Page 47 of The Husband Hoax

“Yikes. Frosting I can cover up, it might be harder to do if you wet your pants.”

“And since I wouldn’t want to put you in that position …” I lean my body in the direction he was pulling me earlier and he turns to his sister.

“We’ll be back. Can you organize us something stronger than that shitty wine? I get the feeling we’re going to need it.”

“I’ll say,” Elle agrees. “Gran and Clifford The Perve have already spotted you.”

“Who?” I’d laugh if they both didn’t look so annoyed.

“It’s a long story,” Émile says. “But we should probably get this over with.”

Elle squeezes his arm. “I’ll head off Darcy, he’s coming this way too.”

“Lifesaver.”

“You owe me.”

Elle leaves in the opposite direction to us, and I can’t help glancing back. She comes to a stop in front of a drop-dead gorgeous man, who hugs her like an old friend, and the name Darcy prickles at my mind.

“Is that the guy …”

Émile sighs. “Don’t worry, Elle will keep him at bay.”

Ah, yeah. That’s not what I was worried about. And sure, looks aren’t everything, but that dude could be in an Abercrombie catalog.

I knew I should have taken out my nose ring. I automatically play with the piercing before quickly dropping my hand. Maybe if I don’t draw attention to it, no one will notice?

Sure, dumbass, no one will notice the large silver hoop hanging off the front of your face.

Instead of doing what I want to, which is face palm, I force down a long breath. Then another for good measure. Pity neither of them are effective, because by the time Émile comes to a stop in front of five strangers, I’m convinced I’m about to hyperventilate. Or have a heart attack. I’d joke about how I sound like Xander, but it’s kinda hard to do that with the heavy weight pressing on my chest.

“… this is Christian.”

Cue smile. That’s all I manage. I’m not sure where my hands are or how I’m standing, justin and outbreaths and pulling my face into an expression I’mprayinglooks natural. Émile squeezes my hand, which helps me locate one of them, and the connection breaks through a little of my panic.

I find my other hand hovering at roughly head height in the Vulcan salute.

Fuck me.

I shove that tricky bastard in my pocket like that will somehow make them unsee that. Which isn’t happening when they’re allstaringat me.

“Lovely to greet you.” I clear my throat. “Ah, meet. Lovely tomeetyou. Obviously.” I go for a casual laugh that comes out slightly hysterical. “Just got a bit tongue tied. Nervous about meeting—notgreeting, heh—the family and—” I’m shaking out the front of my blazer to cool my overheating body before I catch up to what the hell I’m doing.

Émile cuts me off, thank god, and I wish he wasn’t still holding my hand because it’s all clammy and gross.

“Technically in this context, greet is correct as well. We’re all greeting each other, aren’t we?” He directs the question pleasantly toward a woman with an eerily blank face and eyes so light blue the color fades into the whites.

“Common usage overrides your point,” she says, very obviously not looking at me.

“But just because something is always done one way, doesn’t mean it’s correct.”

And maybe it’s because I know he’s unhappy with them, but I detect more weight behind those words than my earlier flub warrants.

“What’s your name?” a tall, older version of Émile asks. I’m assuming it’s his dad by the way the man’s eyes are narrowed disapprovingly on me.

“Christian. Sir.”

“Obviously. Who’s yourfamily?”

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