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

  Walker has an expression on his face I can’t place. “So, no husband in the works to appease your friends?”

  I huff out a laugh. “No, definitely not. No time to find one, I guess. Sure would make my life easier though if I did. Heck, even a prospect would get them off my back.” I shrug my shoulders. “Oh well, not the end of the world. Especially if I’m considering distancing myself from them in the future.”

  We lapse into easy silence, each of us looking out the passenger windows, assessing how far away we are from the hotel and if we might actually get there with all this traffic. Funny how my friends have already rubbed off on me, their judgement making me change how I naturally feel. I don’t mind being single. I enjoy my career immensely and I refuse to settle for just any guy, but admitting my single status to Walker gave me a twinge of embarrassment. Like I should apologize for not following society’s expectations and landing a husband already at the ripe old age of twenty-eight.

  “Wanna get a little crazy this weekend?” I swing my startled gaze over to Walker, taking in his pressed trousers and button-down dress shirt. If I’m not mistaken, a Rolex peeks out from under his starched cuff. Dark brown oxfords complete his businessman look, one that’s stylish, but not on par with a guy looking to “get wild” while out of town. “We could help each other out.”

  5

  Walker

  * * *

  Her eyes are guarded, and I haven’t even proposed the crazy idea on my mind yet. The minute I heard her friends heckling her about not having a husband, I wanted to step in and help. Why, I don’t know. All I know is I seem to have a bit of a ‘knight in shining armor’ complex like my buddy Jake always tries to tell me. I never believed him until just this minute.

  The slump of her shoulders after her friends talked to her physically pained me and I think I can make it better. As a fellow human being, I should offer my assistance, right?

  “Now, don’t say no immediately, okay?” I lean toward her and if possible, her eyes get even more guarded.

  “That makes me want to say no right away, Walker.” She lifts an eyebrow and I swear, her hint of sass does more to my gut that her laugh does.

  “Just hear me out.” I put my hands up to ward off her refusal. “You’re thinking this might be your last girls’ weekend, and your friends give you grief over being single. I really hate to see people be disrespected—you might even say it’s my biggest pet peeve—so I’d like to propose an idea. Why don’t we pretend to be a couple and you walk out of your last weekend with these women with your head held high?”

  Jemma’s frozen and now so am I. I can’t believe I just threw that out there, offering my time with a woman I know I shouldn’t be around. It’s like my body is doing the opposite of what my brain wants. My body’s running the show and there’s no telling where this thing might end. Like a runaway freight train without breaks.

  She shakes her head, eyes closed, nose scrunched. “I’m sorry, what?”

  I want her to say yes, more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time. There’s no explaining it to my brain; he’s not having it. “I’m here for just this weekend too. I’ll come with you to a few things with your girlfriends, we’ll pretend to be a couple to get them to quit harassing you, and then we’ll part ways when the weekend’s over. No harm, no foul.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Why would you do that?”

  I shrug. “I told you. I hate to see someone mistreated. Plus, it might be nice to have a friend while I’m here in Colorado. Gets lonely traveling by yourself all the time.”

  She chews on her bottom lip again and I clench my fists to keep from pulling it out from under her sharp teeth. “You don’t want anything in exchange?”

  I shake my head.

  “You’re not afraid to be around the most uncoordinated woman you’ve probably ever met?”

  Another shake.

  “You’ll really do it?” Her tone turns hopeful and my body rejoices.

  “Yes, I’ll really do it.”

  She squeals and claps, bouncing in her seat. The driver eyes me in the rearview mirror and I know what his expression says. I may be crazy, but I’m a happy crazy now that she’s said yes.

  I can’t help but smile at her excitement. Most women in Newport Beach don’t—or can’t due to Botox injections—express that much emotion. Casual boredom is the look that’s in right now and it’s not only refreshing to leave that behind, it’s also a nice reminder that the whole world isn’t like that. There’s hope for a guy like me who just wants a genuine woman to have a deep and meaningful conversation with.

  Not that I’m thinking Jemma is that woman, but for the weekend, it might be nice to have a buddy.

  “We should probably lay some ground rules.” I frown, remembering why I’m here in Denver to start with. I have a presentation on death and grieving to give.

  “Oh sure, that’s a good idea. That way if you want to bail on this idea, you don’t feel pressured into continuing.” She nods and pulls her legs underneath her on the bench seat, oblivious to her wet boots getting her jeans dirty.

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I’m not going to bail on you, but I do have some business obligations while I’m here.”

  She wrinkles her nose again. “Yeah, why are you here?”

  “I’m do—”

  “Wait!” She throws her hands up in the air and cuts me off. “Don’t tell me if you have to then kill me.”

  I chuckle. “What? I’m not a spy or here undercover.”

  She lets her hands fall to her lap. “Just making sure.”

  Shaking my head at her silliness, I continue. “I’m here to give a speech at a convention. So there will be certain times that I can’t be seen with you around the hotel.”

  She nods sagely. “That’s the part you can’t tell me or you’ll have to kill me.”

  This girl... “No! It’s just the subject matter of my speech means I can’t be seen with a woman.”

  She’s back to frowning. Her face is more expressive than anyone I know. “I don’t follow. Are you gay?”

  Now I’m taken aback. “No, not gay.” I guess I should just tell her before she comes up with some bizarre scenario in her imaginative brain. “I’m a widower, giving a presentation on grieving to other widows and widowers.”

  Her face immediately smooths out and understanding dawns. “I’m sorry to hear that, Walker. How did your wife die?”

  This is a question I’m asked all the time. It’s something I discuss ad nauseum on my blog and in my book and on my YouTube videos. After awhile, my answer became memorized, devoid of feeling, like each repetition drained a drop more of my grief out of me. But looking into Jemma’s eyes and speaking about my late wife is oddly intimate. Like I’m telling the story for the first time.

  “Brain cancer. We dated all through college and got married right after graduation. A year later, her frequent migraines were diagnosed: cancer. She had surgery, did all the treatments, ate healthy, did yoga, did everything right. But she still got worse. She held on for almost three years before slipping away in her sleep one night.”

  Jemma places her hand over mine and squeezes, the gesture made to comfort. I squeeze back and then let go, needing to distance myself from her and her natural magnetism.

  Her voice cuts through the quiet. “I can only imagine what that’s like. Three years is a long time. She must have fought hard to stay with you.”

  There’s no pity on her face. I would know. I’ve come to easily identify that expression having seen it on many people’s faces over the years. Only understanding, which is more disconcerting when I expect her to not get it.

  “Yes, three years was a long time. And yet not long enough.”

  She gets a soft smile on her face. “I once had a little boy come through my facility. Absolutely determined to beat his lymphoma. You’ve never seen determination like that. Even when it was clear to everyone he wasn’t going to win the fight, he kept telling his parents not to worry. More concerned with his parents’ feelings than his own impending death. I don’t know what you believe in, but there’s no doubt in my mind that little boy is up in heaven still watching over us, telling his parents ‘I got this! Don’t worry, Mom and Dad!’”

  There are tears in her eyes as she tells her story. The feeling is infectious, but I’m also confused. “Where do you work?”

  “Hoag’s Pediatric Cancer Center in Costa Mesa.”

  The taxi lurches forward, finding a break in the traffic. I rear back my head. “Wow.”

  She nods, that same smile making her look younger than someone should be to carry that heavy load of grief. “Yeah, wow is right. I’m a physician’s assistant, P.A. for short. I tell people I have hundreds of children.”

  She winks at her own joke and I shake my head, impressed with her line of work.

  And ashamed of myself.

  I’ve badly misjudged her, thinking she was too shallow to hold a conversation with someone like me. This woman’s medical knowledge and capacity to both comfort and heal leaves me feeling like a fraud. I’m just a guy blogging about his loss to make himself feel better. She deals with loss of innocent children every day. She should be giving this presentation, not me.

  “We’re finally here, folks!” the cab driver calls over his shoulder, breaking the moment.

  Jemma scrambles to get her vest back on and collect her belongings into her huge purse. Only when she opens the door and the gust of cold air hits me do I spring into action. I hand the driver a couple twenty-dollar bills and hop out to meet her around the car at the trunk.

  “Want to write my number down and text me when you know your schedule?”

  She fishes her cell phone out of her bag again. “Sure, what is it?”

  I recite
my number and she calls it. My phone vibrates in my pocket, so I know I have her number now too. Pulling both our bags out of the trunk, I don’t know how to say goodbye. Maybe it’s better not to say goodbye at all.

  I slam the trunk and the cab drives off.

  “Hey! I didn’t pay him yet!” Jemma waves her arms in the air like that’ll get him to see her and come back.

  “It’s okay, I took care of it.” I grab my bag. “Come on. Let’s check in before we freeze.”

  6

  Jemma

  * * *

  My suitcase is heavy, and given the wheels don’t work any longer, I have to pick it up and carry it. And Walker is darn tall. His legs eat up the covered driveway and he’s in the hotel before I’ve had a chance to argue about the cab fare. Somehow I think that was part of his plan. Contrary to the state of my bag, I’m not completely destitute. I can pay for my own portion of the cab fare.

  “Mr. James! Lovely to see you, sir. Can I get your bag to your room for you?” The bellhop is hovering like a busy bee, acting like the president himself has arrived. Gee, where’s my personal bellhop ready to take my exploding bag off my hands?

  Walker chuckles, but it sounds different somehow, like he slipped into a different skin the second we left the cab. “No, thank you. I’ve gotta keep my muscles somehow, huh?”

  The bellhop guffaws like Walker’s said something particularly hilarious. I mean, I get it. The man’s charming and good looking. But he’s acting like Walker’s some sort of celebrity, which is weird.

  “Welcome, Mr. James. We have your room all ready for you. Top floor, beautiful view of the city.” The front desk attendant smiles warmly at him from behind her desk and I’m thinking maybe they know each other. I don’t like her smile. Something about it rubs me the wrong way.

  “Perfect, thank you so much.” Walker beams right back at her and there I stand, by myself in the lobby like I’m invisible, wondering what the hubbub is all about.

  He pockets his key card and spins around to see me. He’s about to say something when two men approach him from the side. He drops my gaze and vigorously shakes their hands while introductions are made and then glances over at me to discreetly make the universal sign to call him, pinkie and thumb extended by his ear. After that, I’m ignored, which is fine by me. I have a room to check into and friends to impress. Yep, totally fine being ignored.

  “We’ll need to see your ID and a form of payment for incidentals, please.” The front desk attendant gives me a practiced smile, one that’s several degrees cooler than the one she gave Walker. Practically glacial if I’m being honest.

  I hand over my driver’s license and my one and only credit card. The snapping of a photo behind me piques my interest. Walker and the two men who greeted him are huddled, one of them with their arm extended, snapping selfies. I frown, not understanding why total strangers would want a selfie together. It’s like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and I’m left bewildered in a strange new world like Dorothy.

  “Miss?” The attendant is trying to hand my cards back to me.

  “Sorry.” I put them back in my wallet and chance a question. “Do you know who that is? Mr. James, I believe they called him?”

  Her eyes light up and she leans closer to whisper. “Good looking, right?”

  The warmth that flooded my system just minutes earlier in the cab with Walker has dissipated. Like that version of Walker, the one who told me all about his late wife, never existed. “Um, yes, for sure. But why are they taking selfies with him?”

  She’s frowning at me now, like I’ve completely lost the plot. “Well, he’s pretty famous, you know?”

  Mentally, I’m eye rolling at her inability to answer a question without making it a question in return. On second thought, she might make a great therapist.

  Then it hits me she’s said he’s famous. And just like that, all the butterflies and warmth are gone, replaced by a creeping coldness that leaves me wanting nothing to do with Walker. Pretend boyfriend? Not a snowball’s chance in hell.

  The attendant slides my room key across the counter and I snatch it up. Escape is near. I attempt to get to the bank of elevators, careful to keep my gaze away from Walker. His type love attention and I’m unwilling to give it to him, even as I have to walk right by him. Of course, my grand exit is marred by my stupid suitcase, the sound of it dragging across the marble floor letting out a screech that brings all eyes to me.

  I lift my nose an inch higher in the air and continue on, like I don’t feel the weight of their pity stares. Yes, my suitcase is a disaster. Let’s move on, shall we?

  Jabbing the up button on the elevator panel a little harder than necessary, I remember a particularly sweet little boy two years ago when I first started working full-time at the Cancer Center. He had a rough case of brain cancer and his greatest wish was to meet a professional football player from his local team. After lots of emails back and forth with the player’s agent, we had his wish all set up. We knew schedules with celebrities were often tough to stick to, so we didn’t tell our patient about his surprise until the day before when we knew for sure it was going to happen.

  His excitement was contagious, the entire Center joining him in celebration. The little boy put on his team jersey and waited for hours. Frantic calls and emails behind the scenes on our end went unanswered. The player no-showed. No excuse, no warning. Just left a sick little boy hanging.

  Our patient was devastated, crying himself to sleep that night, no amount of consoling from our staff or his family making a dent in his sadness. Later, we found out the football player went and partied too hard the night before, too hung over or strung out the next day to remember where he was supposed to be.

  That was the day I decided celebrities did more harm than good. They wielded too much power simply for being able to recite a line on camera or throw a ball downfield. They got paid millions for their skill. Wasn’t that enough? Did they need our worship too? For me, the answer was an absolute no.

  So finding out Walker was a self-absorbed celebrity? That was a distinct turn-off. A huge red flag telling me to stay away, steer clear, do not pass go. And definitely don’t pretend to be his girlfriend for the weekend.

  The only problem is the realization that Walker’s one of the bad guys makes my heart sink. Takes the wind out of my sails and leaves me deflated. He seemed so genuine when we talked in the taxi. Not self-absorbed at all. Bizarre that my intuition was so off.

  The elevator dings its arrival and I hurry to get on, wanting the peace and quiet of my hotel room to sort through my conflicting thoughts. Needing to get myself together before I went to battle with my high school friends.

  Just before the doors slide shut, I lift my gaze one last time, the temptation to see Walker again too strong to deny. One last look to remember him by.

  He’s still talking to the two men, but he’s staring straight at me, his intimate gaze so at odds to how I’m feeling about him right now.

  And then he winks.

  I feel that flutter of his eyelid all the way to the tips of my toes, setting me on fire again.

  The doors finally shut and the elevator climbs, the jerk in motion pulling me out of his spell. I’m confused, wondering who the heck this man is, really. The one whose eyes softened as he talked about his late wife, or the one who took a selfie with strangers without a second thought.

  One thing I do know: he intrigues me and I’m attracted to him. Plain and simple

  Neither making me happy.

  Flashing my key card, I get the door to my hotel room open, stepping inside to a cold room, smelling like an ash tray. Okay, maybe more like a cross between an ash tray and a fish market. A stench that lingers in the nasal passages and permeates clothes.

  Just my luck.

  I flop down on my bed and stare at the beige ceiling wondering why I’m here. And why am I more nervous about running into Walker again than I am having to go to battle with my friends? I indulge in a ten-minute pity party, spending nine of those minutes going over every word of my conversation with Walker, rather than girding my loins and preparing for my girlfriends to whack me over the head with my single status, how I held them up, and why my purse is from Target and not a designer label.