Page 15 of Fake Wife
A quick flip of the gas switch and the fire starts. “Have a seat,” I tell Teagan while I adjust the flames. When I turn around, she’s already curled up in one of the chairs, blankets pulled up to her hips.
I take a seat on the chair next to her and grab a blanket for myself. Taking a swig of my beer, I stare into the flames.
Two weeks ago, Eleanor and I sat in almost this very same spot, and I had no idea she was sick.
She did. She’d had all of her ducks in a row, lined up neatly. Hell, when she died we learned she’d even planned her own funeral.
The only person who’s ever given a shit about me knew she was dying and didn’t bother to give me a fucking heads-up.
The anger at figuring it out just this morning begins to boil beneath the surface of my skin, buzzing and filling my veins until I grip my bottle so tightly I fear it might break in my hand.
Silence, heavy and tangible and awkward as hell, falls on us.
I can’t bring myself to cut through it and make conversation, so I don’t. And next to me, Teagan seems entirely lost in her own thoughts.
After I finish my beer, I go into the house and come back with a bottle of Magellan scotch and two glasses in case she wants to join me. Screw the beer. I need more than that.
I’m on my second glass when Teagan laughs.
I turn to her, unable to erase the anger in my expression, and she covers her mouth, but her laughter bursts through.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, laughing harder, still covering her mouth. It’s a pretty sound, sweet and cute, and I’m learning it’s just like everything else about Teagan. She’s not refined and polished, nor has she spent years projecting the perfect image. “I’m so sorry for laughing, but the silence and the awkwardness and the fact that you’re a stranger is totally freaking me out. Plus, there’s the fact that just this morning I woke up in one man’s bed. Now I’m practically moved in with another.” She swings her arm out, laughing harder. My anger cracks. “And it’syouof all people, Corbin freaking Lane, who asked me to marry him earlier today. And I’m sorry for laughing when I know your day has been crap, too, but all of this is a little too much for me.”
“Tell me about you,” I say, setting my glass down. Several times today she’s mentioned a guy like me, a girl like her. Screw waiting for tomorrow. We’re here and alone and nothing is going to happen except more alcohol going down my throat. “Your life, your job, your ex.”
Her laughter dims and she turns back to the fire. “I worked at the downtown library. I’m from Tennessee, and when I was twenty, I fell in love with a boy who just earlier today decided he’d rather screw some blonde than the woman who still loves him.”
Shit. Her chin quivers and I fear another emotional breakdown. Not that she doesn’t deserve to have one, but I have too much alcohol in my veins to be the comforting guy she needs.
She fills her glass and takes a large drink, choking and coughing as it goes down.
“Sorry.” She turns to me and frowns. “I’m also really sorry for running into you today. I didn’t know where to go and I was trying to clear my head, figure out what to do. Probably shouldn’t have been driving in the first place.”
“I don’t know.” I wink and reach for my glass. “Seems like you could have done worse, too.”
I’m teasing her only to lighten the mood and it works. She laughs again, shaking her head and then dropping it back against the chair. “There’s no way this is going to work, you know. No one will believe two strangers can really be in love.”
Details. Who needs ’em? “We’ll figure it out. There’s no clause that says our love has to be proved. No way it could be done anyway. We’ll work out the details and timing tomorrow, but you should be prepared. If you haven’t gotten phone calls already, you will. I’m betting photos of us from the street and the restaurant earlier are already online.”
She jerks in her chair, throwing her feet to the patio. “Really?”
A spark hits her eyes, and she smiles as she jumps up. “I haven’t had my phone on. It was almost dead earlier, but this I’ve gotta see.”
She disappears into the house and comes back with her phone in one hand, charger chord in the other a few minutes later. “Do you have an outlet here? It’s definitely dead.”
“Don’t know anyone who’d be excited about making gossip sites.” I stand and take her phone. Unable to resist, I playfully tug on a chunk of her hair.
She turns her face toward the fire, and it’s obvious the blush hitting her cheeks has nothing to do with the fires flames, but from me.
“Thank you,” she says as I turn and crouch, plugging the charging chord into the outlet by the back door behind my chair. “And for gossip sites, it’s not every day a girl gets photographed.”
“Or is seen with me,” I say, guessing, but based on the way her cheeks burn brighter I’m right.
And the words she’s said earlier tumble over me. She’s paid attention to me. Being known in Portland, or recognized, isn’t uncommon for me, and yet somehow, with this girl, it bothers me.
She knows the entire pretty photographed story of my life, but she doesn’t know the shadows that linger long after the pictures are snapped and interviews are given. Hell, all over this house are family portraits, the picture-perfect adoring husband holding his wife tight to his side while his hand lovingly lands on my head.
Except my father isn’t that guy.
