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

  When I’m more depressed than I can stand, I force myself up, deciding to hang up my clothes and get moving rather that lie here and hate my life. When everything is put away, my phone dings, signally an incoming text.

  Diana: Dinner at 7 p.m. at Simon’s. Hydrate now!

  Oh great. Dinner at a top-rated restaurant won’t be cheap. Reminding myself it will be one of the last, since this is the last trip I’ll be going on, I pull out a little black dress and eye it on the hanger.

  It’s cut modestly in the front, but dips quite low in the back. Plus, the skirt flairs and flutters when I walk, which I find highlights my long legs. It’s tasteful (-ish), it’s feminine, and I’ve never had an opportunity to wear it. But when you find the perfect LBD for a great price, you buy it. It’s Rule #7 in the women’s handbook you’re given at birth.

  What the handbook doesn’t tell you is what to do with handsome men who perplex you and make you feel conflicting things. Which is why I sit in the hotel room chair and spin maniacally, staring out the window to the city streets below. The dizziness is welcome, if only a respite from the confusion that grips my gut.

  Text? Or don’t text?

  My phone lights up when I place my thumb on the wheel, coming to life and taunting me with how easy it would be to text Walker. Then I hear that fake laugh he gave the bellhop and I chicken out, letting the screen go dark. This goes on for several rounds before I get another text from Diana.

  Diana: Guess what?? Justine just showed us the bridesmaids’ dresses! You’re gonna love yours...it’s the prettiest shade of pumpkin you’ve ever seen! Perfect for a fall wedding.

  The idea of Justine picking a dress I actually like is preposterous, on par with the chances of them stopping their bashing of my no-husband status. I’m envisioning walking down the aisle in an actual pumpkin costume, which I’d bet next month’s salary isn’t far from the truth.

  It’s with thoughts of being the squash-dressed loser at Justine’s wedding running through my head that I pick up my phone and find Walker’s number.

  Before rational thought can re-engage in my brain, I thumb out a message.

  Me: Dinner with the girls at 7 p.m. at Simon’s. Wanna join me?

  I wait a few seconds, but don’t see a returning bubble. My foot starts tapping and my palms get sweaty. My phone dings, and I almost drop it, bobbling it clumsily.

  Walker: I’ll meet you there at 7. ; )

  I laugh out loud, more from a need to release this crazed energy than from anything funny. Walker doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to use a winky face, but then again, do I really know him at all?

  Biting my lip, I savor the feeling when I formulate what to text back to Diana. It shouldn’t give me such a gloating feeling, but there you have it. I’m shallow, I admit. I only wish I could see her face when she reads my text.

  Me: Can’t wait to see it! PS - Add an extra seat at dinner for my boyfriend.

  Bubbles instantly appear after I hit send.

  Diana: WHAT?

  Diana: Tell me EVERYTHING

  Diana: Spill it, woman!

  Diana: Hello??

  Diana: Oh, that’s just cold. You’re going to make me wait, aren’t you?

  Diana: Just tell me this: is he hot? ; )

  A winky face from Diana I can understand. But now the similarities between Walker’s emoji usage and Diana’s makes me wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. But I really can’t dwell on that right now. All I can think about is leaving this friendship on a high note. Like a quarterback retiring after a Super Bowl win.

  I feel smug.

  And it feels so good.

  7

  Walker

  * * *

  “Hang in there, Clarence. I’ll talk tomorrow about what to do with all those guilty feelings.” I shake his hand, pat him on the shoulder, and move on to the next group, working the room like the professional speaker I am.

  Another attendee snags my attention and tries to tell me their death story. And it’s sad. It always is. But at some point, you have to grow a thick skin, otherwise you drown in their sadness, taking it on as your own. I’m not in this for the fame or the fortune, though I will admit that’s a nice trickledown effect. I’m in it to help people. To be someone they can talk to at their very lowest point in life. To be the person I didn’t have eight years ago.

  So I look him in the eye and nod. A frown and a pursed lip when appropriate. A few words of encouragement, a clap on the back. And I let their heartache bounce off me. Heard, but not absorbed.

  As I work the room, my thoughts drift to her. Not the “her” the attendees believe I’m thinking of, the one my whole blog and book is about, but the “her” from today. The one that wormed her way into my brain, intriguing me beyond all explanation.

  I’d waffled all afternoon between hoping I never saw her again to checking my phone every few minutes to see if she contacted me. And when the text finally came in, I’d wasted no time saying yes, even though my brain was screaming no.

  I walk over to a new group, a quick glance at my watch showing I have five minutes before I need to sneak out of this cocktail reception and take an Uber to the restaurant. Guilt immediately eats away at me, for wanting to spend time with Jemma, for wanting to ditch my responsibilities to these grieving people, for planning to speak to a crowd about my late wife while my thoughts all revolve around another woman.

  I’ve never felt like a fraud writing or speaking about the subject of grief. I’ve always been upfront about not being a professional counselor or psychologist, just a man who was grieving his wife.

  Until today.

  Until her.

  Because it’s one thing to talk about moving on, or to think that you have. It’s an entirely different thing to actually move on by way of action. A nuance I never understood before. A distinction I needed to explore, for my own sake, and for the sake of the thousands of grieving widows and widowers who looked to me for a roadmap out of the pit of depression.

  At exactly ten till seven, I make my apologies and walk out of the ballroom, on the pretense of using the restroom. Instead, I sneak out the side door of the convention center and walk around the outside of the hotel to the lobby. I hand over my ticket to the bellhop and retrieve my jacket while selecting an Uber driver on my phone.

  The whole way over to the restaurant, I’m convincing myself this dinner means nothing. I’m just pretending to be her boyfriend to help her out of a rough spot. My heart defies me and continues to race despite my logical explanation of tonight’s events.

  Before I’m ready, the car pulls up outside Simon’s and I see her.

  My gaze doesn’t waver as I climb out and slam the door behind me. She’s beautiful. A black dress clings to her body, the hem high enough to burn the vision into my brain. The heels, the makeup, the softly curled hair. It all adds up to one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen.

  She shifts from foot to foot as I approach. Her shiver is visible from where I stand directly in front of her.

  “Let’s get you inside.” I frown, seeing she’s in a jacket, but her bare legs must be freezing in this weather. My hand settles on her elbow and I steer her into the restaurant.

  “I thought we should go in together so I stayed outside.” Her teeth are chattering and I roll my lips to keep a lecture from coming out. It’s winter in Denver. You shouldn’t stay outside with bare legs.

  “Reservation for Ridgefield?” Jemma asks the hostess.

  “Yes, I have you down for five people. Is the rest of your party here?”

  “Um, no, not yet. We’ll wait here if you don’t mind.” Jemma smiles, but I can tell it’s forced.

  We turn around and move to the benches in the waiting area. All I do is lift my eyebrow and she blurts out, “Don’t say it! I know they’re being rude.”

  I lift my hands in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Mhmm.” She gives me a sour look, but then laughs.

  I lean my shoulder into her for a moment. “You look beautiful, Jemma.”

  Her cheeks flush and she looks at me briefly before looking around the restaurant. “Thank you.”

  “Coat?” I gesture to her jacket, before she spins around and lets me help her out of it. A wide expanse of creamy skin is unveiled as the jacket comes off her back. I start coughing and nearly drop her jacket.

  “You okay?” She looks at me over her shoulder, concern in the lines on her face, not realizing she’s the cause of my choking.

  I pull at my collar and swallow hard. Time to change the subject. I take a seat and nod toward the seat next to me. “Should we get our back story straight before they show up?”

  She sits and looks at me puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  I shrug. “Well, if we’re going to pass our relationship off as believable, we need to know some basic facts about each other, don’t you think?”

  Her face clears and she nods her head. “Gotcha. Let’s see. How about we’ve been dating for six months and we met at that annual outdoor music concert in Huntington Beach?”

  “Sure. What’s your favorite color? Pet peeve?” This is somehow more fun that I thought it’d be.

  “Turquoise and entitlement. You?”

  “Royal blue and judgement with no context.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “What does that mean?”

  “I hate it when people are too quick to judge others when they don’t know anything concrete about the other person with which to base their opinion. It’s a natural habit for us humans to judge, but the problem is when people judge with no context. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  She lifts her eyebrows and tilts her head, her long, blonde hair lying on my arm. What I wouldn’t give right then to have my jacket off so I could feel that silky curl against my skin. “Who’s to say that prior experience doesn’t provide enough context for someone to make snap judgements without truly knowing that particular individual? Making quick judgements is a way of protecting one’s self, right?”

  A smile finds its way onto my face. I wasn’t expecting that thought-out response. Which is quite a touché moment considering I’d judged her as being too shallow to have a philosophical discussion. “Valid point. Why entitlement?”

  “Everyone wants something for nothing. They want the best paying job without actually having to work hard to get it. They want the privilege without the accompanying responsibility. Life doesn’t work that way, or at least, it shouldn’t.”

  Interesting that that’s her biggest pet peeve. “What about talent that comes naturally without a lot of hard work? Should that be—”

  “Ma’am? Sir? We need to seat you now or we have to release your reservation since it’s twenty minutes past.” The hostess looks uncomfortable delivering this news. Like she hates to point out that we got dumped by our group. I don’t want Jemma feeling bad so I jump up and take control.

  “We’d actually love to be seated and order an appetizer.”

  “Wonderful. Right this way.” She spins and walks away.

  Pulling Jemma up by the hand, I lace our fingers together and follow the hostess. I can feel Jemma staring at the side of my head, but if we’re going to act like boyfriend and girlfriend this weekend, we might as well get started as we mean to go along. Her hand feels soft, my heart enjoying her touch more than I like to admit.

  When we reach our table, I let go of her hand reluctantly, pulling back her chair for her. She smiles shyly and sits down, letting me scoot her in. I place her jacket on the back of her chair and take the seat to her left, on the end, so she can sit next to her friends.

  Jemma stares at the menu, her cheeks a delightful shade of pink. My arm goes around the back of her chair, my hand dangerously close to touching her exposed back.

  From my vantage point, I can see the front of the restaurant, so when I see a group of three women, dressed like a night on the town is in their future, I know the group has arrived.

  Placing my hand on Jemma’s back, she jumps, but I pull her toward me anyway. Her eyes widen as I lean in close, our noses just inches away from each other.

  “I’m going to kiss you. Okay?” I whisper.

  Her eyes widen further, but she gives a quick nod, the permission being all I need to make my move. A move that feels remarkably rusty yet perfectly inevitable. Like she and I were always meant to wind up here, sharing breath, making each other’s hearts race in this restaurant in downtown Denver.

  The moment my mouth descends to hers, the sound of the diners around us dims, all four non-imperative senses taking a back seat so that all my awareness can focus in on the feel of her lips pressed to mine. The way her body trembles at my touch. The way she gasps, the soft intake of air pulling me in and gripping my chest. The way I feel her move beneath me, actively participating in this kiss to end all kisses.

  And just when I think I could stay there forever, feasting on her mouth and breathing her air, someone jostles her and her lips break away. The chair is still under me, but I’m tumbling, adrift without a compass, a game plan, or a coherent thought.

  “Jay! How are you?” A tall brunette wraps her arms around Jemma, her perfume nearly choking me.

  “Ahhhh!” A high-pitched squeal behind me gets my head swiveling, taking in a short, dark-haired woman with the sparkliest dress I’ve ever seen. She swoops in and nearly tackles Jemma, pushing the brunette out of the way.

  The third, a well put together bleach blonde woman, stands in the aisle, like she can’t be bothered to join in on the hug fest and wants everyone in the restaurant to stare at her a bit first anyway.

  I recognize her. Well, not her exactly, but I recognize her type. The ones with subtle nose jobs, plumped-up lips, and tattooed eyebrows. There’re thousands of them living back home near me. And suddenly I understand Jemma’s argument about past experience perhaps being enough to help you form a snap judgement that protects you. Because this woman is trouble. I can feel it.

  Jemma finally stands and hugs the stiff blonde. Then she introduces me.

  “Diana, this is Walker. Walker, this is Diana, Justine, and Amy.”

  The first two shake my hand limply when I stretch my arm out. Amy, though. She gives me just her fingertips, her eyes appraising me head to toe. And if I’m not mistaken, there’s a gleam in her eyes that’s decidedly calculating.

  They finally sit opposite us and I put my arm back around Jemma’s chair, my fingertips playing with the ends of her hair, delighted when I feel her shiver. A devoted boyfriend would be touching her as much as possible and I’m all too happy to play my part to the best of my ability.

  Amy’s smiling serenely at Jemma, but I can tell she doesn’t like that she’s been left out of this pertinent information. Gossip hounds can’t stand being the last to know all the juicy details. “So, Jemma. How long has this been going on?”

  8

  Jemma

  * * *

  Goodness gracious. What was all that about? We’d been talking about pet peeves and the next thing you know, he’s moving in and obliterating all thought with a simple kiss. Okay fine, there was nothing simple about it. My lips are still tingling from it, the taste of him lingering even as I have to dodge questions from my friends. I’m going to have to ask Walker to stop wearing that cologne. It’s wrapping me in a bubble of foresty musk mixed with man and stopping all brain function.

  “Um, let’s see. Six months now, right, honey?” I plaster on what I hope is a believable smile and turn to Walker, begging him with my eyes to help me out.

  His hand brushes against my back and his touch zings through my whole body, distracting me and making me forget why I’m even here. His face conforms to a lazy smile the minute I call him “honey,” the look making my stomach melt. I like that look. I want more of that look directed my way.

  “Yeah, that’s about right. The best six months of my life.” He winks at me and then turns to my friends.

  “I hear you’ve all been friends since high school. What do you all do now?”

  And just like that, Walker’s redirected the viper, otherwise known as Amy, to other pastures. It’s ingenious really. A move I use a lot with my patients when they have to do a painful procedure. Distract, redirect, or get them talking about themselves.

  “I’m a full-time housewife at the moment and there are several charities that I’m involved in,” Amy answers smoothly. I raise an eyebrow but remain silent. Amy hasn’t volunteered her time since senior year when she had to in order to graduate. More like her husband writes a check every year to some cause, not to do something good, but to get the tax write-off.

  “I’m getting married in just a few months!” Justine bursts forth with her news, karate chopping her hand into the middle of the table, sparkling diamond solitaire front and center for everyone to “ooh and ahh” over.

  “Congratulations,” Walker tells her. As expected, I ogle her ring and try to ignore the stab to the heart it gives me.

  “How about you, Diana?” Walker asks her when we’re finally done congratulating a woman over the grand achievement in life of having a man ask her to marry him. I know, sarcasm is not attractive. It’s just disgusting to me how Walker asks what they do and she answers with her wedding. Like that’s something “to do” in the world that benefits society in any way.

  “Oh, I’m a working girl. I’m a personal shopper at Barney’s.” Diana shrugs like it’s no big deal, when in fact, I know it’s her identity and she talks about her rich and famous clients constantly. Like a connection to powerful people makes her powerful by association.

  The server saves this awkward conversation and we order, the girls deciding to split a bottle of wine between them. Walker and I stick to water, which I think is smart if we want to continue to pull off this fake relationship.