The Widower’s Girlfriend: Faking It Series - Sweet Romance Read online

  The Widower’s Girlfriend

  Faking It Series - Sweet Romance

  Marika Ray

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Widower’s Girlfriend

  Copyright 2019 Marika Ray

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13:

  978-1-950141-00-5 (Ebook Edition)

  (Print Edition)

  Major thanks to these fabulous ladies:

  Proofreader: Judy’s Proofreading

  Cover Artist: Amanda Walker

  Introduction

  Sometimes you have to fake it till you make it, in life and in matters of the heart.

  * * *

  Walker

  I practically have Widower stamped on my forehead as a speaker traveling the world talking about my experience losing my wife to cancer as newlyweds. Which has always suited me just fine. Until a woman all wrong for me jumpstarts my heart with her comical bad luck at the airport. If I help her out, even for just this weekend, will I also have to throw away my lucrative career as the permanently grieving husband?

  * * *

  Jemma

  This final yearly trip with my old friends from high school has gone from bad to worse with a broken suitcase handle and my clothes strewn all over the baggage belt. Tall, dark, and handsome has witnessed all my humiliation with that condescending smirk, yet somehow I crave more time with this total stranger. When he offers to get my so-called friends off my back, who am I to say no?

  * * *

  But somehow between fake kisses and real conversation, the lines blur on what’s pretend and what’s true love. But what happens in Colorado, has to stay in Colorado. Doesn’t it?

  * * *

  The Faking It series books are all stand alone sweet romances about fake relationships turning out to be more real than ever suspected. When true love is on the line, you can’t fake your feelings…

  1

  Walker

  * * *

  My phone pings from my carry-on briefcase, its incessant chirping driving me crazy already. I had a cup of coffee at home while I pulled on my wool suit, but clearly, I need another. Early mornings don’t normally annoy me like this, but lately, I’ve been feeling like my life is out of control once again. Case in point: I’m at LAX, one of the busiest airports in the United States at 6 a.m. on a Monday headed to speak at a conference in Denver, Colorado, in February. Clearly, I didn’t book this flight or I would have valued my love of sleep and sunshine more than yet another speaking gig. I need to have a word with my assistant.

  I check the Rolex on my wrist that my father gave me and see I have enough time to pop into the line at the coffee cart before my flight starts boarding. That is, if the lady in front of me at the entrance to the security line gets her act together.

  “Oh crap,” she mutters under her breath while struggling to flip her suitcase over. I feel the tugging of a smile, even though her mishap means my window for coffee gets smaller and smaller.

  The wheels on her rolling suitcase don’t seem to be functioning so instead of trying to fix it, she resorts to dragging the ugly bag while we snake through the line leading to the security checkpoint. Her huge purse starts to slide off her shoulder and she pauses to shove it back up before yet again dragging her suitcase.

  When she makes the turn at the first bend in the queue, I get a glimpse of her face.

  And what a face it is.

  She’s gorgeous, with cornflower blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and blonde hair that keeps slipping onto her face and getting stuck in the lip gloss that highlights her pouty lips. My smile grows and my gaze locks onto her like we’re the only two people in the huge airport.

  I’m startled by her beauty and then I’m startled that I gave her beauty more than tepid appreciation. My wife died eight years ago, and though I’ll always miss her like a part of me is missing, I’m not still in the throes of the grief process either. I’ve worked hard to move my way through the grieving phases in a healthy manner. Though I’ve dated a bit the last few years, and even with all the local women in Newport Beach, CA, who fit society’s definition of beauty, I haven’t been genuinely interested in anyone yet. I was beginning to think my grief broke something inside of me.

  “Oh!” The extended handle on her suitcase pulls out of its slot altogether, the case falling over onto the floor with a loud bang. She scrambles to pick it back up, her face ablaze. She barely gets a hand on it when her purse slides off her shoulder again, swinging her off-balance with the weight of all the junk women put in their purses. By the time she’s teetering and about to go down, I get to her side. I grab an elbow pin-wheeling wildly and pull her back to center, the force of my tug sending her into my chest.

  “Wha—” She looks at my chest in bewilderment, before her gaze rises to my face. Her eyes finally lock on mine and the airport recedes completely, leaving the two of us in our own little universe.

  A beat or two goes by, both of us speechless, for probably very different reasons. My brain freezes, and for once, I’m out of words.

  The startled look fades out of her face, replaced by a polite smile that looks practiced. I much prefer the honesty of her flusterment. That thought alone pulls me out my fog and brings me back to the busy day that awaits me. If I’d only let go of the strange woman I still have in my grasp.

  “You may want to consider a new suitcase.” I smirk down at her sorry excuse for luggage and pry my fingers off her arm. A step back and the noise of travelers rushing around us hits my conscience.

  If it’s even possible, she blushes harder and retrieves her bag, still awkwardly holding the broken handle, evidence of the shoddy condition of her luggage. Once she has everything, she looks back up at me, fake smile firmly in place.

  “Ah, but then what would build my character, you know?” She winks and walks past me, her bag dragging along the floor, a startling counterpoint to her confident gait. Head held high, she keeps winding through the line.

  After picking my jaw up off the floor, I follow quickly behind her. I’m not sure what affects me more: the lighthearted wink or the witty retort I wasn’t expecting. Either way you bet I’m going to enjoy watching her go through security. A few people snuck into the line between us, so thankfully I don’t look like a creep following her.

  I’ve completely forgotten about my beloved cup of coffee as I see her bumble her way through the checkpoint. She nearly falls over again trying to get her boots off to walk through the metal detector. Heads turn and a bubble of irritation grows in my gut as I see it’s mostly men looking at her. With appreciation.

  I roll my eyes, realizing I just did the same thing, but that was different.

  Besides, she’s too young for me. She’s barely a full-fledged adult based on her looks and her choice of ridiculous luggage. I may only be thirty-four, but I feel ancient, having gone through the wringer when my late wife got sick. I need to stop looking and I definitely need to stop touching her.

  Decision made, I look away and focus on getting myself through security and then hunting down the coffee line. With two minutes to spare, I get my blac
k coffee and race to my gate. They’re just calling all first-class passengers to board when I walk up and slide right into the short line.

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. James.” The female attendant scans the barcode on my phone and gives me the extra wide smile they reserve for first-class passengers. When I started making decent money a few years ago, I decided to indulge in more leg room and better food every time I flew. Which was often, based on my speaking schedule. At six foot four, the extra leg room was almost a necessity. I didn’t feel guilty about the added expense, but I made sure to retain an appreciation for everything that came with the upgrade.

  Settled into my plush chair, I stow my laptop bag below the seat in front of me and rest my head back, eyes closed. There’s plenty of time on the flight to go through my presentation and make sure I’m ready to go. I’ve given this presentation dozens of times before, but since I’m being paid to make it, I always take the time to make sure I give it perfectly. Just a few short years ago, I was the grieving man, searching for any help that could get me through that dark time. To give anything less than my best would be a disservice to people who really need me.

  I take a few deep breaths, visualizing the view of the beach from my front deck, feeling the ocean breeze on my skin and the sound of the seagulls swooping down for their early morning breakfast. Today’s flight didn’t leave room for my normal morning meditation, but that’s the thing about meditation: you can do it anywhere.

  That is, unless you’re on a full airplane and a loud, persistent scratching noise pierces the air. I open one eye and see the lady from security entering the plane, bag dragging loudly behind her. A flight attendant intercepts her.

  "I'm sorry, miss. We're out of bulkhead space. I have to ask you to check your bag. I can take it for you right here.”

  I see her chest rise and fall on a big sigh. I have to hand it to her, she handles the bad news well. She simply hands her bag over with a nod and continues down the aisle.

  She looks around to find her aisle number, her gaze snagging on mine before darting away. The way she bites her bottom lip makes me feel smug, knowing she recognizes me.

  I close my eyes again and swear I feel her as she passes me, her light perfume tickling my nose and washing away all hopes of meditating. Then she’s gone and I go through all the reasons I need to stop thinking about her, foremost being I’m a locally recognized widower who’s made a nice living off of my blog, which turned into a monetized YouTube channel, then a book deal, TV appearances, and then a speaking tour across the country.

  Men who make a living as widowers can’t be seen chasing after women.

  Career suicide.

  Plus, I’m not interested in a young woman, pretty as she may be, who hasn’t been tested by life like I had. Depth of character and maturity were high on my list of character traits in an acceptable woman. This lady? She couldn’t possibly yet possess them.

  A loud thunk, followed by a commotion, breaks into my thoughts. I spin around and poke my head out into the aisle, seeing the same woman grappling with her oversized handbag, the one that’s currently on the ground and not in the overhead like it’s supposed to be. Several bystanders have offered their help, wanting to get the deadly weapon into the overhead bin before she bumbles it again.

  The woman is a walking disaster. A bark of laughter escapes before I can muffle it, the sound echoing down the aisle. Her head swivels and she sees me staring at her, a wide grin on my face. She ducks her head and sits down, swallowed by rows of packed seating behind me.

  I settle back into my seat and chuckle. I may not have welcomed this early flight, but the joy of watching her navigate an airport like a grown-up was well worth the early alarm. Once we’re airborne, I abandon all thoughts of meditating and get out my laptop instead. I need to ground myself in my message and remember why I’m here on this plane: to help people get through the grieving process.

  Definitely not to flirt with gorgeous young women.

  2

  Jemma

  * * *

  It’s like I have butter for hands. Or perhaps just the worst luck in all of southern California. I don’t even want to be here, or spend the money to travel to Colorado, or be inadvertently entertaining the entire plane as I make a fool of myself. This is why I work with kids. They bumble things all the time. My behavior is normal to them.

  Clearly it’s not normal to the tall gorgeous man who’s been front and center to all my mishaps this morning. The one that just laughed at me from his cushy seat in first class.

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I’m still single.

  At least, according to my mother and my big brother. They’ve tried to help me with my klutzy ways over the years, to no avail, as I’m sure everyone could see. My mother laments my two left feet, going so far as to sign me up for ballet in my younger years to work on my gracefulness. I was the only kid in history to get kicked out of that ballet company. Even though I said I was sorry a million times, the teacher didn’t find a broken nose a forgivable offense. My mom couldn’t have afforded the classes for very long anyway, so as far as I could see it, I was simply saving her hard-earned money.

  But there is a part of me that really wants a companion. Someone who will overlook my daily foibles and love me for who I am. Where my mother and brother are always trying to change me, my forever love would embrace my clumsiness as an irreplaceable character quirk. That, and he’d work just as hard as me to build a life for us and our children.

  Which is why I shouldn’t be sitting here fanning myself over Mr. High and Mighty in first class. I’m sure he wouldn’t recognize hard work if it smacked him in the face.

  “Might consider a new bag...” I mutter under my breath. Thanks, genius. It never occurred to me that I owned a suitcase that had seen better days. Unfortunately, some of us have to pull extra shifts just to pay for inflated housing costs in southern California and we don’t have money left over for nice things like bags that actually have working wheels or handles that stay attached to the darn bag.

  “Miss?”

  I pull myself out of my musings and see a flight attendant waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t even hear. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  Her smile freezes, locked onto her face like her job depends on it. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Oh! Um, coffee, please.”

  She shuffles down the aisle collecting orders while I pull out my latest romance novel. I don’t have many indulgences, having just become a physician’s assistant a little over a year ago. I have student loans to pay alongside those housing costs. No running home to live with Mom going on here; I’m determined to make it on my own. But romance novels are a must and I save up my pennies for the really good ones in paperback.

  Lifting the book to my nose, I take a good whiff. There’s nothing like the scent of paper and ink to warm me up inside on a chilly day. And nothing says vacation like a new paperback, am I right?

  The man next to me shifts away and gives me a weird look. Guess he doesn’t appreciate a good happy ever after like I do. Ignoring him, I dive into my romance, transported to a Hawaiian island with a sassy heroine and an impossibly rich and handsome man the more words I read. An elbow jab pulls me back to the airplane hurtling through the skies. The flight attendant is holding a cup of coffee, waiting for me to take it from her.

  The steam is drifting out of the cup and luring me in. “Thank you,” I tell her sweetly. Coffee and a good book. Now there’s true paradise.

  I took up pleasure reading to take my mind off stressful things going on in my life, starting in college. At any time, I can open a book and get lost in a different world. A good book is particularly helpful when a patient of mine dies. Considering I work in a pediatric cancer hospital, that happens more often than I ever like to think about. Each little person I work with takes up a section of my heart, ripping it in two should they not overcome the disease. Nothing can make a child’s death easier, so I escape.


  The heroine’s sass reaches a level even the muscled hero can’t take and they’ve momentarily broken up by the time I hear the captain’s voice come on overhead, telling us to stow our belongings and fasten our seatbelt. Slapping the book closed, I take one last gulp of coffee, getting a mouthful of cold liquid and coffee grounds. I grimace, looking to my left at the sleeping guy blocking my exit out of the row. The flight attendant is checking we all have our seatbelt on. Nothing to do but swallow it, hoping the extra caffeine gives me the jolt I need to face my old friends when we land.

  Everyone stands in a rush when the ding sounds, nearly trampling each other to get our bags out of the overhead bins. Then we wait. And wait some more. By the time I make it off the plane, my nerves are frazzled and I wonder for the hundredth time why I agreed to go on this trip with friends from high school who I haven’t even remained close with. I get two weeks’ vacation a year. Why did I agree to spend a week of it with them?

  “Excuse me, which baggage claim area is States Airlines?” I went to the bathroom and then came out not seeing anyone from my flight. I’m also severely turned around in this unfamiliar airport. The bored attendant points down to the right so I nod my thanks and make my way to the round belts in that area.

  I spot the handsome man from earlier standing by a belt with his phone out, reading from the screen like he’s Mr. Important. The red light above the carousel starts flashing and a warning buzz lets us all know it’s about to start spewing out bags.