Best Fake Fiance (Loveless Brothers 2)

I look down at the table, at Rusty’s drawing of us with a wombat.

I just fucked up.

I panicked. I never panic, except that I did just now, faced with losing Rusty to exclusive neighborhoods and private schools, to a mom who’s suddenly claiming to be someone I know she’s not, to a stepdad who could probably afford to actually purchase and house a wombat if he felt like it.

I, who live with my mother and own a business based around alcohol, lied to a judge.

I, who send my child to public schools and will only ever be able to afford public schools, lied to a judge.

Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

I’m nauseous. My undershirt is soaked with sweat, because I just told a bald-faced lie to the man who’ll decide whether my daughter stays here or moves across the country.

Unbelievably stupid.

I try to listen to what the judge is saying now, what the next steps here are, but I can barely hear him over the pounding of blood in my ears. I grab a pen and write down a word, a phrase, here and there, but I can barely listen.

Maybe it will be fine.

It doesn’t have to be a big deal. No one outside of this courtroom knows, and Crystal doesn’t even live in town anymore.

Get Charlie a fake ring, talk her into coming to the next hearing with you, and it’ll all be fine.

Totally fine.

No big deal.

“Dismissed,” the judge says, and everyone else stands. A moment later, I stand, and the judge leaves the room through a back door.

Lucinda turns to me immediately, her lips still a thin line.

“Congratulations,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say automatically.

At the other table, Crystal, her new husband, and her lawyer all stand. They file out, one by one, Crystal glancing over at me, her hands no longer on her belly now that the judge is gone.

We lock eyes. Hers are cold, blank, unreadable.

“Daniel,” Lucinda says, her voice grave.

The knots in my stomach tighten so hard I think they might break. I feel like a kid about to get chastised at school, but I also know that I deserve it.

I clear my throat.

“Yes?”

“You know that lying to a judge during a custodial hearing would reflect far more poorly on you than being a single father, don’t you?” she says.

I swallow hard. I shove one hand through my hair, my nerves jangling anew.

Fuck. Fuck!

“I panicked,” I admit, closing my eyes. “I didn’t mean to. But he was talking about letting her bond with her baby sister and having a real family and sending her to private schools and giving her ice-skating lessons and buying her ponies and—”

“—all of which is simply talk from the plaintiff, they’ve got nothing to back up those assertions—"

“—and I panicked,” I finish. “That’s all. I panicked and said something stupid and — oh, fuck me running, I can’t believe I said that.”

Lucinda sighs.

Then she puts one hand on my arm.

“Is Charlotte at least a real person?”

I just nod, mutely.

“Think she’d be willing to put on a ring and come to a hearing?”

I take a deep breath.

“I think I could talk her into it,” I say.Chapter TwoCharlieIt’s been ninety minutes. Still no text.

I snap my goggles back onto my face, make sure that my hair’s all properly secured, and turn the lathe on again, the low hum filling the air around me. I lower the chisel until it’s biting into the spinning wood, a gap widening.

I let up on the chisel, do it again on another point, slide it down the length of the wood as it spins, cutting the square piece round. This is the ninth baluster that I’ve turned today, so by now I’m doing it on autopilot.

He can’t possibly still be in court. It’s been an hour and a half.

I frown at the wood as it takes shape: a lump here, an elongated lump in the middle, tapering off toward the top and bottom. Another bump. A line.

Usually, I revel in this sort of thing. I like turning a lump of wood into art, coaxing a form out of nothing. I like using my hands and creating something I can hold, touch, feel. It’s why I like my job.

Except today I can’t focus on it to save my life. I’m a bundle of nerves, my mind everywhere but in front of me.

He forgot to turn his phone back on, I tell myself. He was out of there in twenty minutes, everything is fine, he just forgot.

I narrow the taper at one end, careful not to press too hard. I’ve already had to scrap one of these today.

Right. When was the last time Daniel forgot something?

I can’t even think of it. I know he’s not perfect. He must forget things all the time, but compared to me — someone who routinely goes to warm up a forgotten cup of coffee, only to discover yesterday’s forgotten coffee already in the microwave — he seems like a machine.