Second Chance Husband: A Fake Bride Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  I grin and sip my own drink. I love how frustrated she gets, but I wish she’d at least show a little more enthusiasm. It’s not like I share a room with very many women. Sure, they can stay for a few hours, at least until I get what I want.

  Not many of them get to boss me around, though. Piper’s an exception. She’s special. And I love torturing the hell out of her.

  7

  Piper

  A single queen bed. Of course there’s just a single queen bed. As Jace walks through the historic Reading Terminal Market, Calvin and Eric following close to capture every detail, I just keep thinking about that damn bed.

  My mind should be on the shoot. Jace walks down the brown-tiled floor, grimed over with dirt and soot from years of walking feet, between stands with bright neon signs and multicolored chip bags stacked human-high. Normally the Market is packed with people on their lunch breaks or tourists just checking the place out, but today it’s empty except for our tour guide, one of the owners of Mikey’s Diner. It’s one of the many lunch stands in the area, mixed in between gourmet grocers, chocolate sellers, florists, fruit stands, and even the Amish get a little corner.

  It’s about as Philadelphia as it gets. Lots of Irish-themed stuff plus a Peking duck stand and a gyro spot over in a corner. It’s a melting pot of nationalities, and it’s gritty, gourmet, and delicious all at once. Jace seems perfectly at home, lighting up the camera as he chats about the history of the building with Mikey himself, a short and squat Italian guy that clearly grew up in the city and will never leave.

  “The fucking pork!” Mikey says, gesturing with both fists. “The fucking pork, man!”

  Jace grins at him. “Pork? Beef, brother. Gotta do the beef.”

  “Beef!” Mikey gesticulates wildly. “We got some beef, my man!”

  The two guys laugh as they turn a corner, walking down a long throughway toward the central food court. I have no clue what the hell they’re yelling about, and it just doesn’t matter.

  Because all I can think about is that single queen bed.

  I wanted to cry, I really did. Jace lounged down on it right away, grinning his face off and rubbing the spot in front of him. “Take a seat, wifey,” he said to me. I ran to the bathroom and took a shower, and when I got out I found him lying under the covers in nothing but a robe.

  It took two minutes of yelling and hitting him with my slipper before he finally left my bed alone, but by then the whole thing smelled like him. I spent the night in that bed, Jace lying on the couch nearby, and I couldn’t get his scent out of my mind. I kept breathing him in, over and over again, and soon I found that I liked it.

  I really, really liked it.

  A single queen bed, sitting in the middle of the room, enough space for two. Jace’s breathing just a few feet away. Jace’s smell all over my body.

  Damnit.

  I take a deep breath as we come to the tables. Mikey and Jace sit down and Jace leans back in his chair with complete casual ease. Mikey gestures off camera and one of his employees comes over with a few sandwiches, both pork and beef, plus a couple beers.

  “Oh, yeah,” Jace says. “This right here is why I make this show.”

  “Not a bad job, right?” Mikey says, biting into some pork, the meat spilling out of his mouth. He’s a stark contrast, a piggish and loud lout when compared to Jace’s cool, quiet calm.

  “Not a bad gig at all,” Jace says. “Assuming you can eat for ten and drink for twenty.”

  “You can do all that, I bet.”

  “Sure can.” He grins and looks off camera. “Helps that my producer lends me a hand.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Mikey shouts. “That little girl can eat and drink?”

  “Better than you,” Jace says.

  I shake my head and smile, waving my hands to try and focus them up. Jace takes the hint and turns back to Mikey, asking him a few rehearsed questions while he takes another graceful bite.

  Eating on camera is a skill. There’s nothing more disgusting than eating. The act is just inherently gross. It’s shoving a bunch of stuff into your mouth, and a lot of times that stuff is dead animal muscle, and you have to chew it up and swallow it without making a fool of yourself. There’s so much that can go wrong, and the vast majority of people look disgusting when they eat.

  I’ve been in this business long enough to spot a real pro eater, and Jace is it. He looks effortlessly cool as he eats, not biting too much and chewing quickly. He doesn’t answer a question until he completely swallows, and sometimes there’s a short pause in the flow of the conversation, but that doesn’t matter. He knows we can edit that out later. He knows how to make it look normal, shoving that pork into his mouth and finishing it off with beer.

  Mikey, by contrast, looks like he’s never eaten a sandwich in his life.

  “Slow it down,” I whisper to Jace, and he seems to get the hint. He asks more questions, forcing Tommy to stop eating. Say what you will about Jace, and I have a lot to say, but he’s good at what he does.

  The shoot goes smoothly. They eat pretzels, talk more about the architecture and the history, and we all end up in a nearby bar after the shoot. It’s a place called McGillin’s, this ancient-looking beer hall tucked down a weird blind alley. Jace swears it’s the best place in the city, and although it’s kind of crowded, I have to admit that it’s pretty cool.

  The crew grabs a standing table in the far corner of the place while Jace and I get drinks up front. “Good job today,” I say to him.

  He shrugs. “Thanks. That guy was a real monster, huh?”

  I laugh a little. “Disgusting eater. We’ll have to cut all that out.”

  “God, I know. Just, like, shoveling it in there.” He makes a face.

  “Where’d you learn to eat on camera, anyway?”

  “Practice,” he says. “I was just as gross early on, had no clue, until another food host told me I was being a pig. I figured it out from there.”

  “So you weren’t born this effortless,” I say.

  He arches an eyebrow, smirking a bit, and I realize I just gave something away. He’s about to say more but our drinks arrive. I grab two and hurry away, leaving him to carry over three.

  It’s relaxed for an hour. Jace spends most of the time talking sports with the boys and I content myself to a couple drinks. Calvin and Eric stay on opposite sides of the table and try not to talk to each other, but it’s hard when there are only four people talking. Grant’s dead silent, like always.

  The boys shift onto the topic of the shoot earlier, and I’m dragged into it. “Did you see that angle Calvin was trying to pull?” Eric asks me, glancing over at his counterpart. “I mean, come on, from down low like that?”

  I shrug a little. “It wasn’t bad.”

  “Not bad?” His eyes bug out. “Not bad?”

  “What’s he saying?” Calvin calls out, stepping away from Jace. They were engaged in what looked like a very intimate discussion about the finer points of Philadelphia sports fans. “What’s he saying?”

  “None of your business,” Eric says, glaring at him. “I’m just talking to the producer.”

  I groan. “I’m not the producer right now.”

  “The hell you aren’t. What did he say?” Calvin looks angry, and I suddenly realize he’s drunk. Eric’s drunk too, swaying softly. There are two empty pitchers on the table. How the heck did that happen?

  Jace steps up next to Calvin. “Calm down, man,” he says. “It’s all right. He’s just venting.”

  “Venting what?” Calvin snaps.

  “Venting your shit angles.”

  “Shit angles? Shit angles? You’re a shit angle, you squat little turd.”

  “Fuck off, you mantis freak.”

  “I’ll fuck off, right into your fucking face.”

  The two crew guys square up. Jace has to grab Calvin and pull him away. Eric’s about to start swinging when I step up between the boys and give them by biggest, baddest Producer’s Glare, the greatest tool in our a
rsenal.

  They all know the look. It means, Get your shit together or you’re finished, and every woman working in this business learns how to use it. Otherwise, she gets walked all over by all these egotistical assholes.

  “Go to the hotel,” I say to Eric.

  He flinches. “Send him back, he’s the drunk one.”

  “Go back, now.” I glare at him. “Or I swear we’ll make this a single camera job.”

  He gapes at me. “Fucking bitch,” he says, and turns away.

  Jace is there in an instant. He grabs Eric by the shoulder, spins him around, and hits him.

  I gape. People nearby go silent. Eric grabs his face and stumbles back, more surprised than hurt.

  Jace stands there for a second. “Go back to the hotel, Eric,” he says. “And if you call her a bitch again, I’ll knock you out for real.”

  Eric rubs his bruising face, hesitates a second, but turns and storms out. A bouncer comes over but Eric is already leaving and Jace is finishing his drink.

  “Good job, asshole,” I say to Jace. “Thanks for standing up for me.”

  He smirks at me. “You’d think you’d be a little more grateful.”

  “I can handle it myself.”

  “Good. Handle it then.” Jace shakes his head and lets the bouncer lead him out of there.

  It all happens so fast. The room slowly returns to normal, people talking about what happened and staring over at us. Grant’s smiling serenely and Calvin has a sourpuss face as he pours himself a drink and slugs it back.

  “Get yourselves to bed,” I say to them, sick of all this. I storm out and find Jace out in the street, slowly walking in the direction of the hotel, his hands shoved in his pockets.

  “Hey!” I call out to him. “Jace, wait.”

  He turns to me and frowns. “I don’t need to hear it.”

  “Yes, you do.” I fall into step next to him. “You can’t hit a crew member.”

  “I know that.”

  “I don’t care what he calls me. You know this business, you know what men are like. I’ve been called worse.”

  “Still not right. You’re his boss.”

  “Yeah, well, doesn’t matter. He thinks we’re friends, so he thinks he can say what he wants to me.”

  “He can’t.”

  “You’re right.” I sigh, exasperated. I want to be pissed at him, but he’s trying to be nice to me, in his own way. “You still can’t hit him. I can’t have this drama in our crew. Understand?”

  He hesitates a second before sighing. I can tell he’s releasing a lot of pent-up aggression in the moment, choosing to calm himself down instead of keeping it all inside.

  “You’re right,” he says finally. “I should’ve hit him harder.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I mean, if I’m not hitting him again. Should’ve made that one count.”

  I sigh but smile a little bit. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  He smirks. “Come on, wifey. Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “That’s the good shit, back there. A big strong man fighting for your honor? Dominating another, weaker man? You women get wet for that shit.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “Now all I need is for you to club me, swoop me up, and carry me back to your cave.”

  He grins. “Me want pretty lady.” He grabs my hips and I laugh, squirming away.

  “Get out of here, you idiot.”

  “Come to cave. I make sweet, sweet fuck with you.”

  “Oh, gross.” I push him away but we’re both laughing. We fall back into step again and he shoves his hands into his pocket. I notice a few people looking in his direction and I think a few of them recognize him, but it doesn’t matter right now. It’s strange walking down the street and having people stare, I’m not used to being anything but invisible.

  But Jace is never invisible. He probably never was, not even when he wasn’t a minor celebrity.

  We make our way back to the hotel. I hop in the shower and when I’m done, Jace is lying on the couch, his feet hanging over the end. He’s clearly too big for it, but he didn’t complain last night.

  I crawl into bed. Jace doesn’t say anything as I turn off the light and the TV. I roll over and look at him, and for some reason I can still smell his body on the sheets, even though I’m pretty sure housekeeping changed these already.

  He’s looking back at me, eyes wide open, blinking slowly in the dark.

  “Come on,” I say, sighing.

  He slowly sits up and stands. I watch as he climbs into bed, wearing just a t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs.

  “Just don’t touch me,” I say softly.

  “You think I can keep my hands off you?” he asks, whispering, his face so near.

  “Yes,” I say, rolling over.

  “Showing me your perfect ass won’t help.”

  “Calm down,” I say, smiling. “And go to sleep.”

  “You invite me into bed and you turn away. Mixed messages.”

  “You don’t fit on the couch and I feel bad. And I’ve been drinking. Don’t read into it, okay?”

  “Okay,” he says softly. “Goodnight, little wife.”

  “Goodnight, Jace.”

  I don’t fall asleep right away. I stay still, listening to him breathing. He doesn’t touch me, and I don’t touch him, even if some part of me wishes he’d go against my wishes and slide his hands down my back toward my ass.

  Instead, sleep eventually takes me, two bodies packed into a single queen bed.

  8

  Jace

  I wake up slowly the next morning, dimly aware of another shape in the bed with me. There’s a sling twinge of pain behind my eyes as I sit up groggy and sip some water from the glass on the bedside table.

  That’s when I see the sheet slip off her body. Piper’s back is to me but I can follow the curve of her spine down toward her gorgeous round ass. I stare at her for a second, stare at myself, and start wracking my brain.

  Did I fuck her last night?

  No, no way. I’d remember that.

  I mean, seriously, look at her. I’d remember fucking her if we fucked.

  But we’re in the same bed. I don’t sleep in the same bed with a woman without trying to fuck her.

  I mean, it’s just not polite.

  And if I tried, she would’ve given in. I know she would’ve, I can see it written all over her every time I get close.

  I must’ve fucked her. I had to, there’s just no other way.

  But as I stare at her, having this internal debate, I realize something.

  I’m hard as hell. I mean, really fucking hard, probably harder than I’ve ever been. It’s like a teenage boner, impossible in its rigidity and annoying as hell. I try to will it away as Piper starts to stir, but I’m still fucking rock solid as she slowly sits up.

  Based on the look she gives me, we definitely didn’t fuck. Why do I remember fucking her then? Just wisps of it, little tastes, but right, my boner. I must’ve had a damn sex dream about her.

  She clears her throat. “Morning,” she says.

  Her hair’s a mess. She looks tired, half awake. She looks fucking sexy as all hell. I want a little morning head, get those lips wrapped around this ridiculous hard dick, maybe let her ride me until she comes nice and hard. Nothing better than some fucking dirty sex to start your day.

  “Did we…?” she says, trailing off.

  I shake my head. “You’d remember.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  I nod. “You’d feel it, at least.”

  She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push the point. She tugs the covers, pulling them closer to her chest, and yanking them the rest of the way off me.

  Revealing my hard fucking cock.

  She blinks, staring. Neither of us moves. I didn’t realize my dick was standing right out of the slit in my boxer shorts, but that shit happens sometimes when you have morning wood. My hard dick’s standing ther
e like a lightning rod between us, like a pillar of fire, like a goddamn freight train. She slowly looks up at me, her whole face white.

  “Your, uh, dick’s out.”

  “Yeah,” I grunt. “Looks like it.”

  “Could you… I don’t know. Maybe put it away?”

  “Yeah, sure, hold on.” I bite my lip and try to tuck it back into my boxer briefs. “Sorry, it’s just, morning wood.”

  “Right. Morning wood.”

  I can’t get it in there, not really at least. It’s still poking out, tenting my boxers, making me look absolutely ridiculous.

  The only thing keeping me from feeling embarrassed is the way she keeps looking at it, like she’s never seen anything like it. Now, I’m not a modest man, never have been and never will be, so you might think you should take what I’m about to say with a grain of salt. But believe me, the only thing I don’t lie about is my cock, because it’s by far my best feature.

  I have a perfect dick. It’s long, thick, and straight. It’s not the biggest porno cock in the world, not some monstrous thing that can barely get half-hard and threatens to rip anyone apart that comes close to it, but I’m thick and plenty long. I get hard as fucking hell, although not quite as hard as I am right now normally. I’ve been told I’m the ideal length and width, just a perfect fit for most women, and I’m definitely not shy about it.

  I suspect Piper realizes this as she stares at me. I smirk and lean back against the headboard, letting her get a good look.

  “You can take a picture, you know,” I say, winking. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  She glares up at me. “I wasn’t… I mean, I’m not…”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “You’re my wife. You get to look at my cock as much as you want. Feel free to take it out and explore.”

  “Oh my god, you’re so gross.”

  “Nothing gross about a nice, fat, perfect dick.”

  She rolls her eyes and gets out of bed. I get a solid glimpse of her ass, barely covered by her panties. That doesn’t help my fucking boner at all.