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No matter how I look at the situation, I worry.
This is why I don’t let people into my life. Dash and Leo give me enough stress.
Even though I know my persistent anxiety would only make my father happy, I can’t seem to eradicate the worry. The apprehension seeps into every inch of my body, and I find myself jogging from my car to my front door, eager to check that my little—temporary—family is safe and secure.
A week later when I arrive home from work, a savory scent drifts to me when I enter my house. I pull in a deeper breath.
“Charlie?” Following my nose, I find him in the kitchen, bent over the stove.
He straightens and offers a sheepish smile. Pig trots up to me, wagging her tail wildly as I scratch behind her ears.
“Hey.” Charlie continues to stir a large pot. “How was work?”
The question is so domestic I’m immediately on guard.
“Fine.” I drag the word out. “What’s this?”
Because he’s not just making dinner. There are fresh flowers in a vase on the table, and my fake husband wears a white button-down shirt and a pair of dove-gray slacks that hug his ass so well there should be a monument built in honor of the curves.
Not something I should notice about my fake husband, I remind myself for roughly the thousandth time.
“Come here.” Charlie steps around the island, picking up a beer on the way and pressing the cool glass into my hand as he guides me to the kitchen table. On the wooden surface is a stack of wrapped gifts.
“My birthday isn’t until May.”
“Ah. But this isn’t for your birthday.” Charlie kneels on one knee beside my chair. If we weren’t already married, I’d be concerned he was about to propose. “Happy one-month anniversary.”
“Charlie,” I groan as realization hits. “Seriously? We’re fake married! You can’t get me gifts for a fake anniversary.”
“Too late!” He grins.
“Well then, return them.” I shove the packages away like the ungrateful bitch I am.
But Charlie only shrugs, his smile not wavering in the slightest. “Can’t. They’re personalized.”
I mutter a curse as he straightens and returns to the kitchen, likely to finish making whatever delicious creation I smell. For a full minute I sit pouting and sipping my beer. Charlie doesn’t prod or get mad or insist I open the gifts.
He just keeps cooking.
Eventually, curiosity overwhelms my good sense, and I pull the first wrapped rectangle toward me. There’s a certain pleasure in tearing off the paper. Until all I find is an empty frame. Picking it up, I check the back, then the front again.
But nope, nothing to see.
“It’s empty,” I announce.
Charlie makes a noncommittal noise in his throat.
I move on to the next one.
And the next.
And the next.
And so on until I’ve opened six empty frames.
Well, this is a certain kind of bullshit. And when I realize I’m disappointed, I have to admit I let myself get excited about a surprise that shouldn’t even be happening.
“Here.” Charlie sets another wrapped rectangle down in front of me.
