After hanging up, I sit on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair. Almost my entire family is descending—unannounced—right when everything with Bree is developing.
They don’t know about our arrangement or the mail-order marriage. Not a lick of it and that’s my fault. It all happened so fast and with the parameters we made and the deadline to dissolve it, I didn’t want them to love Bree and then learn that it’s all fake.
They’ll assume we’re really married, that it’s serious, and when Mom finds out it isn’t, she’ll be devastated.
And what will Bree think of my loud, boisterous family? What will they think of me, sidelined with an injury, living in a rental with a wife they’ve never heard of?
I’ve made myself a fine mess.
I wash up and get ready for a run, hoping a solution to this gingerbread house-like problem will come to me. When my brothers and I were kids, every year, we’d get gingerbread house kits and they’d always collapse like a house of cards in a light wind. We didn’t care because we were all about eating the candy and cookie walls, but this situation feels just as tenuous.
The run doesn’t help. Not even when I go an extra mile, eager to unravel the knots in my mind. When I get home, I shower, hoping that’ll give me clarity. Nope, just shriveled fingers. I get dressed and then make some coffee, hoping it’ll do the trick.
When Bree comes downstairs, still looking sleepy yet sweet, I say, “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Then her gaze darts to mine. “Something going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem …”
Out of sorts. I’m pacing the kitchen with the spatula in hand as my protein pancakes cook. “Uh, I have an unexpected house guest situation.”
“Oh, does that mean I should go to Nina’s?”
“I don’t mean they’re staying here. Probably at the inn or in Omaha. But, uh—” I scratch my temple. “They’ll be here in an hour.”
She inclines her head. “Who will be here?”
“My entire family,” I say, taking a swift swig of coffee.
She looks remarkably calm. “How many people are we talking about?”
“Almost everyone, actually. It’ll be my parents, two of my three brothers, one sister-in-law, and a fiancée, plus three nieces and nephews. Nine total.”
“Nine?” Her eyes widen.
Inod. “I should tell you something about my family. They’re ... a lot. Loud, competitive, no personal boundaries. They’ll probably ask invasive questions and tease you mercilessly.”
“Sounds familiar,” she says pointedly to me, but I catch the flicker of anxiety in her eyes.
“Har har. But personal questions about our situation.” I wag my finger between us, catching sight of hers, wrapped around the mug, still ringless … because this isn’t a real marriage born out of love. We have a piece of paper that states we’re a legal couple, but that’s it.
The dog sits patiently, tongue lolling as if he likes the sound of more attention.
Swallowing, I say, “It’s just for a few days. They’ll be going to my other brother’s house in time for Christmas.”
She nods slowly, takes her coffee, and rushes back upstairs, hollering, “I should get ready.”
Then she doubles back, picks up a few stray items on the counter, darts to the dog’s bed and tosses his toys in the basket, adjusts a few ornaments on the tree, and runs a finger across the mantel, studying the dust on her pointer finger. Panic seizes her and she starts back toward the stairs.
I rush over and gently grip her shoulders. “You’re darting around like a housefly who ate an entire coffee bean.”
“There’s so much to do with less than sixty minutes on the clock.”
I shake my head slowly, recalling what she said about her mother keeping up appearances. “Bree, my family isn’t like that.”
“Like what?”
