Mister Fake Fiance

Right there where? What the hell are they doing to my bedroom? Actually, what is Mom doing, since they’re here at her bidding?

By the time I reach my room, the crew’s drilling into the wall facing my bed. Annoyance shoots through me. Instead of mounting a TV there, I left it empty. All the literature says to avoid working or watching TV in bed to get better sleep, and I’m a big believer in getting a good seven hours every night.

Now I’m going to have to look up a hardware store and patch up the damned holes the crew made on my good, previously pristine wall.

“I don’t want a TV there,” I say to Erin.

“Don’t worry. It’s not a TV.” Her smile is positively sunny, and yet my stomach is sinking. I have a terrible feeling about this. “Cheer up, David.” Her gaze falls to my mug. “You want some more coffee? I can make you another.” She’s already halfway to the door.

“No, wait.” I grab her arm to stop her. Her bare skin feels warm and soft against my hand. I drop it like it burns. The contact doesn’t mean anything, but I don’t like the way my palm tingles. Must be the lingering effect of my hangover. I’ve never dealt with Erin without my full faculties. Or in this kind of setting—my bedroom, of all places.

“Yes?” she says, looking up at me.

“I don’t need another coffee.” Since my parents raised me to be a gentleman, I add, “Thanks anyway.”

“You’re welcome…” Her eyes widen as they flick over my shoulder to the wall. “Wow.”

I turn my head to look as well. And freeze.

What. The. Fuck.

“Wow” is an understatement. What in the world is this travesty, and why the hell did my mother think I’d want it in my bedroom?

The workmen have unwrapped and hung a portrait photo of my cousin Jan and her husband Matt Aston—who also happens to be my best friend back in Virginia. The picture is life size, the golden frame thick and ornate, like what you might see around a multimillion-dollar Renoir or Monet.

Jan’s quite pregnant in the picture—you can’t miss the baby bump, despite the high waist on her sunflower print dress. And Matt’s glowing like he’s the one with the bun in the oven.

But that isn’t the worst part. The worst is that they aren’t looking into each other’s eyes like a couple in love should. They’re looking straight at me. Well, they were looking straight at the camera when the photo was taken, but it looks like they’re looking at me. It’s creepy as fuck to have the picture on that wall.

And on the bottom are the gold-embossed words: Everything a man could ask for.

In what universe? I think as I stare at the picture in horror.

Erin signs off on the mini tablet one of the delivery guys holds out for her. “Isn’t it a great shot?”

I start to say no, but there’s such a bright glimmer in her eyes that I can’t. She’s just the messenger. “Uh-huh.” If you like being creeped out every time you go to bed.

“Your mother said it should be the first thing you see when you wake up and the last thing you see when you go to sleep.”

Mom can’t possibly think this is going to make me want to make babies. She’s either delusional or hopelessly optimistic. After a second of consideration, I choose stubborn, because she’s too smart and educated for either of the others.

“Anyway, my job’s done. So I’ll head out now and let you enjoy your weekend,” Erin says brightly.

“Thank you,” I say in the calmest voice I can muster, given the situation. “And I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Sure. Call or text if you need anything before then.” She smiles and heads out.

I stand at the foot of my unmade bed and stare at the picture. Then I lie down. From this angle, Jan and Matt are staring down at me. They aren’t judging because they aren’t that kind of people, but it’s disturbing anyway.

I have to take it down.

My phone rings. Mom. Just the person I’m dying to talk to.

Ready to unload what I think about her ridiculous present, I answer it.

Before I get a word out, she says, “Don’t even think about getting rid of it.”

What the… “How did you know it’s here?”