She quirked a brow at me. “Is that what you’re worried about? That you’ll become a notch on his bedpost?”
“No.” I blurted it out a little too fast.
“Ryder isn’t a heartbreaker. He’s a young man who like all other young men, and most young women, enjoys sex. Just because he hasn’t found a woman to commit to doesn’t mean he’s against relationships.”
“You’re not saying I’m the right woman.” Now I knew she was just toying with me.
“I’m saying that it’s unfair to judge a single man for being single. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find out there’s more to him.”
Taking a breath, I said, “That won’t happen. He’s not my type and I’m not his.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” She waggled her eyebrows.
“I am.”
She gave me a disappointed stare. “Sometimes I think a good romp with my brother could help you lighten up. You both surely have the sexual tension.”
“We do not!” Perhaps there was something in the water that was making me crazy to take this deal, and causing Sinclair to say ridiculous things.
She laughed and slung her arm around me. “Come on, Mrs. Fake Ryder Simms, let’s get you to your new home.”
I glared at her, but surrendered. I climbed into my car while Sinclair got into hers and we drove out to Ryder’s place. As we left the city center, I was hit with the realization that my day-to-day life was going to change. Maybe not at work, but my off-work routine would. I wouldn’t be able to order take out and delivery from the Chinese restaurant. I couldn’t walk downtown to pick up forgotten necessities, although I rarely ever forgot anything. My morning walk around the town square would be out.
Ryder’s house was outside the hustle and bustle of our small town. He wasn’t quite out in the sticks like the farmers, but he was away from town on several acres. Out there, it would be quiet and lonely. Well, except for Ryder, but he wasn’t my idea of good company.
I groaned and slapped my hand on my steering wheel. Why had I agreed to this stupid bet? Pride, of course. What was that saying? Pride goeth before the fall? I was falling for sure for accepting this bet. I had to focus on what I’d get when this was all said and done; my book.
The book was the one other time in my life where my rational self took a vacation. I wasn’t one for sentiment or girlie, flowery things, but that book suggested that at one moment in time, I was. I’d created it when Sinclair found out she was pregnant. She didn’t tell me that Wyatt was the father, but she did share that her baby-daddy was gone, leaving her alone. She was so afraid and worried. While I’d never been pregnant and alone, I knew how scary life could be when it felt out of control. I wanted to cheer her up and help her realize that she wasn’t alone. So, I put together a book with drawings of silly things like fairies and unicorns, and pages of poems that, at the time, I thought were worthy of Emily Dickenson, but upon reflection years later made me cringe.
In my defense, the book worked. Sinclair loved it. She’d even named her daughter after one of the fairies I’d made in the book, Alyssa. She told me it helped her to feel loved and supported, so
I’d felt it had been worth being vulnerable and letting out my inner softy. That was, until Ryder got a hold of the book. God, even now, my cheeks flamed with embarrassment and anger over that.
I could remember the humiliation like it happened yesterday even though it was nearly ten years ago. Sinclair was home from college, and I dragged her to the Harvest Festival as another way to try and cheer her up. At that time, the thought of seeing her brother Ryder, didn’t bother me. The truth of the matter was that I’d lusted for him in the way teenage girls did since we were in middle school. Not that anything ever came of it. After all, he was my best friend’s brother. While the girl code dictated that I couldn’t covet my friend’s brother, as far as I was concerned, it didn’t include not hating him if the situation called for it. What Ryder did to me absolutely called for my dislike of him.
I’d been able to convince Sinclair to go to the festival by telling her we should support Ryder’s band who’d be playing there. It would be their first significant gig, and he needed all the support he could get.
He stepped out on stage in his faded jeans, his brown hair a little longer than it was today, his body a little leaner, but still a hottie. All the girls in town screamed in adoration of him as he smiled and began strumming his guitar. He started to sing, and my entire world collapsed.
He played a jaunty tune that sounded like a parody or something meant to be a joke. As he sang, the words were familiar, and I realized they were my words from a poem that I’d put in Sinclair’s book.
People in the crowd laughed as he goofed around singing the silly tune. But inside, I died. The words hadn’t been written to be funny. Ryder, ever the prankster, who never considered the feelings of others, had turned me into the joke of the town.
I looked around the crowd, all of whom were laughing. He never said where he’d gotten his lyrics, but it didn’t matter. All that laughter felt like it was directed at me.
Sinclair’s gaze shot to mine, clearly recognizing the words. Unable to deal with it, I ran off and vowed to hate Ryder Simms for the rest of my days. Ten years later, I haven’t recanted or relented that vow.
I pushed all of that away as I pulled in front of Ryder’s house. I sat for a minute in the car, wondering if maybe I should just concede that fake marriages could be hard and then I wouldn’t have to go through with this. But then I remembered that losing meant I’d have to give a speech. That wasn’t going to happen.
God, I was an idiot. Deciding I could avoid him because I worked days and he worked a lot of nights, and I could hide away in the guest bedroom as much as possible to avoid him, I shored up my courage.
I got out of the car and looked at the rundown old farmhouse in the middle of Nebraska farmland. My apartment was modern and convenient. Now I was moving back in time to a ramshackle house that was miles from any amenities.
Sinclair pulled up behind me as Ryder appeared on the porch with his signature no-care-in-the-world smile.
“Welcome home, wife,” he said.
“Fake wife to you,” I quipped.