by Sarah Smith
“I will never be able to out-cool you, Remy. And don’t talk me up so much. Mari is one person. And this is my first show. I don’t want to jinx anything. Thanks again for supplying the alcohol tonight. People are much more likely to drop a few hundred dollars on artwork when they’ve had a few.”
“More than happy to help.” Remy hands me a glass of water and I take a long sip. He lifts an eyebrow at me. “If only that were champagne, right?”
I cradle my stomach. Under my sleeveless red cocktail dress, my bump is barely visible. But I see it every time I glance down. And every time, my heart swells.
I beam at Remy. “Best reason to give up champagne, in my opinion.”
“You know I’m kidding.” He pulls me into a side hug. “I couldn’t be happier for you. So many exciting things happening in your life. Your career is taking off, you moved into a new apartment with Wes, and now you’ve got a bun in the oven. Your life is a dream come true.”
My eyes water at his words. I never thought I could be so happy.
From across the room, I spot Wes. He’s talking to my cousin, who’s holding his toddler daughter. Wes high-fives her, and she giggles. He can always make her laugh, even when she’s fussy. Warmth courses through me at the sight. He’s going to be an amazing dad.
When he looks up and spots me, he winks, then heads straight for me.
“Once you give birth, your first drink is on me.” Remy indulges in a long sip from his drink.
“And Wes’s, too. Remember how he gave up alcohol during my entire pregnancy so I don’t have to go it alone?”
“The way you two go out of your way for each other is sickeningly sweet,” Remy says.
Just then Wes trots over and scoops me into a hug. He plants a perfectly sweet, perfectly PG kiss on me. Suitable for all the family we’re surrounded by tonight, even though I’m aching to jump his bones. The cut of his charcoal gray suit is lethal on his lean and muscled frame. I grip on to his shoulders to keep my hands from wandering to the naughty places they’d rather explore.
“Careful. There are kids around,” Remy jokes.
“They’ll live,” Wes says, his eyes still on me.
Remy gives him a playful shove before walking away to chat with family. I smile to myself, relieved that it didn’t take long for Wes to crawl back into Remy’s good graces. Remy was the first person I told about mine and Wes’s reconciliation. He was reluctant at first, just like any protective cousin and best friend would be. But then I revealed Wes’s romantic gesture of purchasing the empty building next to Dandy Lime for me to turn into my very own studio and gallery space. All was forgiven after that.
Even better because a month and a half after that, we had shocking news to deliver to my family: I was pregnant.
Even now, the memory of seeing the positive pregnancy test has my stomach in happy knots. When I close my eyes, I can recall perfectly the joy on Wes’s face when I showed him. And then he hugged me and kissed me for a solid minute.
“I’m so, so happy, babe. You have no idea,” he said between kisses.
He pulls me tight against him, and I run my hands up the lapels of his suit jacket.
His palm settles softly on my bump. “How are you feeling?”
I bite my lip to keep my smile from growing too comically wide. Ever since I got pregnant, he’s been so attentive, always asking me how I’m doing, fetching water and snacks for me constantly, and offering daily foot massages. And he insists on coming to every single ob-gyn appointment with me.
I pat his hand, still on my stomach. “Pretty freaking great.”
We both do another scan of the room. I catch my mom excitedly whispering to my dad. After finding out I was pregnant, I didn’t think my heart could get any bigger. But right now as I watch my family and friends showing their support for me, it’s almost too much. I am at maximum capacity, in danger of bursting if even one more sweet thing happens.
Wes gazes at me with concern. “You’re not still nauseous, are you?”
I cup my hand against his stubbled cheek. Now that it’s July, he’s shaved his beard in favor of a five o’clock shadow that’s just as dashing.
“I’m good. Luckily my morning sickness has been sticking to the mornings, not all day like some poor moms-to-be.”
He wraps his arms around my waist. “Good. Because after this, I’m taking you out to the diner down the block and we’re having a pancake eating contest to celebrate my girlfriend’s first wildly successful art show.”
I moan. “That sounds amazing.”
He opens his mouth as if to speak, but then clamps it shut.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”
“The sound of what?”
“Girlfriend.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let’s ask everyone what they think.”
Wes turns around and calls for the attention of everyone in the room. He steps in front me, his bright smile rivaling the brightness of the track lights above us.
“Everyone, thank you for coming to my brilliant and talented girlfriend Shay’s first art show. I…” He stalls and frowns before turning back to me. “You know, ‘girlfriend’ doesn’t seem like a good enough word to describe what you mean to me anymore.”
He sticks his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a black velvet box. Immediately the tears hit. I have to cup my face with both hands, I’m on the verge of sobbing from pure shock and joy.
Wes drops down to one knee in front of me. The expression on his face is clear now. Hopeful. But he doesn’t need to be. He should know by now I’ll say yes.
“Shay, you made me the happiest man in the world when you told me you were pregnant. Now I want to make you happy forever. I can’t wait to start our family together. Will you marry me?”
I’m nodding before he even gets the words out. Cheers fill the room as he slips a sparkly cushion-cut engagement ring on my finger. He jumps back up to his feet, and pulls me in for a kiss. We stand there hugging for what seems like minutes, a barrage of cheers and congratulations echoing around us.
“How’d I do?” he whispers in my ear.
“You were perfect,” I whisper back.
“So you were surprised then?”
“Stunned.” I glance down at the ring. “It’s gorgeous, Wes. I love it.”
He leans back, taking my face in his hands. His eyes glisten with raw emotion. It’s enough to make me collapse right here on the floor in front of all these people. But I don’t budge because he’s got me. He always will.
As long as we stay in this embrace, everyone around us stays away. It’s like they know this moment is ours and they don’t want to invade just yet.
Wes squeezes me tighter in his arms. “I mean it, Shay. You’ve made me happier than I ever thought I could be. You’re giving me the family I always wanted. It’s…it’s the best feeling in the world.”
The tremble in his voice makes me tear up once more. Because I know without a doubt, he means every word.
“You and our baby, you two are my family. You two are my everything,” he says.
I’m dangerously close to another sob. I try for a joke to keep the tears away before I lose it in front of everyone. “So we’re even worth skipping out on your favorite tequila for these next six months?”
“Beyond worth it, no question.”
I cuddle into him for one last hug before the crowd descends upon us. Nuzzling his neck, I breathe in. “You earned yourself a lifetime of the most expensive stuff after tonight. I don’t care if I have to sell a million paintings, you’re top-shelf tequila worthy.”
He laughs. I close my eyes and soak in his sound, the feel of his body pressed against mine, the joy of this moment, and how it’s light years beyond the joy we’ve shared so far. It’s a new bliss, for our future, our baby, our family, our everything.
He leans back, locking eyes with me once more. In his gaze, I feel like his ev
erything. “I’d go a lifetime without it, as long as I have you,” he says.
“Exactly how I feel.” I pat my stomach once more. “But luckily after the baby comes, we won’t have to choose. We can have both.”
Wes beams. “Sounds like perfection to me.”
Acknowledgments
Writing this was a labor of love. This is my very first self-published work and I have so many people to thank for helping me make it happen.
First and foremost, thank you to Stefanie Simpson for reading the first draft way back when. It was a mess and I was a mess, but you were so kind and encouraging. You gave me the motivation to continue writing this when I wanted to give up so many times. This is for you.
Thank you to my agent Sarah Younger and your amazing team at NYLA. You and your squad are brilliant and beyond talented. You helped make this novella what it is, I couldn’t have done it without you.
Thank you JL Peridot, for being the kind of friend and author I never thought I’d be lucky enough to meet. You are every kind of awesome.
Thank you to all the people who read this novella when it was called Tequila and it was a serial on my blog. Your comments gave me so much joy as well as the confidence to turn it into a full-fledged novella.
Thank you to Les for designing this beautiful cover.
To my friends and family, thank you for supporting me, loving me, and being proud of me.
Thanks to Dan + Shay for writing and recording that amazing song “Tequila,” which inspired me to write this novella.
And last but not at all least, thank you to everyone who purchased and read this novella. For so long I’ve dreamed of self-publishing, and when I finally made the decision to do it, I was so nervous that no one would care or want to read it. Thank you for showing me that you do care and that you still like reading my words. I love you all.
Connect Online
Twitter: @authorsarahs
Instagram: @authorsarahs
Thank you
Did you enjoy reading this? Then please leave a review on your retailer of choice and Goodreads! And read on for a sneak peek of Sarah Smith’s romance novel Faker, out now, and her upcoming novel Simmer Down, out October 13, 2020!
Faker
Blinking is underrated. At least I think so. Not only does it keep your eyes from drying out, it serves as a momentary break from unpleasant sights and sensations. Harsh sunlight, a gory scene in a horror movie, a sudden gust of dust-ridden air. Close your eyes and for a second, you’re safe and shielded.
I blink to protect my eyes from the blinding white figure invading my peripheral vision. Behind the black of my lids, I feel relief. As soon as my eyes open again, the nagging brightness is back, whiter than ever.
That whiteness is a pale coworker I don’t particularly care for. I pretend like I can’t see him. It’s no big deal. I fake almost everything else when I’m here.
I have to as a twenty-six-year-old woman working at a power tool distributor called Nuts & Bolts. The company is staffed mostly by middle-aged gruff men who prefer to plaster their cubicle walls with photos of bikini models rather than pictures of their wives and girlfriends. On any given workday, I shift between a limited range of fake emotions: confidence, assertiveness, boldness. I am none of these outside of work. If I were my real self, I’d be roadkill.
When I took this job two years ago, I ingrained fakeness into my work DNA. From 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday through Friday, I force myself to be steely and unflappable. There’s no room for softness here. Everything is literally nuts and bolts, hard metals, gears, blades. The parking lot is gravel. The halls are covered in a film of dust and dirt.
I have to be hard because working here is no walk in the park. Like when the managers nearing retirement age mansplain information I already know but never do the same to the male employees. Or whenever new hires in the warehouse ask me if I have a boyfriend seconds after they meet me. My pretend toughness—boss-bitch mode, I call it—keeps it mostly at bay. That, along with a strict anti–sexual harassment policy.
Why would I work in such a place? Because things like money, food, and shelter are important to me. Also because a journalism degree only goes so far when you don’t actually want to be a journalist.
And to be honest, I like the work. I’m a copywriter who somehow managed to secure my own tiny office in a building full of shared work spaces. I write descriptions about power tools. I manipulate words all day, every day. I make the most industrial, harsh objects sound enticing. I falsify how interesting they are, which is easy for a faker like me.
We all do it. Feigned interest in conversations. Phony hair color. Dishonest proclamations about penis length. Fake orgasms. I’m guilty of that one too.
Fake can be empowering. It’s human nature. It’s necessary.
And then there’s Tate Rasmussen, the pale figure bleeding into my line of sight. The one person at Nuts & Bolts whose presence doesn’t require me to pretend. I feel genuine emotions for him, all of which are rooted in frustration, anger, and irritation.
Thankfully, we reside in separate offices. The downside? His office is diagonally across the hall from mine, which means I have an unobscured view of half his face—just as he does of mine—forty hours a week. Only a narrow hallway and two flimsy doors—the equivalent of four paces—separate us.
Shutting the doors would offer more privacy, but neither of our shoebox offices contains vents. Unless we want to roast in the summer or freeze in the winter, we have to keep our doors open.
Tate’s in charge of social media for the company. It’s an amusing example of irony, as he is one of the most antisocial and eerily quiet people I’ve ever met. Luckily, we don’t interact much. Most of our communication is done via email. Face-to-face words are not often exchanged aloud unless it is to bicker or criticize.
Most days I can ignore him, but this afternoon is proving to be a challenge because I’m enduring Tate’s loud pen tapping. When he’s not typing or on the phone, it’s tap, tap, tap, all day, every day.
“Be quiet, please,” I say.
He scribbles something on a sheet of paper before crumpling it and tossing it on my desk, zero trace of emotion on his face. I open it to find a “NO” scrawled in black ink, taunting me. Already I can feel the heat making its way to my face.
That’s Tate. Cold, calculating, and hostile. His rude, dismissive behavior is currency, and I’m the store he chooses to shop at. I’m paid in frowns, grimaces, scowls, and blank stares.
He’s never once stepped foot in my office. I’m convinced it’s yet another one of his passive-aggressive digs at me, since he waltzes with confidence through every other space in this building. The closest he’s ever gotten is hovering around my doorway. I wonder what it would take for him to cross that invisible boundary. Would I need to be choking with bloodshot eyes, begging for him to administer the Heimlich?
I toss the paper into the trash can. It wasn’t always this way. Before he started, I was asked by the hiring manager to email him a product catalog so he could familiarize himself with the inventory. His reply was nothing short of impressive.
Emmie,
Thank you for the helpful information. I’m told working quarters will be tight, but I’ve also heard many wonderful things about you. Looking forward to sharing space with one of Nuts & Bolts’ finest.
Sincerely,
Tate Rasmussen
On his first day, I skipped into his office, mesmerized. I couldn’t help it. I was a moth drawn in by the glow of his white skin, his curly blond locks, broad shoulders, that sharp jaw. This handsome stranger looked so different from me, with my olive complexion and dark hair.
When I introduced myself, disgust and horror filled his face. Lines jutted into his forehead and his eyebrows pinched together, aging his late-twenties face in an instant. Had we passed each other on the street, he would have shrieked at the sight of me and run the other way.
He weakly shook my hand, then directed his attention back to hi
s paperwork. His instant rebuff hurt, but I chalked it up to first-day-of-work nerves. It wasn’t. Every attempt at polite small talk, every invite to lunch was met with rejection.
And then I overheard him on the phone. Through his cracked-open door, I heard, “I don’t even know what to say about her. It’s only been a week.”
I froze. I should have plugged my ears or shoved in my headphones, but I couldn’t.
“Just looking at her . . .” Disdain dripped from his voice. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to deal.”
So that was it. We would never, ever like each other.
I had no idea what I did to turn him sour so quickly. I should have confronted him, but I didn’t have the strength. I was humiliated, going out of my way to welcome someone who hated me instantly for some unknown reason. From that afternoon, I quit engaging him unless it was a work-related issue and he was the only one who could help. We fell into a pattern of ignoring and arguing with each other.
I shove away the bitter memory and staple copies of a shopping guide I wrote. A soft squeak distracts me, and I look up to see Tate leaning back against his desk, stretching. His sleeve slides up his arm, and I catch a glimpse of skin. His paleness never ceases to wow me. Living in Nebraska, I was surrounded by countless white children in school, but Tate puts them to shame. His skin practically glows. I want to ask what SPF he uses, how long it takes him to burn when he’s outside, but that’s small talk, and he refuses to make it with me.
I could say his complexion makes him haggard, but it would be a lie. The lack of color actually suits him. Raphaelian-hued skin, blond hair, eyes so light blue they’re almost gray. His photo belongs in a travel brochure for Nordic countries. He’s a living, breathing advertisement for that region. It’s another reason I can’t stand him. A person as unpleasant as Tate shouldn’t look that good.