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“Quite far,” Stanley adds. “I need to get on the Internet and do a Google of ahh—” Stanley circles a finger toward Owen. “That place.”
I scoff. “Gosh, it’s so small, it probably wouldn’t even come up!” I titter out a laugh, and Owen, playing his part, wraps one arm around my back.
His finger and thumb find a patch of skin at the nape of my neck, circling the skin there and sending shoots of bottle rockets into my stomach.
Those bottle rockets feel awfully real for my very fake husband.
Another couple sits, but Carol remains ever-focused on Owen and me.
“You’re newlyweds, aren’t you?” Her rosy cheeks flare pink with her grin. “I get feels about these things.” She sets both her hands on the table and leans in, still on her feet.
Stanley wraps an arm around her rump but nods at us. “She gets the feels.”
I swallow down my laugh and turn to peer at Owen. “Thefeels,” I say.
“She’s not wrong,” cool-as-a-cucumber Owen says. “We are newlyweds.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Two years,” I say. That’s still newlywed—right?
The only problem is right as I speak, so does Owen. “Six months,” he blabs.
“Two years and six months!” I bark, my eyes wide and unblinking.
Carol sits, sighs contentedly, and starts in on her meal.
Owen squeezes my shoulders, playing into the charade.
I wait for Carol and Stan to focus on the newcomers, but they are happy to stick with Owen and me.
“Any children yet?” Carol asks. “Two years is plenty long. Stan and I have four of our own.”
I give Owen a wry grin. I told him this was coming. Man, I love being right.
“Ah, no,” I say. “Not yet.”
“Yetbeing the key word,” Stanley chortles. “You just wait, Owen. She’ll be asking you for a baby soon.”
“Well, it might be the other way around, Stan.” Owen laughs as if he’s talking to an old friend.
When did my friend become so skilled at pretending? Oh yeah… years of hiding his feelings for me honed that skill.
Stanley laughs. “Is that so? What line of work are you in?”
This time, Owen sticks to the truth. “Education.”
Carol gives a shifty smile. “Asmallfamily then.”
“I work too,” I say, for some reason needing to defend my best friend and fake husband’s chosen profession to these strangers. “We do fine with both salaries, and Owen’s the best middle school teacher in all of C—” I knit my brows and think. “Rhode Island,” I finally decide on.
While Owen offers, “Virginia.”
I swallow. “Yep.” Shoot, where are we from again? Rhode Island, Virginia or Virginia, Rhode Island?
We dig into our meal, keeping up our ruse. Owen is surprisingly good at the fake husband game. The entire time, he drapes an arm around my back or presses a hand to my knee—Carol and Stan can’t even see my knee.
After the staff clears our meal, I rest my hand on the tabletop, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Owen laces his fingers through mine.
