Best Fake Fiancé: A Single Dad Romance (Loveless Brothers Romance Book 2)

Me: He’s definitely alive, right?

Seth: Yep. False alarm.

Seth: Looks like shit, but he’s alive and I do believe he’ll stay that way.

I THANK SETH, then toss my phone onto my workstation and take a deep breath.

For the record, I wasn’t actually worried, like worried worried. But he did text Seth that he was dying, and when he didn’t answer Seth’s texts or calls, Seth called me to see if I knew what was up.

And, obviously, you read stories about people who are perfectly fine one day, then somehow ingest the wrong amoeba and next thing you know, they’re dead.

But this isn’t that, this is a stomach bug that he got from his kid, so I shake my head, put my goggles back on, and get back to the band saw.

THAT AFTERNOON, Seth picks Rusty up from school, and when I get out of work I swing by his place and grab her since Seth has a prior commitment. I don’t ask what — or who — his prior commitment is, because chances are, I’ll hear about it sooner or later.

Rusty and I have Charlie’s Special Pasta — spaghetti with jarred black olives and broccoli — for dinner, and then we head to my workshop, in a garage I’m renting from one of my mom’s church friends.

Right now, I’m refinishing a two-hundred-year-old table for the Monteverte Historical Society, because they’re reopening Monteverte House as a historical attraction next year. They found this table in one of the junky antique stores that line the rural roads out here, and in the 70s, someone glued comic book pages all over the top.

Getting them off has been a several-step nightmare, but it’s nearly done.

Someday, I’d love to work for myself. I’d love to own all my own stuff, work on my own schedule, be my own boss. For now, it’s just a side gig, though.

I set Rusty up with her homework at a table in the corner and start sanding the comic book pages off the two-hundred-year-old table. Even though she’s well away from the particulates, I make her wear a mask anyway.

I’m finally making some progress on the stuff when she calls my name.

“Charlie!”

“Yeah?”

“Is this a cat?” she calls.

I perch my goggles on my head and walk over to where she’s standing on her tiptoes, looking at a bunch of small carved animals I’ve haphazardly arranged on a shelf.

“It’s a bear,” I say, trying not to laugh. “See, it’s got a super stubby tail.”

“It looks like it could be a cat with no tail,” she says.

She puts it back in its place and picks up another one, frowning at it for a moment.

“What’s this?” she asks.

Very diplomatic of her.

“That’s a raccoon,” I say. “See, it’s got the stripes on its tail?”

“Raccoons have masks.”

“It’s hard to carve a mask, though,” I point out.

“You carved stripes.”

What are you, kid, an art critic?

“That was easier,” I say.

She puts it back with that exaggerated caution kids have when they’re being extra-careful. I’m relieved that I tossed the voodoo doll I carved of her mom, not that she’d be able to tell what it was.

Whatever I may think of Crystal — namely, that she’s half demon and half swampthing — I’ve never said anything negative about her in front of Rusty, and I’ve never heard Daniel say anything bad, either. Despite her many, many, many faults, the woman is still Rusty’s mom, and the kid loves her to death.

There’s going to come a day when she doesn’t. Rusty’s a sharp, perceptive kid. Sooner or later she’s going to see Crystal’s bullshit for what it is, and just like everything else, the damage control is going to fall to Daniel.

“This is an elephant,” she says confidently, pulling another one down.

Inwardly, I sigh.

“Anteater,” I confess.

“Why’d you make an anteater instead of an elephant?” she asks. “Elephants are cooler.”

“But anteaters eat ants,” I point out. “Giant anteaters can eat thirty thousand ants in one day.”

I don’t remember where I learned that. I can only hope it’s right, or Rusty’s going to correct me next time I see her.

“Gross,” she says. “Can I make one?”

I open my mouth to say no, but then I close it without making a sound, because I was around her age when my Granddad first taught me woodworking. Somewhere, I’ve still got the snake I made under his supervision, even though he’s been gone for years now.

It’s a quiet, artistic task. Rusty’s smart for her age and good with her hands. I’ll keep a close eye on her.

“As long as you promise to be very, very careful,” I say, and her eyes light up as she nods.

I find her a small block of pine — it’s soft — and a penknife, then show her how to start. I suggest that for her first carving she try something simple, like an egg, but she informs me that she’ll be carving a wombat.

I drag her table over next to me, both of us wearing masks again, and I swear I look over at what she’s doing every thirty seconds. Every few minutes I put down the sander, go over, and give her a few pointers, stress safety again and again.

When it’s time to wrap things up, she hasn’t made a wombat, but she’s made progress toward one, and she positively beaming with pride.

“Nicely done,” I say, examining it. “You sure this is your first carving?”

“Can I keep the knife and finish it at home?” she asks.

“No,” I say, a little too suddenly and too harshly.

I clear my throat.

“You can’t have the knife, but you can finish it next time you visit, all right?”

“Please?”

“Sorry, kiddo,” I say. “You ready to head back home? I think your dad misses you.”

She walks back to the shelf of wooden animals and places the not-quite-wombat among them, and once it’s back, I turn and start putting the belt sander away.

“He tried to pour orange juice in my cereal this morning,” she says, matter-of-factly.

“Your dad’s not feeling very good today,” I tell her over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”

I manage not to laugh. Rusty hates it when we laugh at her being serious.

I close up the shop, load her into my car, drive to Daniel’s house, knock on the door.

It opens three inches, then stops short when it hits the end of the chain.

“Hey, guys,” half of Daniel’s face says.

He doesn’t look good: pale, a circle under the eye I can see, his hair slightly greasy and sweaty-looking, beard a little scruffy. I immediately have the urge to put him back in bed and put a cool cloth on his forehead.

Rusty shoves at the door, but it doesn’t budge.

“Daaaaaaaaaad,” she says, leaning against it with two hands.

“Just a sec, Rusty,” he says, then looks at me. “You can’t come in.”

I stand on tiptoes, trying to see past him.

“What happened?” I ask, alarmed.

I’m imagining a bodily-fluid nightmare. It’s gross.

“Nothing happened,” he says quickly. “I just don’t want you to get sick.”

“I promise not to lick your doorknobs,” I say. “Now can I please come in?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll help put this one to bed.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Daniel.”

“I’m not letting you get Ebola, and that’s final,” he says, a slight smile around the single eye I can see.

So at least he feels well enough to smile.

“You don’t have Ebola,” I say. “If you had Ebola, you’d already be—”

I stop myself before I say bleeding from the eyeballs and probably dead.

“—sicker,” I finish, glancing down at Rusty.

Rusty just glares up at her dad and lets out a long, annoyed sigh.

“Charlie’s gotta get off the porch before I let you in,” he says to her.

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Seriously.”

“I can’t even come inside and make you Gatorade or something?”

“Away, Charlie.”

“You let Seth in.”

“Seth has a key,” he says. “Seth let himself in. Besides, if you miss the cake tasting Saturday…”

He trails off, one eyebrow arched, and even though he looks pretty rough at the moment, my stomach flutters.

Rusty shoves at the door again, this time leaning against it with one shoulder.

“Fine,” I tell Daniel. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I’d give you a kiss, but…”

“You really don’t need to,” I laugh, and then I ruffle Rusty’s hair. “Later, kiddo.”

“Bye, Charlie! DAD NOW CAN I COME IN?”

I descend the porch steps as I hear the front door opening and Rusty’s little voice saying finally. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Daniel for a split second: white undershirt, gray sweatpants, bare feet.

Before he shuts the door, he looks up and sees me, standing twenty feet away, and waves.

Then he blows me a kiss. Laughing, I catch it, and he closes the door.

THURSDAY:

“You’re not even contagious anymore.”

“Says you, a noted infectious disease expert.”

“Come on. I’ll bring you chicken soup.”

“Charlie, there’s so much chicken soup in the pantry here that I’d outlast the zombie apocalypse.”

I sigh.

“You don’t even need someone to hang out with Rusty?”

“Levi’s taking her to her piano lesson.”

“Does that have anything to do with the fact that June’s been at the Mountain Grind a lot lately?”

The Mountain Grind is two doors down from the Sprucevale School of Music.

Daniel snorts. I’m pretty sure he’s feeling better, but he swears that if I show up at his house, he won’t let me in.

“I’m not going to ask him that,” Daniel says. “Are you going to ask him that?”

I just laugh, because I think asking Levi that would result in a stone-faced denial that he’d ever met anyone with the name June.

“I’m not,” I say.

FRIDAY:

“You’re serious.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“You could see me tonight,” I point out.

It’s been five days since I saw him. Peeking through the door Wednesday doesn’t count. That’s five days of thinking nonstop about being pushed against a truck on Sunday night. Five days with the promise of more dangling over my head.

It’s five days of working on an antique table and carving staircase parts for some yacht and wondering what to wear Saturday.

It’s five days of quietly wondering if this is the universe giving me the signal that going there with Daniel is a bad idea. It doesn’t feel like a bad idea. It feels like a great idea. But deep down, there’s a part of me that’s afraid of change, afraid of taking the risk.

There’s that part of me that’s afraid that if I leap, I’ll be left with nothing.

On the other end of the phone, Daniel pauses. I know he went back to work today, so he’s at least that much better.

“Charlie, if I get you sick before tomorrow I will lose my goddamn mind,” he says, keeping his voice low. He’s in his office and I’m on my lunch break.

I swallow my piece of sandwich.

“You’re just that excited to taste cake with me?” I tease, even as my pulse picks up.

He just laughs.

“Sure,” he says. “I’m really excited to taste cake.”

Just then, one of my coworkers who also happens to be in the break room glances over.

I jump out of my chair so fast I nearly knock it over and walk out of the break room, into the empty back hallway, face flushing pink.

“You still there?” Daniel asks.

“Still here,” I say. “And you still haven’t given me a good reason why I can’t come over tonight.”

“I threw up seven times in two days and sweated through all my bedsheets twice,” he says. “How’s that for a good reason?”

I sigh.

“And if there’s four more days when I can’t see you, I’m going to start flipping tables over from frustration,” he goes on.

I lean my head back against the wall, close my eyes.

“Don’t do that, someone worked hard on those.”

“I’m pretty sure my desk is from Ikea.”

“Then someone Swedish worked hard on that.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” he says. His voice is low, quiet, shiver-inducing. “And I won’t flip any tables.”

“All right,” I finally acquiesce, because despite being the most even-keeled Loveless brother, he can be stubborn as a goddamn pig-headed bull sometimes. “Tomorrow.”

“Ten?”

“Ten,” I confirm, we say goodbye, and we hang up.

I shove my phone into my pocket. I kick the cement floor once and make a face at it, because it’s there. I pack up the remnants of my lunch, put it back in the fridge, and go back to work.

That night, it’s me and my vibrator. Again.