Page 64 of Real Fake Husband

“I thought if there’s no room for advancement where you currently work, I’d be more than happy to assist you in finding something more…suitable.”

Flames are practically sprouting from Josie’s eyes. Seriously, if looks could kill, the Osborns would be burnt to a crisp by now.

“Thank you, Mr. Osborn, but I’m very happy where I am.” Gone is the forced politeness, and honestly, I’m done with it myself. I invited this couple into our home, and all they’ve done is throw thinly veiled insults at my wife.

“I don’t see how you can be,” Charlotte says. “A diner is hardly a five-star restaurant.”

This time I open my mouth. I’m fucking done with this. “I’m sorry, do you have a problem with my wife’s profession?” I ask in a calm, steady tone.

All three heads swivel to face me. Josie’s hand finds mine under the table.

Charlotte’s eyes widen at my question. “Excuse me?”

“I always like to address matters openly, so there’s no room for misunderstanding. That’s how I do business, and that’s how I live my life. Having said that, allow me to speak frankly.” Both look at me with big eyes, so I continue. “When Josie first mentioned what she did for a living,” I say, leaning back against my chair, regarding them, “you turned your nose up at it, and now you’re insulting where she works.”

“Oh!” Charlotte says, pale cheeks suddenly flushed with embarrassment. “I meant nothing by that, dear.”

Mr. Osborn reaches over and places his hand on her boney one. “What my wife and I are trying to say is, if you ever wanted something a little more…”

“More what?” Josie asks, taking a delicate bite of potatoes, likely to keep from snapping at the couple. But the expression on her face gives her away, at least to me.

They don’t seem to know how to talk their way out of this. I have a feeling that they don’t normally interact with people who don’t hang on their every word. Knowing what I know about NYC politics, I’m sure they’re used to people asking for their opinion and desperate for their approval. Josie and I don’t fall into that category.

“Stable,” Mr. Osborn finishes. “Something a little more stable.”

“How is a five-star restaurant more stable than a diner that’s been around for thirty years?” Josie asks, tilting her head.

There’s no immediate answer. “Let’s change the subject,” Charlotte declares, picking up her wineglass. “Aside from working, what else do you do, Josie?”

Josie and I share a glance at the abrupt and desperate change of subject. I think it’s hilarious that she thinks she can insult Josie multiple times, and we’ll jump back into a conversation like it didn’t happen.

It’s becoming increasingly obvious the Osborns are not people I wish to be associated with privately or professionally. “I think my wife has a valid question,” I reiterate, not letting Charlotte get away with it. “I’m incredibly curious as to what your answer is.”

The tension that had started to dissipate is back with a vengeance, thicker than ever.

Josie is clearly trying to hold back a grin, not meeting my eye. Our hands are still clasped tightly under the table, her thumb brushing over my knuckle. She gives Charlotte the politest “I’m waiting” look I’ve ever seen. The older woman shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

It takes her a few long awkward moments to gather her thoughts. “I don’t imagine a diner gets very many elite patrons,” she says, setting her wine on the table and picking up her fork again. Her back is stiff and she’s avoiding eye contact.

“And?” I ask, arching an eyebrow in question.

“My wife wants the subject changed,” Mr. Osborn speaks up. “She’s already explained herself. Let’s move on.”

No, no. They’re not getting away that easy.

“Andmywife works extremely hard and has been with the same employer her entire adult life. She’s dependable and has autonomy and authority where she works, which is more than most people our age have. She also enjoys it. Yet because she’s working at a diner and not some well-known fancy, expensive restaurant, her accomplishments have been criticized. Which I do not appreciate.”

I keep my tone cool, leaning back in my seat. I lift our joined hands, so they rest on the table, showing the Osborns we are a united front. Charlotte doesn’t respond and starts eating again as if I haven’t said anything.

Now Mr. Osborn is glaring at me. “Son, you really want to discuss this?”

“I didn’t hear a proper explanation,” I continue. “What does it matter what kind of patrons Josie serves? I’m confused. I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

“Well, I imagine so, given your circumstances,” Mr. Osborn says in an icy tone.

Hold up. What did he just say to me?

I sit straighter, fixating the older man with a deep frown. “My circumstances? And what circumstances are those exactly?”

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