Single Dad Next Door: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  I look down at the card, smile politely, and drop it in a pile of dog poop by the sidewalk. “What do you know,” I say. “It blends right in.”

  21

  Reid

  Mack Perry looks at me seriously from across the table. The rising sun blares in through the window behind him and he’s tapping a pen against a stack of papers. “You’re sure you want to do this, Riggins?”

  Roman and I are in his hotel room and Mack is a little hard to take seriously in the t-shirt and basketball shorts he’s wearing, but his eyes are all business.

  “Yeah. Give me the pen,” I say.

  Mack tilts his head and then nods, sliding the stack of papers and the pen to me. He jabs in a few spots, indicating the places I need to sign. A few squiggles of the pen later, It’s done. Simple as that. Roman smiles up at me.

  “Can I sign, Daddy?”

  “Not now Bud,” I say, struggling to find the energy to smile. I settle for ruffling his hair and looking down at the stack of papers, wondering if I’m the biggest idiot in the world or if I’m doing the right thing. Fuck. I really wish I knew.

  “I’ll hold on to these, okay Riggins? ‘Til tonight. That way if her plan works you can call me and I’ll just toss these in the shredder.”

  I stand, leading Roman toward the door. “Thanks, Mack. Somehow I doubt you’ll be hearing from me.”

  Roman and I pull up to the strawberry shortcake tent Sandra and the girls are setting up. There’s a big oven and a huge prep table already sitting in the grass and the oven is linked to a portable generator by some precarious looking extension cords held together partly by duct tape.

  “I have some cords in the truck that won’t blow you up,” I say, kicking at the cord.

  “Good to see you too,” Sandra quips. She looks beautiful. Her cheeks are flushed and I can see the hope in her face. She thinks this is going to work.

  “So,” I ask. “Who can I talk to about buying some shortcake?”

  “You don’t even have any strawberries.”

  I put a hundred dollar bill down on the prep table. “No change.”

  “Reid…” she says.

  “Take the man’s money!” says Lauren. “Hold onto it incase he doesn’t pay child support.”

  I quirk an eyebrow at Sandra, who looks away, cheeks growing redder. “Something you’re not telling me?” I ask.

  “No, she just knows there’s a possibility. Trying to keep something from Lauren is harder than keeping a secret from the inquisition. She’s crafty.”

  I chuckle.

  “She told me too, sorry Reid,” says Jennifer, who pops out from behind the big oven.

  “Yeah, well, Roman and I will go get that cord and bring it back.”

  “You didn’t even take any shortcake,” Sandra complains.

  I smirk. “How much are you charging?”

  “Four dollars a setup.”

  I wince. “So that’s, what… Like two or three thousand you need to sell?”

  Sandra swallows hard. “I wasn’t going to get the calculator out or anything, but well, yeah. Probably around there.”

  I spend the next twenty minutes safety proofing the ridiculous setup Sandra and the girls have put up. I replace the faulty extension cords, give the generator some oil it desperately needs, tweak the pressure settings so the thing doesn’t explode, and I shove a two by four under one end of the oven to keep it level on the uneven grass beneath. It’s not perfect, but I don’t have to worry a freak accident is going to wind up getting Sandra hurt. Or any of the others, for that matter.

  The Francis’ have set up their little festival as a real tourist attraction. They have the whole Francis brood from two feet tall to six seven, in the case of Vaughn Francis, out directing traffic. They also make sure to plan this little shindig right before a big college game just a few cities over. All the families heading up the day before see the signs, the Francis farm isn’t far off the road, yeah. Big bucks. They even have it set up where families who’ve gathered their allotted basketful of strawberries are funneled out one exit, forcing them to pass through the gift shop on the way back to their cars, where they can buy souvenirs, t-shirts, and anything else the Francis’ can think up.

  I’ve always hated it. The locals call it lookie-lou season, because all day and for most of the day tomorrow, there will be minivans and SUVs crawling through town while screaming kids in the back fight over who gets to watch what on the seat-mounted screens. It’s like a fucking plague, and until this year, I’ve always wished some kind of natural disaster would divert traffic and spare us all the annoyance. Now… Now I’m looking at every football fanatic and tourist like dollar signs that might let Sandra save her dream. And I’m hoping with everything I have that it works.

  I drag Roman with me inside the strawberry patches and let him watch me a couple times before I let him try to snag some customers. Our first target is a woman and her son. She looks about thirty and her son is just a little older than Roman. I gently tap the back of Roman’s chest with my hand and groan loudly.

  “Boy, oh boy,” I shout. “I thought the strawberries were good on their own. But once I put them on that fresh made shortcake with the handmade whipped cream? Didn’t get any better. Right, little guy?”

  Like the complete badass that my son is, Roman belches as if on command, clutching his stomach. He grins up at me and I smile down, hugging him to my side.

  I act like we’re heading back to get more strawberries, but listen closely as the little boy starts talking his mom into letting them get shortcake when their done.

  “We will, honey. We will,” she says to him.

  22

  Sandra

  We’re barely able to keep up as customer after customer joins the line out front for shortcake. Jennifer, Lauren, and I are all sweating already and it’s not even ten. I’ve already lost count of how many customers we’ve served and have had to send Jennifer to Red’s for smaller bills twice now. Part of me almost wants to go tell Reid and Roman to slow it down in there. The two of them are like customer magnets. I know most of the business is coming from them, because a very disproportionate amount of our customers are females, and the younger ones look longingly toward Reid, maybe hoping he’ll give them just a scrap more of attention because they took his bait.

  Sorry girls. He’s mine.

  The thought makes me smile to myself. Why should I be surprised that I feel possessive of him? I wanted to have his baby even when I it might have been the result of a drunken accident. My body was obviously very sure about my compatibility with Reid way before I was. Now that we’ve had a little more time to settle into what our lives could be like together, my mind is catching up. And it’s catching up with frightening speed.

  I try to stop myself from thinking girlish, silly thoughts, but don’t succeed. I picture wedding dresses, raising children with Reid, moving into our own place together with a little fence. Maybe even a puppy. I picture it all and just behind the dream is reality. Dark, ever-present, and threatening. Reality could come crashing through at any moment, and if this little scheme of mine doesn’t work, everything might shatter with it.

  Right now isn’t the time to think about that, so force myself to get my mind back on setting the shortcakes and whipped cream on paper plates and handing them to customers.

  The rest of the afternoon goes by in a blur. By the time it’s too dark for people to pick strawberries, we’re all exhausted. Only Reid seems to still have energy. He lets Lauren and Jennifer go home early, promising to help me clean up. He set up a sleeping bag and a pillow in the bed of his truck, which Roman is curled up in and sleeping contentedly.

  I count out the last dollar bill and press it down on the prep table. Tears well in my eyes. “It’s not enough,” I say.

  “How much is it?” asks Reid.

  “Seven thousand,” I say dejectedly. “Just a little over half of what I need.”

  Reid moves in to hug me tight. “It’ll be okay,” he sa
ys softly. “It’ll all work out. Trust me.”

  “Am I being an idiot for refusing to just take the money from my parents?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “The bakery has never been about money to you. It’s a symbol. It’s everything you’ve stood for and fought for. It’s your independence and it’s your strength.”

  I sigh, squeezing his broad back tightly and burying my face in his chest. “And it’s going to be taken away.”

  “No,” he says. “They can try to destroy the bakery, but they can’t destroy what it stood for.” He pauses, as if he’s telling himself something and not just me. “They can’t take that from you. No matter what.”

  I’m putting the last of the supplies we took from the bakery back inside the next morning when Mark Riggins pulls up to the curb. He gets out of his truck with purpose, storming toward me as he pulls off his sunglasses.

  “You two think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?”

  I look over my shoulder, wondering who he’s referring to. “Excuse me?”

  “You and my stupid fucking brother. You think you outsmarted me? Think again. This town was a piece of shit anyway,” he says, angrily sweeping his arm wide like he’s batting at a fly. “So I should be thanking you for saving me the trouble of trying to turn it into something worthwhile. I hope you all rot in this depressing little shithole.”

  Without giving me time to figure out what’s going on, Mark gets in his truck, and tears out of the parking lot.

  Did he just say he’s not going to try to build here anymore? Because of Reid and me? That doesn’t make sense though. I didn’t raise enough money, and my business wasn’t the only business being threatened.

  I get in the car and drive to Reid’s house and feel a sinking in the pit of my stomach when I see him and Roman moving boxes outside. I step out of the car, waving my hands to get their attention. “What are you doing? Don’t tell me this is what it looks like.”

  “Mind running inside for a bit, Bud? Get yourself some Kool-Aid.”

  Roman runs excitedly inside while Reid rolls his neck and shoves his hands in his jean pockets. His muscles stretch the white shirt he’s wearing and even with everything going on, I can’t help wanting to reach out and touch him.

  “I called a friend about a week ago. Name’s Mack. He’s a big time lawyer and I had him look into all this shit my brother was trying to pull. He told me district bylaws or some shit mean my brother had to submit a detailed plan for the little shopping mecca he wanted to build. Took us a few days to realize, but turns out my little garage is on a key piece of land. See, he was only able to go after a few businesses and homes that were on a specific type of lot. The center of town was basically free for the picking, but there’s a ring of residential homes surrounding the entire town that he couldn’t touch.

  “His plan was to wait for the contract to fall through on my place so he could use my land to build a big enough road into town to support all the infrastructure he wanted to put up. So I used an obscure legal loophole to sell my property directly to the town. My grandfather’s will wouldn’t let me sell it until it passed into my name, but I was able to sell the estate to the town as a historical landmark. That puts it out of the hands of the mayor for at least two years. Apparently the city inspector has to fit it into their schedule to come appraise the property and determine a value. In other words, screw my brother, because he’s not getting his hands on this town.”

  I shake my head. “No. You have to tell them you changed your mind. You can’t just sell your garage and your house because of me. You love that garage.”

  “I do,” he says, nodding. “And I love you, too.”

  Tears fill my eyes. “Reid. Please. I can’t let you do this for me. It’s too much.”

  “Tell you what,” he says. “Roman and I will call it even if you just agree to make this whole engagement for real. What do you say?” he asks, getting on one knee. “Sandra Williams, will you make me the luckiest man in town?”

  He holds out what looks like a handmade ring complete with a small diamond. I cover my mouth with my hand, letting the tears fall freely now. “I do-I mean, yes! God. Yes!” I say, laughing and letting him slide the ring on before squeezing him in a tight hug. “Please tell me you didn’t sell your house and garage just to prove this wasn’t about your grandfather’s will,” I say.

  “Okay. It wasn’t just to prove that. It was also to make sure my fiancée gets to keep her bakery.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe you did that for me. It’s the sweetest and stupidest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “What about Roman? Where are you going to live?”

  “Well, seeing as Mark decided to back out of the construction, I don’t need to use the money from selling my house to pay the fee on your bakery. So we’re just going to get a place in town. I think Marley was planning to sell soon. I bet we could talk her into some kind of deal. We’ll be staying at the bed and breakfast your parents rented out until then. They paid for it until next month and we’ll have the whole place to ourselves. It’s going to be great. Oh, and I guess being my fiancée and all, you can come visit if you want. Just don’t overstay your welcome.”

  Epilogue

  Six months later

  Sandra

  Reid, Roman, and my father are all outside the bed and breakfast throwing horse shoes. I sit on the porch, hands pressed gently to the tight curve of my belly where our baby is growing. Our baby. My fiancé’s baby. It all still feels surreal. Reid is wearing jeans and a simple gray t-shirt, but he makes it look like a million dollars. I bite my lip as I watch his biceps flex and strain as he picks up Roman, spinning him around while they both laugh. Even my father is laughing. That is something I still can’t get used to. My parents came down a week ago to help us get ready for the wedding

  The wedding… Just thinking about it makes me want to laugh. Shopping for a wedding dress while my belly is growing by the day has been stressful, to say the least. I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit looking at pictures of women’s pregnant bellies at various stages to try to predict how much extra room I need to plan for in my dress. Either way, it’s a good problem to have. I’ll happily sacrifice my figure for the little baby growing inside me.

  “You’re positively glowing, sweetheart,” says my mother. She sets down a glass of lemonade beside me on the porch and takes a seat.

  I’m still not used to this from her. Part of me wonders if it’s all an act, if my parents being here is all just some elaborate prank to try to get me to let my guard down. Maybe they’re going to kidnap me and drag me to some ivy-encrusted tower where they’ll lock me away until they find an appropriately nauseating man to marry me off to. Instead of the normal bitterness and panic a thought like that would bring, I just find myself smiling at the silliness of it.

  A weight I never knew I carried is gone. I don’t know when it happened, and I don’t know how, but I can feel the absence. It’s like my thoughts aren’t as heavy anymore. They don’t have the power to hurt me like they once could. All I have to do is look at Reid, Roman, or feel the growing life inside me to know that nothing else really matters. Even if Mark comes back in two years and tries to take another shot at tearing down my bakery and everything else. I’ve finally started to feel enough of an identity outside the bakery that I could live with it. I could survive and go on and be happy even if it was taken from me.

  “Mom,” I say, feeling slightly odd not calling her ‘mother’. But calling her mother and calling my dad father was a subtle way of emotionally distancing myself from them. It was my way of saying they were still at arm’s length. Now I don’t feel like I need that anymore. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “What changed? Between us? I’m not complaining, I just don’t think I really get it yet.”

  She folds her fingers in her lap and rocks back in the chair, loo
king out over the lawn and at the boys playing horseshoes. “I’d like to say your father and I realized we had made a mistake and wanted to start fixing it. I’d like to say something like that. The truth is that man of yours happened. He showed you to us like we’ve never seen you. Just hearing how he sees you was enough for us to know it’s true.” She reaches across to squeeze my hand. “Darling, I know this isn’t noble of me, but I can’t apologize for the way your father and I raised you. We raised you the way we knew how, and we did our best to instill the same values we hold in you. You just, well, you were made from a different mold. I’m only sorry we didn’t realize it sooner.”

  I smile, looking down. I don’t think I’m ever going to get the perfect apology from them. I don’t need that. I can accept the imperfect. They are trying to do better now, and that’s what counts. “Is Vanessa going to come?” I ask. “To the wedding, I mean.”

  My mom makes a face that says not to count on it, shaking her head. “Your sister is very busy, dear. I wasn’t able to get an answer one way or another out of her. I just wouldn’t go getting your hopes up.”

  I spend the second half of my day at the bakery. Lauren and Jennifer have been training my two new employees for me, and things seem to be going well so far. After the day we had selling shortcake at the Francis farm, I learned a famous TV chef had been one of my customers that day. She apparently talked about my bakery on national television, and I’ve barely been able to keep up ever since. I’ve gone from two employees to four, and if business keeps up, I’m going to have to think about expanding the shop.

  Again. Good problems. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the ultimate good problem of them all, Reid Riggins, started a sort of chain reaction as soon as he came into my life.