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“Well, what happens now?” she finally asks.
“I’ll get my friend to draw up the prenup, then we can get a marriage license and go through with it. The sooner, the better, so we can get Izzy on the insurance from the beginning.”
She thinks this over for a second and then nods. Tilting her head to the side, she asks, “Do you think Josie’s really psychic?”
“No,” I say, laughing with genuine humor. “She probably tells two thirds of the people she meets they’re getting married. She got lucky. I’d prefer if you don’t ask her to be one of the witnesses, but I have a feeling you’re going to do the exact opposite of whatever I say, so I’ll leave it up to you.”
She smiles at me as I pack up, and Flower pads over to sit at her feet, her doggy face seeming to grin at me. Of course she’s grinning—she’s marked her territory, and her territory is apparently me.
“I’ll be in touch,” I say, and Ruthie pulls off a smart salute that makes me roll my eyes again. “Say hello to the tyke for me, kid.”
Her scowl is like a balm to my soul—I’ve always called her that, and she’s always hated it.
As I put my coat back on and turn to leave, I remember the very particular lie I told the legal beagle. “I need to get you a ring,” I say. “Me too, I guess.”
She laughs, but this time without humor. “I have a ring.”
I’m already shaking my head before she finishes. “I’m not going to let him think I bought you that rinky-dink thing.”
Her chin firms. I know I’ve stepped my foot in shit again, but I don’t care. She didn’t pick out the rinky-dink ring—her asshole ex did, and I refuse to apologize for insulting him.
“You’re a snob.”
“I am,” I agree. “I’ll handle it.”
“Let me,” she argues. “I’ll pick out the biggest Cubic Zirconia at Wal-Mart.”
She looks like she actually enjoys the prospect, but I shake my head. “I’ll handle it.”
This may be a sham marriage, a lie, but I’m not going to have my wife, fake or not, wandering around with something that’s obviously a Wal-Mart special.
“Fine,” she says, sounding done with me. She starts in on the cake again, then pokes the bag and says, “Take some of this stuff with you.”
“I got it for you and Izzy,” I remind her.
“First rule of fake parenting—don’t douse your child in sugar.”
I give her a half a smile. “I’ll have to remember that. Talk to you soon, Ruthie.”
But before I can to the front door, I hear a little voice saying, “Mama?”
Chapter Nine
Shane
Izzy appears from the back hallway, her hair in a frizzy dark halo around her head. She’s wearing Frozen pajamas, and it’s impossible not to smile, especially when she catches sight of the sugar buffet set out in front of her mother, who looks like she’s throwing a bunch of mental f-bombs. “Did you get this for me, Mama? Can I have some?”
“It’s not for right now, honey,” Ruthie says, snapping the plastic box shut over the broken heart cake. “It’s for…breakfast.”
“We’re having cake for breakfast?”
“We are now.” Her gaze travels to me and then the door. It’s obviously a silent plea for me to get out, but it’s too late. Izzy’s eyes follow hers, widening when she sees me.
“Uncle Shane, what on Earth are you doing here? And why are you wearing pajamas? Are you and Mom having a sleepover, like that time Uncle Tank stayed over?”
An ugly feeling swells in my chest, and I glance at Ruthie to see how she reacts. Is there something between her and this man with the stupid name? She said they’ve been friends since they were kids. That’s an awfully long time to be friends with someone like Ruthie without trying anything. I’ve known her for longer, probably, but I’m also five years older. I didn’t need to institute Rule Number One until much later.
“No, honey,” she tells Izzy without hesitation. “Shane was just leaving. And he tried on Uncle Danny’s pajamas to see if they’d fit.”
