One Hot Fake

I squirm. I’d better stop her before she says something that will make Mrs. Carter dislike me even more than she does.

“Perhaps you’d like to meet his mother first,” I say smoothly. I take Amelia’s hand and shift her so that Mrs. Carter is in her line of vision.

Amelia steps forward, and she and Mrs. Carter shake hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I can tell that Amelia is a little taken aback by my showing up with my mother-in-law.

They exchange a few pleasantries, and then Amelia leads us to a comfortable couch and calls for attention from the guys. She introduces me as her client. Then she explains what I’m looking for. Fairly decent-looking guys to be bridegrooms for a day.

I can feel Mrs. Carter’s gaze burning into me, but I’m too busy picking the guys for the wedding. I feel like shit when I pick my five and the rest are turned away. I don’t know how Amelia does this. Half an hour after we entered, we leave Amelia’s office.

Mrs. Carter waits until we are in the car. “Is that how weddings are done here? Isn’t the groom supposed to pick groomsmen who are his friends? How can you hire them?” She sounds genuinely horrified.

I give her a short explanation that the groom has no groomsmen. Mrs. Carter has very definite beliefs about people, which leads me to believe that she’s led a very sheltered life.

“I thought you’d like it here,” I tell her as I drive through to the parking lot of the garden restaurant. It has a Santa Monica beach feel as it’s surrounded by a lush garden and a huge fountain in the middle of it.

“It looks nice,” she says.

Inside the restaurant, the hostess takes us to our table out in the garden. We order drinks, and then another waiter appears with the menus, and we order our lunch.

Mrs. Carter asks for a salad.

“Is that all you’re having?” I ask her, disappointed. “The food is out of this world. You sure you don’t want to try?”

“I’m sure,” she says.

I’m starving, and I order a steak and buttered potatoes. Our drinks come, and when the waiter leaves, tension is tight between us, and I don’t know how to make her comfortable. It’s the most awkward lunch I’ve ever had.

She forks her salad with more force than necessary, and when she’s halfway done, she pushes the plate away. Then she looks up at me and smiles. Relief floods me. Maybe she’s decided to try and make this work.

“We missed you last week when Declan came home for dinner,” she says.

I wrack my brain. Declan never mentioned dinner with his parents. She laughs softly. “That was silly of me. He wouldn’t have, now would he, considering that we were having dinner with Ruby.”

I walk straight into the trap. “Who is Ruby?”

“Ruby is … sorry, was Declan’s fiancée. An old friend whose parents are our friends too.” A triumphant look comes over her face, but I don’t care.

All I can think is that Declan went to dinner at his parents with his ex in attendance, and he didn’t mention it. Pain spreads across my chest. I suddenly lose my appetite and push my plate away.

I knew it, a voice inside my head says. He doesn’t want to be married, but he won’t tell me. I have to hold it together. I can’t let Mrs. Carter see how badly she’s hurt me.

She leans forward. “Why don’t you be the adult between the two of you and forget about this sham of a marriage?”

I thrust out my chin in defiance. “Declan and I have feelings for each other.”

“Oh,” she says. “Is that why he agreed to come for dinner with Ruby?” She lets out a deep sigh. “Ruby is one of us. She and Declan are perfect for each other. They grew up together, and she knows our ways.”

That all may be true, but there’s one glaring problem. I’ve fallen in love with my husband. I trusted him and opened my heart to him. Now, he’s doing what I knew that men did. He’s trampling all over it.

Chapter 37

Declan

I try calling Marian again, and her phone goes unanswered. I remind myself how busy her day gets, but usually, she manages to send me a text. At near five, my phone vibrates, and I’m relieved to see a text from her.

I’ll be late getting home. Don’t wait up.

What kind of crap is this? Why would she write such a message? I think back to this morning. We’d made love in the morning and spent an extra half an hour relaxing in bed, chatting about nonconsequential things. Nothing can explain the terse message she just sent. Fear clenches like a tight fist around my chest.

We wrap up for the day, and I drive home, where I go through the motions, shower, make coffee, and carry it to the living room. I turn on the TV and distract myself with the news. At dinner time, I make myself a sandwich and wash it down with another cup of coffee. I clean up, and still Marian isn’t home.