I’m back living under my mother’s roof, sleeping in my old bedroom with neon stars on the ceiling; my teenage daughter hates me, hates school, hates everything—except my mother, apparently; I have no money, no prospects, no light at the end of a tunnel. And my perimenopausal body doesn’t seem to know which way is up.
Who in their right mind would want to get involved withthat?
If it weren’t for the flutters I feel when the stranger enters my orbit, I would have assumed my libido had handed in its notice.
I’m listening to Ted mansplaining the rules of baseball to me when the door to the bar opens. The low chatter quietens andmy skin prickles with awareness. As I look up, the door bangs shut and my stomach quivers.
He’s staring right at me, a determined look in those hazel eyes. The conviction in them unnerves me.
I break his gaze to pour a double measure of Johnnie Walker, then I turn back to place it on the bar just as he slides onto a stool.
I’m getting good at this barmaid gig.
A smile pulls at his mouth but the rest of his expression remains serious. He hasn’t removed his gaze from me the whole time and my body temperature has risen to hot sweat levels. I tentatively lift a finger to my forehead, relieved when it comes away dry.
He drops a small package onto the bar. My blouse. Lovely and clean and pressed and now the subject of my envy since it’s been in his possession for who knows how long.
“Thank you.” I take the blouse and pop it on the back of the bar.
“You’re welcome. Where’s the showgirl outfit?”
Every part of me I didn’t know could flutter, flutters. “Locked away—for everyone’s protection.”
One side of his mouth twitches.
“I have a proposition for you,” he says in a low drawl.
My nerves flare. What on God’s earth could he want from me?
I fold my arms across my chest. “What kind of proposition?”
“A job.”
I lift a shoulder. “I have a job.”
He ignores my comment. “One week. Bobby will release you.”
Having seen the way my manager seems to worship this man, I don’t doubt that he would.
I arch a brow. “Doing what? And don’t say ‘being a showgirl.’ I retired a long time ago.”
“Pretending to be my wife.”
Disbelief slams into me and my mouth drops open. “What? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m being dead serious,” he says. And his expression reaffirms his words, steeling my spine.
“Okay, back up a little. I mean, what?”
Not shifting his eyes from me, he unbuttons his jacket, props his elbows on the bar and rests his chin on tented fingers.
“I have an opportunity to close an important deal, but it’s happening on a couples’ retreat, so I need a wife. I’m not married, so a fake one will have to do.”
Tapping my fingers against my lips, I mutter, “Hmm, a fake one will have to do. You make it sound so…inviting.”
I laugh lightly and turn to serve a customer who’s just walked in.
Then the stranger coughs loudly and Bobby appears in an instant. When he follows the stranger’s line of sight, he hops to attention and serves the new customer—so that, presumably, I can give the stranger my full attention.
