kitchen and Deacon calls, “Order up!” dragging me out of my musings.

Focus on the bet.That’s the most important thing right now. You have to make sure he doesn’t win.

The Diner is packed with its usual breakfast crew, and the kitchen is alive with activity. It’s the perfect day for training, which was why I scheduled the newbies for their first day. Matilda has left the whole process up to me, and I’ve run with it. It’s making our service a little slower, but I’m able to pick up the slack.

That’s until a customer complains for the third time in a row about our hollandaise (which Deacon makes fresh every morning). When I ask why she’s ordered a dish she doesn’t like for the third time in a row, she doesn’t answer me. Alfred, one of our regulars, is having a bad day and doesn’t find our service fast enough, even though Daphne took his breakfast to his table within eight minutes—freshly made, mind you.

I feel punchy.

I love our regulars. They are some of the nicest people I’ve had the fortune of getting to know. Lately, though, it’s somewhat harder to handle the mean ones. I used to let it slide off my back. Now, I dwell, and it takes longer to get back into happy-mode.

I’m thankful that Kaylin senses my inner turmoil and manages to calm down the difficult customers.

18

JOSIE

Lunch prep begins.

“We haven’t been this busy in a long time,” Kaylin says.

“The weather is getting nicer. That always makes people want to get out more.” On autopilot, I empty the coffee makers and go about cleaning them before I start fresh pots.

“We need to try to go out together more often,” she says. “We haven’t been out together in ages.”

Going to a nice dinner with Kaylin sounds great.

“I meant to tell you,” she says, wiping down the counter. “I have a friend who I think you would hit it off with. Bryce Armbruster.”

Putting my hands on my hips, I turn to look at my friend. “Kaylin, are you trying to set me up with someone?” I ask in surprise. It’s so out of character for her, especially after our discussion about marriage and the fact that I’m essentially off the market until the marriage is annulled.

“No, no, nothing like that,” she says. “He’s a friend of my neighbor from high school who just opened an art gallery here in NYC, and he’s always looking for new artists.” I open my mouth to protest but she hurriedly keeps talking. “Now before you say no, he’s a really nice guy with a brilliant eye for talent, and I think you should at least consider taking a meeting with him.”

“Kaylin, that’s very sweet, but I don’t have the space to work on something as intense as an art showcase.”

If Cal thinks I’m messy now, he’s never seen me trying to put a show together. The last time I did, I could barely walk with all the canvases spread throughout the place. Pretty sure I got to the bedroom by jumping on and over the couch.

If I attempted to do the same thing now, I think Cal would have a heart attack.

Again, the visual of a large open loft comes to mind, and I get excited that it’s almost within reach.

“Maybe after I settle into my new place, I’ll consider it.”

“If anyone can do it, you can,” Kaylin urges.

“You know I haven’t done a show in years.”

Three years, to be exact.

Ever since my first and only art show, which ended with a scathing article inArt Dream Monthlyby top art critic Professor Osgood Ramstraat. I still remember what it felt like reading “uninspired,” “affront,” and my favorite, “no truth.” With each word, my heart sank through the floor. I was crying by the end of it, so upset and humiliated.

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