Real Fake Husband Excerpt
He called me “Goody-Goody.”
He called me “Nosy-Josie.”
He called me other things while he pulled my pigtails.
Now, his grandmother left us a surprise inheritance.
The catch?
We have to get married and live in her small NYC apartment.
For a month.
With just one bed.
My gran’s apartment is pitch dark when I arrive.
I never remember her home being dark, even when I was a kid and we lived on the other side of Queens. She always kept the light on in the kitchen. I place my bags and helmet by the door, and the first thing I do is turn on the light above the stove.
The soft glow brings immediate comfort. Even though I know she’s dead, I can feel her presence. Not because I believe in ghosts, but because good memories well up in my head.
Now that I can see, I let my gaze wander through the rest of the apartment. It’s cozy. Beautifully quiet as always. Several vases and a collection of figurines, knick-knacks, and other decorative objects add a touch of her personality. The flowery dark-purple wallpaper holds a frame of my favorite photos of Gran, with her small body in the middle, between me and my childhood buddy, Theo. When the pic was taken, we were already much taller than her, and I recall we had to crouch down. Our heads are touching, and we’re all smiling from ear to ear.
Everything is exactly how I remember it.
With one major difference.
The scent.
Taking a deep breath, I run my hands through my hair and lean against the counter. Her home smells like it used to. Clean and tidy. Flowery, like rose candles and soap. Only the familiar scent of freshly baked swirled butter cookies is missing. Gran used to make them in an old-fashioned piping she inherited from her mom—who inherited it from hers—and I can still taste the crumbly, light texture melting in my mouth. They were the absolute best.
When I got the call about Gran, it was like a punch to the gut. She was the one who raised me after both my parents died. Even before then, she was the only person who understood me. She had infinite patience with me, I can see that looking back. Gran hadn’t been happy when I’d moved to San Francisco after high school, but she’d supported me anyway. Shortly after I left, she moved out of the apartment where she raised me, saying it was too big. She needed something a little smaller, somewhere that wasn’t filled with old memories.
Now I’m back, and she isn’t here.
I’m still pissed I couldn’t make it to the funeral in time. I was on the road, wrapping a few things up, and didn’t get the call until a few days after her death. Between that and several flight delays and cancellations, by the time I made it to New York, it was too late.
My eyes sting, and I shrug it off. I refuse to think about that right now. You need to be on your guard for the nightmare you’re about to walk into, I tell myself.
It’s easy not to dwell on the grief, because “the little surprise” in her will has been consuming my thoughts ever since I found out.
What in the name of all things holy were you thinking, Gran, huh?
I know Gran always wanted me to settle down and get married, but I still don’t understand why she was hell-bent on Josephine being the one. Josephine Graham. Little well-behaved “good as gold” Josie with her frizzy hair, long pigtails that begged to be pulled, scatterbrain and nosiness—Nosy Josie. That was her nickname. One I’m still secretly proud of, even all these years later.
I still can’t fathom why she’s going along with this. The grandmother of an old childhood classmate (one you obviously hate with every fiber of your being) dies and tells you that you’ll gain an inheritance if you stay married to him for a month and you say yes?
She must be really bored—or really desperate.
Yeah, I’m banking on the desperate part. People will do anything for money.
Gran wanted us together, but I never thought she would go this far. But I’ll settle my beef with her in the afterlife. You hear, Gran? Right now, I not only have to prepare to get married, but it has to be to the most annoying, chaotic, and nosy person on the planet.
After I hang my biker jacket on one of the hooks near the entrance and adjust my tie, I head into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I realize I’m starving, until I remember there’s nothing here. Shit. It’s late, but New York City never sleeps. I’m sure someone is still open for delivery.
Before I can get out my phone, I hear keys rattling in the door. I head to the living room to find out who the hell would dare let themselves into my gran’s—my apartment—wait, unless she has a key.
The door opens, and I stop in my tracks.
I stare at a beautiful woman.
It’s not her.
She’s wearing black pants and a polo shirt, which is clearly a uniform. Her shirt is the brightest pink. Like, almost blindingly bright. But as far as one can say of this color, it suits her. Her clothes hug her curvy frame. A few strands of her blonde hair have escaped the messy bun atop her head, and my fingers itch to reach out and tuck them behind her ear.
After dropping her bags next to mine in a heaping mess—irritatingly so—she shifts to face me, chocolate-brown eyes narrowed in what seems to be distrust.
“Callum.” Her voice is tight.
Josie? This is Josie?
There’s no fucking way this woman is the same goody two-shoes who rolled her eyes every time I spoke. My gaze lands on the name tag on her uniform.
“Josephine,” I say, using her full name just as she used mine. “It’s been a long time.”
“Not long enough.”
And there it is. The attitude I’m so familiar with. Yeah, it’s her. Her looks may have changed, but she hasn’t changed a bit.
“I didn’t know you had a key,” I say.
She twirls the keys around her finger. For other women, this would be an expression of nervousness. With Josephine, the gesture clearly has something provocative about it. “I used to help Mrs. Blanchie from time to time. She made a copy for me.”
“So, you just let yourself in?” I arch an eyebrow in question. “You realize it’s my place now, right?”
She glares. “Well, I didn’t think you would be here…considering you didn’t show up for the service.”
Fucking low blow. “She was my grandmother. If I could’ve been there, I would’ve. Not that I need to explain myself to anyone.” Especially you. I know I don’t have to say it out loud.
Clearly, neither of us are thrilled about the arrangement, and even less so about having to spend any modicum of time together. Before she has a chance to respond to my quip, there’s a knock on the door.
I push past her to answer it, glancing at my watch. It’s 8.30 p.m. He’s punctual to the minute.
Vance, the family lawyer from Sanford Partners law firm, is standing in the hall with a bright smile and a folder clutched in his hands. When he called to ask me to meet him and Josie here, he sounded just as young as ever. Now, seeing him in person, he’s definitely aged. His black hair is now gray, and his face is lined with wrinkles.
But his warm smile is still the same. “Hello, Mr. Ashford,” he says in a thick Italian accent, “buonasera.”
“Hey, Vance. Come on in.” I step aside and let him enter.
“I would say it’s great to see you again, son, but given the circumstances…”
“It’s all right. Vance, this is Josephine Graham. Josephine, our lawyer Vance Lombardi.”
“We’ve already met,” Josie says in that matter-of-fact tone of hers. “At the funeral.”
Yeah. Right.I don’t owe her an explanation, I remind myself.
Josephine gives Vance a polite smile. “Hello, Mr. Lombardi.”
“Please, call me Vance. It’s good to see you again,” he says, extending his hand. She shakes it as he leads us both to the kitchen table. “This shouldn’t take very long. Everything’s already been drawn up, as per your grandmother’s wishes. All I need are your signatures.”
The three of us sit, with Josie and I facing each other, though it’s evident she’s trying to avoid eye contact.
“Let’s go over everything,” I suggest. “Just so we can make sure we’re all on the same page.”
“Of course.” Vance opens the folder and shuffles a few papers around. “In her will, Mrs. Blanche Ashford named you both as the inheritors of the sum of her estate, which includes this apartment, her storage locker in Queens, and a total of approximately 1.5 million dollars?—”
“I’m sorry, how much?” Josie asks, her eyes wide.
There it is. Initially, Vance spoke of a “hefty amount.” I’m also surprised, but have a much better poker face. I knew Gran was well-off. She always told me not to make a fuss when I took care of her bills and hired a maid to clean for her. But I never realized the extent of her finances. That being said, $750,000 won’t change my life. Then again, I’m not here for the money. I’m here because I can’t say no to Gran’s last wish. It’s what she wanted, and I would never forgive myself for ignoring it.
Judging by the look on Josephine’s face and the fact that she’s willing to go through with this arrangement, she needs the money way more than I do.
“One-point-five million dollars,” Vance repeats. “As you know, I was instructed not to disclose the amount until both parties were present.”
“Go on, Vance,” I order.
“I know I spoke to you both separately, but it’s crucial that we’re all on the same page and there are no misunderstandings. The sum is to be split equally between Callum Ashford and Josephine Graham upon the completion of one month of marriage. The marriage must be conducted by Mr. Vance Lombardi of Sanford Partners. Both parties must remain married and living together in Mrs. Blanche Ashford’s Twenty-third Street apartment for the entire thirty days. Neither party is allowed to renovate or change the furniture due to the value of the apartment. Only after the month is complete will both parties receive their half of the inheritance and the keys to the storage locker.”
“Wait,” Josie interrupts, drumming her fingers on the table. “We’re not allowed to renovate or change the furniture? We can’t even move furniture around or buy new things?”
“That was Mrs. Ashford’s wish, yes.” Vance gives a nod. “I trust you will respect her wishes.”
“Of course. No problem, but it’s rather…odd.”
Crazy is the word she’s looking for. This whole thing is batshit crazy. Although, when I think about it a bit, the furniture and renovation thing is weird, but not surprising. Dear old Gran was an eccentric and loved her antiques.
“Seems clear enough,” I say, finally looking at Josephine.
She’s staring at me, and her mind seems to be racing a million miles a second. She nods.
Vance draws out a single sheet of paper from a manila folder, and a pen from the front pocket of his suit jacket. He clicks it and holds it out. “Everything is taken care of. I just need you two to sign on the bottom line, and you’ll officially be married.”
I take the pen first, scribbling my signature with practiced ease before pushing the page toward Josephine. I hold out the pen for her.
Her eyes meet mine, and she seems to ponder.
What? Has she changed her mind? If she’s still the Nosy Josie I know, then she’s weighed the pros and cons a hundred times over. Why is she hesitating now?
When she reaches for it, our fingers brush. It’s only for a second—just the tiniest touch. But it’s enough for me to feel a spark—of something—but not the good kind. My nerves come alive, and my focus narrows in on nothing but her. Did she feel it too? If she did, she doesn’t show it. Annoying as ever. This month is going to be a nightmare, just like I thought it would be.
She snatches the pen from me and signs her name.
Done. She drops it and pushes the paper back to Vance.
“By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” he says, gathering the paperwork. “Congratulations.”
“What happens if either one of us doesn’t go through with it?” she asks. “You know, moves out before the month is over?”
“Ah, right. Should either party violate Mrs. Blanche Ashford’s last wish, the money goes to”—he flips through his papers—“Mr. Chad Turtlemaw.”
“Who the hell is that?” I ask, slightly irritated.
“Mr. Turtlemaw runs a small YouTube channel about endangered algae and desires to create a heartfelt animated film about them, which requires him to own a custom eighty-two-foot cruising yacht, as well as a film production studio,” Vance explains matter-of-factly.
What the…? I raise my eyebrow, dumbfounded. I’ve never even heard of this guy.
“Evidently,” Vance continues without batting an eyelash, “your late grandmother was a huge fan of his work, and if you or Ms. Graham renege on the arrangement, there are explicit instructions to give the money—the full amount—to Mr. Turtlemaw.”
That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. A heartfelt animated film about algae? Okay, I’m all for saving the environment and shit, but how the fuck do you save the environment on a huge-ass luxury yacht? Eighty-two-foot! That’s not a yacht, that’s a fucking palace.
But honestly, it doesn’t surprise me. I told you she was eccentric.
Vance doesn’t stick around after that. He’s gone about two minutes later—not before wishing us good luck and expressing his sincere hope to see us here again on the last day of this month, with the annulment papers ready—leaving me and Josephine behind to process what just happened.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Ashford,” I can’t resist teasing her. “Should we kiss now and seal the deal?”
“Hell will freeze over before I kiss you.” A hand goes up to her hair as if to make sure I’m not pulling her pigtails. Then she rolls her eyes and grabs her bags. “And there’s no way I’m taking your last name.”
“Good. After this month is over, we can just move on and pretend like it never happened.” I grab my bags as well.
“Fine by me.” She shrugs indignantly.
“Fine.”
We step toward the hallway, and there’s a moment of awkward shuffling. We each try to go first. She ends up pushing past me, accidentally grazing my chest slightly, muttering under her breath, and I let her go because I’m a goddamn gentleman. Also, I get to see her swaying hips while she walks.
A second later, she stops abruptly. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“What’s the problem?”
Slowly, she turns to look at me. “There’s only one bedroom.”
Sure enough, there are two doors at the end of the hall, and one leads to the bedroom. The other is the bathroom. Ahh, I forgot about that. I look over her head into the room and see the neatly made queen-sized bed with a stitched rose floral comforter and an ornate mahogany headboard. Recalling Gran’s instructions about not changing or moving furniture, I can’t help but chuckle with amusement.
“Well, shit,” I say, smirking at Josephine. “I guess we’re sharing a bed, Mrs. Ashford.”
End of the excerpt.
Real Fake Husband is a scorching hot enemies-to lovers, forced proximity, fake marriage of convenience romance. It is a complete standalone. Definitely for adult readers only.