Pretend Wife

by Annie J. Rose

  “Fine, come out for a drink with me. As a favor.”

  “Dude, it’s not like you need a date. You go out with like Victoria’s Secret Angels.”

  “I dated two of those, and it’s been a while. Besides, it isn’t a date. It’s a friendly drink. I want to see how you’re doing after the fire and if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

  “I’m doing well, thanks.”

  “So is there a bar near your friend’s house?”

  “You’re serious,” I said. “You seriously intend to meet me for a drink like we’re friends catching up. Like this isn’t just the weirdest.”

  “It is, in fact, the weirdest, but that’s no reason not to have fun with it,” he said.

  He had a sexy voice. For everything I’d said about not objectifying him, his voice really did it for me. I was a dirty hypocrite and loving every second of it. I grinned.

  “Okay, let’s have some fun. Smyrna Jane’s is in Sara’s neighborhood. I’ll meet you there at what? Eight?”

  “Let’s make it nine,” he said and hung up.

  It wasn’t a date. I did not have a date with Josh Mason. He was just being a good guy and checking up on me…with his sexy voice and his killer blue eyes and hands that made me want to bite my lip and squeeze my thighs together.

  I left work and went shopping with Sara as promised. I didn’t mention the drinks with Josh later. I wanted to catch up with her and soak up some girl time. We cruised the sale racks at Nordstrom, and I got a pair of stilettos that I couldn’t wait to wear. Sara dug for my size in a pile of True Religion jeans on sale and was my hero. I decided to take the jeans out to the bar later because they made my ass look fantastic. And if there was ever a moment to flatter my ass, it was when Josh Mason was going to see it.

  When we got back to her house, I changed into the new jeans and stilettos and fluffed my hair with some dry shampoo and Sara’s high-end blow dryer. I looked as sexy as I thought I could get away with unless I wanted to be totally obvious. But I couldn’t imagine any woman not trying to look her best when she was meeting Josh Mason at a bar.

  It was a short walk to the bar through Sara and Andrew’s more upscale neighborhood. It had plenty of lighting and good sidewalks, so I just went on foot and left my car behind. After a block and a half, I decided maybe my gorgeous stilettos needed some breaking in, but I braved it. They looked stunning with my new jeans. The place was pretty crowded when I got there, but I didn’t have any trouble finding him. He was about six foot three and easily recognizable, so it wasn’t like he didn’t stand out in a group. There was a certain quality to him where he was just more handsome. He somehow gave off more light than other people. Instead of being surprised by how ordinary he looked, as I had been when I met other stars, I was taken aback every time by how gorgeous he was, how the cameras didn’t even do him justice.

  “You are just supernaturally good looking,” I said by way of greeting.

  “Thanks. You look nice, too,” he said as I joined him, climbing onto a chair at the counter-height table in the corner where he sat.

  “It’s not the same at all,” I teased. “I look good for a mere mortal.”

  The waiter came, and we ordered our drinks. I was halfway down a vodka cranberry when I realized I hadn’t asked him why we were meeting. The fact was, we were bantering back and forth, laughing and talking so easily that it slipped my mind.

  “So, you called and asked me to meet you here. I am assuming there was a reason.”

  “I told you, I wanted to see if you were okay. And thank you in person for the article you wrote. I don’t think what I did was particularly praiseworthy, but the way you portrayed it is very beneficial for my image makeover. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Anytime I can write something to make you look good—better than you already look—let me know.”

  “Are you offering to brag on me to strangers?”

  “Anytime,” I said.

  “Why do you think it was such a big deal?” he asked.

  “Why do you think it wasn’t?”

  “All I did was give you a ride to a friend’s house.”

  “You helped a stranger who was hysterical and couldn’t manage a simple task like ‘call a rideshare’ or ‘look up a friend’s number.’ I used your business card in the worst way possible.”

  “One, it’s not a business card. It’s my personal number, and I wouldn’t have given it to you if I never wanted you to use it. Two, the worst way would have been if you put it on Twitter or posted it in a public bathroom.”

  “Posted it? Nah. I’d just write it on the wall in Sharpie like I do with everybody else’s number,” I joked.

  “Right. You don’t know anybody else’s number,” he said.

  I couldn’t help but laugh until tears ran down my face.

  “You are the worst. There went my glamorous image.”

  “You still look glamorous,” he said.

  “Yeah, sure. Like a real Blake Lively over here,” I retorted.

  “You don’t need to look like her. You look like you, and that’s a good thing. I spent two years of my career trying to be the next Channing Tatum. I could dance, but even darkening my hair didn’t convince anyone that I was gonna be Magic Mike.”

  “You’re so much better looking than him it’s ridiculous. Also, you can breathe with your mouth closed, which I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do in anything.”

  “He’s not dumb. I know what you’re thinking—his roles were kind of like mine have been. The guy’s got a great career. But him, Ashton Kutcher, all those guys—not a damn one of them is as dimwitted as they played on screen.”

  “I think there’s a lot of people—starting with probably Marilyn Monroe—who made a name for themselves as beautiful but dumb.”

  “I want to be more.”

  “You already are,” I said. “You should do the thing like remember when George Clooney was in Perfect Storm? Like a brave, doomed sailor or soldier. An action movie or a true story, American Sniper kind of thing. I mean, look at Bradley Cooper! He went from Hangover to A Star Is Born, and you’ve got American Sniper as the steppingstone to Silver Linings Playbook, which is the number one screenplay I wish I’d written.”

  “Really? I figured you for more of a Downton Abbey girl.”

  “Oh my God, yes. That was the best show. I love a costume drama, but Silver Linings Playbook was so smart and funny and heartbreaking. That’s how you tell a story. Make them laugh and then crack open their hearts.”

  “That would be a great line on Tinder,” he said with a laugh. “That’s my plan: Make you laugh, then crack open your heart.”

  “I don’t do dating apps.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not my style. I’m old-fashioned. If I could find myself a guy who writes love letters longhand, maybe with one of those signet rings that he uses to seal the envelope with his family crest pressed into the wax,” I sighed.

  “That’s very specific,” he said with a laugh, “so he needs to be a writer and heir to some kind of kingdom with his own family crest on the jewelry, plus he should be comfortable wearing jewelry and also melting things to seal envelopes. You know, they make the ones you can just lick and stick now.”

  “That’s not very romantic. Melting the stick of red wax in the candle, dripping the blob onto the folded paper, pressing the ring into it…”

  “Wasn’t there an ugly skull ring in Phantom of the Opera where they did that?” he asked with a grimace.

  “Well, yeah, but it’s supposed to be creepy there.”

  “It’s creepy anywhere. The whole thing. It’s total creeper behavior. Reminds me of those ransom notes with the letters cut out of magazines like they used to have on TV movies when we were kids.”

  “Come on, in all of Jane Austen, they use signet rings to seal letters—those movies are the epitome of romance.”

  “That depends on what you consider romantic. I guess if skull rings and hot wax
do it for you—”

  “Oh my God, you make it sound like I go to a dungeon for fun!”

  “Do you?”

  “No! I’m a small-town girl from Iowa. I’ve only dated two guys since I came out here for college.”

  “No signet ring? No dungeon?”

  “Neither. But now you’ve ruined that fantasy for me forever thank you very much.”

  “So you can no longer binge Downton Abbey without thinking what a creeper Matthew Crawley is?”

  “I cannot believe you watched that show,” I marveled.

  “Did you think the big words and accents would be over my head?” he challenged.

  “No. I really, truly do not think you’re dumb, Josh. I don’t believe everything I see in the movies, and I realize that actors have to act.”

  “But you assumed that I wasn’t interested in historical dramas.”

  “Because, and I realize this is sexist as hell, you’re a guy. I figured you liked Stranger Things, or at least shows about war or crime scenes or something.”

  “I’m not your stereotypical guy. I just play one in the movies,” he said.

  “I owe you a drink for that one. I shouldn’t have assumed you weren’t interested in literary adaptations.”

  Josh Mason was smiling at me with his eyes. His lips didn’t even twitch; his dimple didn’t flash. He just sat there, being impossibly handsome and letting me see the humor in his goddamn, breathtaking eyes that were blue as the sea. I knew I was smiling at him like an idiot.

  “Do you want to share a bottle of wine?” I offered.

  “I’m not a big wine drinker. I like Patrón if I’m going to drink at all.”

  “So what are you having now? I thought it was vodka.”

  “It’s water.”

  “What?”

  “Water,” he said, offering it to me. I took a sip incredulously. It was water.

  I slid off my chair. “Okay, enough with the healthy choices. Let’s play some darts.”

  We commandeered a board and took three darts each. He was a gentleman and let me go first. So when I started throwing bullseyes, he was surprised.

  “Are you a hustler?”

  “I may have made more on dart matches than I did in tips when I was a waitress in college,” I said with a smile.

  He threw well, but he wasn’t up to my level. He shook his head after a few rounds. “You’re out of my league.”

  “So, Josh Mason says I’m out of his league. Refinery29 would fall all over themselves,” I laughed.

  “Right,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m better at pool. Rack them.”

  I did, leaning over the table and maybe pushing my hips back a little to showcase my fine ass in the new jeans. There was no way the butterflies in my stomach or the hot buzz between my legs would let me go to sleep without thinking of him in the filthiest way possible. I stood up and smiled a little too brightly because I was trying to push away the idea of Josh Mason’s perfect mouth on my tight, aching nipple. The truth was, I didn’t want to play pool. I wanted him to take me on the table, wanted him to make me scream. I blinked too fast, felt my face heat.

  Since I racked the balls, he broke, sending heavy, cold balls rolling across the felt. I wished we were rolling across the hard table, with his cock buried balls deep in me, making me moan. God, I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted any man. I felt like a horny teenager.

  “You are not at all what I expected, Josh Mason,” I said, shaking my head.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re down to earth. I haven’t spent a lot of time getting to know actors, but the ones I’ve met have been either uninterested in talking to me, or they literally ask me to get the water or coffee or Diet Coke. Like the writer is the same as a personal assistant.”

  “In all fairness, their water or Diet Coke is probably more important to some of them than the script,” he smirked.

  “You know what I mean. I’m not rich; I’m not a producer or director who can give them an opportunity—”

  “You’re a writer. You can write them a storyline where they get wasted and wind up with genital warts. They don’t realize the power you wield.”

  “I think the head writer and the producers would have to approve any genital wart subplots,” I said, suppressing a giggle.

  “I’m glad you don’t think I’m completely self-absorbed,” he said.

  “Not at all. I think you’re really likable.”

  “For an actor?” he said, eyebrows raised.

  “No, for a man. No offense to men in general, but the ones I know—particularly the ones I work with and the ones I’ve dated—haven’t been on board with female ambition and success.”

  “That doesn’t speak well of the men you know. I’m glad I can raise the bar.”

  “You have,” I said, smiling. “This was really nice. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I had a great time,” he said. Then he stood up, leaned over, and kissed my cheek.

  I loved the scrape of his stubble, the whiff of his sandalwood cologne. But I hated that a cheek kiss was obvious friendzoning.

  I totally lost that game of pool. I wasn’t as good at billiards as I was at darts, but my skills were tested by the distraction of having a fine as fuck man within arm’s reach. I was tempted.

  “So what do I get? I won,” he asked, his gorgeous eyes smoldering.

  “I’ll buy you a beer. Unless you’re ride-or-die with Patrón.”

  “I’m not ride-or-die. I’ll take whatever’s on tap.”

  I ordered a couple of beers. We played another game, which I also lost, and I bought another round. Then we switched to Patrón because he wanted to convince me that it was the greatest drink on the planet. When I suggested putting it in a pomegranate margarita, he laughed.

  “That would ruin it. This is perfection on its own. You don’t mix that with fruit and ice and put salt on the rim—it’s sacrilege.”

  “So you take your tequila very seriously,” I said, taking a drink and trying to smile through my grimace. I liked some fruit juice with my alcohol.

  “I do. Do you know what else I take seriously? Relationships. That’s why I’ve never even been engaged even though I’m”—he switched to a whisper— “thirty-six.”

  “I thought you were thirty-one.”

  “So does everyone else, but I’m not,” he assured me.

  “Are you a commitmentphobe?”

  “No, I’m the opposite. I’m a man who doesn’t want to have a first wife and a second wife and probably a third one. I want to get it right the first time. But there’s a deadline now.”

  “Is your biological clock ticking?” I joked, then laughed a little too loud. The alcohol might have been getting to both of us.

  “No, but I’m running out of time to play the dumb hot guy. I want more mature roles, so I need a more mature image.”

  “So put some grey in your hair at the temples. Get a bad Tom Hanks haircut. Open up in an interview about your bad back,” I laughed.

  “All great suggestions if I’m looking to kill my sex appeal. But what I need, what my agent and publicist agree that I need, is a wife.”

  “Then are they ordering one on, like, eBay? Very good used condition?”

  “You’re hilarious. You should write comedy. No. I have to find my own.”

  “You can’t call central casting? Get your publicist to focus group whatever blonde model is doing the latest Chanel ad?”

  “I’m not hiring someone.”

  “Then what? You want someone to marry you for real?”

  “Yes. If not for real, at least for show. For good publicity. American audiences love a romance. Particularly one that seems like it could happen to them.”

  “A real-life fairy tale,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “I could write you the script,” I said.

  “Or you could wear the veil and the dress. You could marry me,” he said.

  I laughed. I honest to
God laughed when Josh Mason suggested, straight-faced, that I would marry him.

  “That’s not a good sign,” he said with a frown. “I wasn’t trying to make you laugh. I hoped you’d agree.”

  “Me? Be your fake bride?” I said in a stage whisper.

  “Yes. You’re smart and funny. I like you. I think those would be useful qualities in a wife, even a show wife.”

  “Like a show pony?” I asked.

  “See, the wisecracks. I enjoy those. You’re clever. I think we’d have fun being married for a while.”

  “Is it my girl next door quality? You think it would make a good fairy tale because I’m the regular girl who catches the eye of one of Mount Olympus’s finest?”

  “Their finest would be their cops, and I think, while they desperately needed a dedicated force to police them, they didn’t have one. And we’ve discussed how I wouldn’t be a good Greek god.”

  “You’re pretty perceptive for a drunk guy,” I observed.

  “I’m not drunk. Okay, maybe a little. But only because I haven’t had more than a couple of beers in the last year because I’ve worked so much. I guess the tequila got the better of me. I’m one of tequila’s finest,” he said with a laugh.

  “That made no sense at all. But since you just proposed to me, I’ll allow it. You’ve lost your mind.”

  “No, I haven’t. This would be good for both of us. I’d get a new reputation. You’d get a rich, famous husband and a place to live since your house burned and—”

  “I have a place to live. I’m staying with my friend Sara and her boyfriend. And I’m going to look for a place of my own. I can manage it with my new salary, even with the student loans. I’m pretty sure I’ll just sell my car…”

  “You wouldn’t have to sell your car if you married me. You could get another one and have two!”

  “What? Why?” I laughed, shaking my head.

  “I don’t know! It seemed like a good argument.”

  “It’s not. I’m not going to marry you. You seem like a terrific guy. And I’m sure some girl will be over the moon happy about an offer like that. I’m just not your girl,” I said, smiling at him. I leaned over and kissed his cheek.