Page 5 of Real Fake Husband

I head to the living room to find out who the hell would dare let themselves into my gran’s—myapartment—wait, unlessshehas a key.

The door opens, and I stop in my tracks.

I stare at a beautiful woman.

It’s nother.

She’s wearing black pants and a polo shirt, which is clearly a uniform. Her shirt is the brightest pink. Like, almost blindingly bright. But as far as one can say of this color, it suits her. Her clothes hug her curvy frame. A few strands of her blonde hair have escaped the messy bun atop her head, and my fingers itch to reach out and tuck them behind her ear.

After dropping her bags next to mine in a heaping mess—irritatingly so—she shifts to face me, chocolate-brown eyes narrowed in what seems to be distrust.

“Callum.” Her voice is tight.

Josie?Thisis Josie?

There’snofucking way this woman is the same goody two-shoes who rolled her eyes every time I spoke. My gaze lands on the name tag on her uniform.

“Josephine,” I say, using her full name just as she used mine. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough.”

And there it is. The attitude I’m so familiar with. Yeah, it’s her. Her looks may have changed, butshehasn’t changed a bit.

“I didn’t know you had a key,” I say.

She twirls the keys around her finger. For other women, this would be an expression of nervousness. With Josephine, the gesture clearly has something provocative about it. “I used to help Mrs. Blanchie from time to time. She made a copy for me.”

“So, you just let yourself in?” I arch an eyebrow in question. “You realize it’smyplace now, right?”

She glares. “Well, I didn’t think you would be here…considering you didn’t show up for the service.”

Fucking low blow. “She was my grandmother. If I could’ve been there, I would’ve. Not that I need to explain myself to anyone.”Especially you.I know I don’t have to say it out loud.

Clearly, neither of us are thrilled about the arrangement, and even less so about having to spend any modicum of time together. Before she has a chance to respond to my quip, there’s a knock on the door.

I push past her to answer it, glancing at my watch. It’s 8:30 p.m. He’s punctual to the minute.

Vance, the family lawyer from Sanford & Partners law firm, is standing in the hall with a bright smile and a folder clutched in his hands. When he called to ask me to meet him and Josie here, he sounded just as young as ever. Now, seeing him in person, he’s definitely aged. His black hair is now gray, and his face is lined with wrinkles.

But his warm smile is still the same. “Hello, Mr. Ashford,” he says in a thick Italian accent, “buonasera.”

“Hey, Vance. Come on in.” I step aside and let him enter.

“I would say it’s great to see you again, son, but given the circumstances…”

“It’s all right. Vance, this is Josephine Graham. Josephine, our lawyer Vance Lombardi.”

“We’ve already met,” Josie says in that matter-of-fact tone of hers. “At the funeral.”

Yeah. Right.I don’t owe her an explanation, I remind myself.

Josephine gives Vance a polite smile. “Hello, Mr. Lombardi.”

“Please, call me Vance. It’s good to see you again,” he says, extending his hand. She shakes it as he leads us both to the kitchen table. “This shouldn’t take very long. Everything’s already been drawn up, as per your grandmother’s wishes. All I need are your signatures.”

The three of us sit, with Josie and I facing each other, though it’s evident she’s trying to avoid eye contact.

“Let’s go over everything,” I suggest. “Just so we can make sure we’re all on the same page.”

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