Weekend Wife
Erin McCarthy
Copyright © 2020 by Erin McCarthy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
About the Author
Also by Erin McCarthy
Chapter 1
My grandmother always said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. With the man on the other side of the diner counter from me it might be easier to go through the fourth and fifth ribs.
Every Wednesday Grant Caldwell the third ordered chocolate chip pancakes with extra butter and real maple syrup and ate them like he was being force-fed sand dollars. Never a smile, never any joy.
“Why doesn’t he look at his phone while he’s eating like every other normal person?” Theresa muttered to me as she bustled past to grab the coffee pot. She bumped my hip on purpose when I didn’t give an actual answer to her rhetorical question.
I had been too busy staring at the sheer masculine perfection of him. His dark short hair, bright blue eyes, and strong jaw were enough to tempt the average woman. Add in a tidy beard, very broad shoulders in an impeccable suit, and a red power tie, and I was fighting the constant urge to grab that tie by the knot and kiss the bejeesuz out of him.
For six months he’d been sitting there looking hot, and for six months my curiosity (and very naughty crush) had been growing. I didn’t want a way into his heart so much as I wanted a way into his bed.
I gave Theresa a warning look. She wasn’t exactly a woman with a soft voice. He was going to hear her.
But she was right. He never swiped on his phone or read a book or played with his napkin. He was always still and ate with singular determination, while ignoring my super obvious and very juvenile attempts to flirt with him. I’m an actress (you can’t quite call it paid, but I’m working on it) so I’m not subtle. I’m frankly over-the-top. I know this about me and I embrace it.
I had tried food innuendos.
What else can I get you? Wink, wink.
You don’t mind getting sticky, do you?
I see you have quite an appetite.
He never flirted back, sticking to noncommittal replies.
There was nothing from him when I sang either. That was the schtick in the diner. Aspiring and part-time actors waiting tables while struggling to break into a Broadway (or any) show. We sang, sometimes at the diners’ request, other times just to liven up a quiet shift and hopefully beef up our tips. I had positioned myself in front of him on several Wednesdays singing my heart out from upbeat Disney songs to Les Miserable to a modern interpretation of “Hello” by Lionel Richie. I mean, Lionel Richie, people. Hello. That should have been worth a raised eyebrow or two but he just sat and ate and looked so damn beautiful that it hurt.
I wanted him like peanut butter wants jelly. Smashed together until there was no pulling us apart.
Yep. He was that hot.
And I was dressed like prude Sandy in Grease—ponytail, poodle skirt, bobby socks and all. It’s a uniform, not a fashion choice. In my off-hours, I lean toward Slutty Sandy, minus the cigarette.
“I think he meditates,” I told her under my breath, turning my back to him so he couldn’t hear me.
“I think he’s a cyborg. He has no response to normal stimuli.”
That made me laugh. I grabbed my latest order and hoisted my tray. “Watch this.”
In six months I had learned there was only one way to get Grant Caldwell to actually smile. Having creeped on his platinum credit card on day one or maybe two I had made note of his pretentious name. It seemed super fitting for him. He wore that name as well as his suit. It also sparked an instant correlation in my mind.
I sailed past him with my tray and cheerfully called out, “Hi, Grant!”
He tried not to smile but I could see the corner of his mouth tugging upward against his will. He shook his head a little. “Hi, Leah.”
Yes, I had creeped on his credit card, but months ago he’d also creeped on my name badge. Normal, right? But it still gave me a thrill that he’d made note of my name. Which, you know, is right in his sightline. It wasn’t like he’d gone out of his way. But he used it. It felt like a victory of epic proportions for a man who appeared to have zero emotions.
I’m an optimist. I had to be, given the amount of audition rejections I’d gotten. So Grant using my name was all I needed to think that given another six months, we might actually have a conversation. In about five years maybe we would graduate to sex, which was honestly the goal. Have I mentioned he was hot?
The first two times I’d called out “Hi, Grant!” for no apparent reason, he had been puzzled. Theresa had been dying laughing. But once I’d explained to him that I was channeling Goldie Hawn in Overboard and that it was the greatest rom-com ever, he’d appeared curious.
I’d bet a whole weeks’ worth of tips he’d gone home to what I assumed was an expensive and masculine apartment with sleek electronics and had watched the movie.
Because the next week he’d smiled.
And then I couldn’t stop myself from repeating it every week.
Because when he smiled, he went from damn good looking to holy shit hot.
He was a challenge. A nut to crack.
I was nothing if not determined. Or maybe relentless was a better word. Again, how else could I survive in New York City, trying to be a paying stage actress, which is basically an oxymoron? I had arrived in Manhattan at eighteen, starry-eyed and hungry for success. Eight years later I think hungry was just more accurate. But I wasn’t going to give up.
After I tended to a table of tourists with rowdy kids and an elderly couple, I passed back by the bar, where Grant always sat. He handed me his credit card in a practiced rhythm between us. When he was done eating, he always got antsy to go and I knew not to keep him waiting. His fingers would drum on the countertop.
I knew nothing about him other than his name and that he had a whole closet full of tailored suits. And that he sort of, maybe, liked chocolate chip pancakes. But even that was doubtful.
Behind the counter I ran his card, then put it down with a flourish. “You have a happy hump day.”
I waited for him to say thanks, ignoring my cheesy comment as he always did.
But instead he paused as he stood up. “Leah?”
My eyebrows shot up. That was a break in our routine. “Yes?”
He shook his head a little, looking bemused. “Take care.”
He had for sure never said that before. “Of course. Thanks. You, too.”
It wasn’t until he’d already made his way to the door that I realized instead of the usual ten-dollar cash tip he always left me, there was a hundred-dollar bill sitting under his coffee cup. Clearly, he was distracted and had given me the wrong bill from his wallet. I couldn’t in good conscience take ninety bucks more than his standard tip.
“Theresa,” I said, grabbing the hundred-dollar bill and sprinting from behind the counter. “Cover me for two seconds.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, turning from a table with an elderly couple.
“Grant forgot something,” I said, waving the money in the air and glancing out the windows to see if he had gone right or left.
Darting around a young guy entering the diner, smoothing down his hair, I burst out of the front door and onto Broadway. It was a beautiful fall morning, temperatures mild, sun shining. I love early October in the city. The sweaty stench of summer has passed and a crisp breeze blows in.
But there was no time to take a deep breath because I could see Grant down the block already. The man had a long stride because he was smoking me. I took up a jog. “Grant!”
My voice got lost under the blast of a taxi horn.
Grant crossed the street. I maneuvered in and out of tourists walking at a snail’s pace and cut between a pole and a newsstand. I spotted Grant again fifty feet ahead of me. “Grant!”
He paused and turned slightly, glancing around. I waved my hand desperately at him. I jogged into the street, eyes trained on my target.
Rookie mistake.
Never step into the street without looking.
I heard the horn but it was too late. A screech of brakes wailed at the same time I felt the cab tap the edge of my thigh. Then I was tumbling backward before I could even open my mouth and tell off the cab driver.
Hitting the curb hard, pain jolted through my ass and my elbow. Water splashed over my arm and I lay there stunned, watching people walk past me without stopping. Just legs, moving left and right without slowing.
Knowing I needed to get out of the way of further danger, I put my palms on the curb and started to haul myself up when a familiar face appeared in front of mine. It was Grant, looking worried.
Then suddenly he was dragging me to my feet and pulling me up against that crisp suit.
“Leah, are you okay?”
Before I could answer, the cab driver was leaning out his window and screaming obscenities at me. “Get the fuck out of the way!”
Grant lifted me onto the sidewalk gently, then turned. His fist slammed onto the roof of the cab. “Watch where you’re going!”
Then he turned back to me and ran his hands from my shoulders down my arms, concern all over his face.
My ankle was throbbing, my tailbone was stinging, and my elbow felt like a tiny man was inside it chipping away at the bone with an ice pick, but at the same time, Grant’s touch sent goose bumps down my arms.
“I think my ass is broken,” I said.
Leah looked more stunned than injured, so I sighed with relief. “Asses will heal,” I told her, amused by her response. “You scared the shit out of me, do you know that? What were you doing?”
I was almost positive she’d been running after me, calling my name. When I’d seen her step into traffic and get nailed, my heart had almost stopped. I was not expecting to see the adorable waitress from the diner almost die today.
Leah held up a hundred-dollar bill clenched in her fist. “You accidentally left me a hundred instead of a ten.”
Shit. She’d nearly died because of that? I’d left the inflated tip on purpose because I’d made the decision I was never going back to the diner again. My attraction to Leah had been growing steadily every single week until I now ate my pancakes every Wednesday fantasizing about stripping her out of her poodle skirt and licking syrup off of her naked body.
It had started out as a temptation and a way to prove to myself I had willpower. I always wanted ways to push my self-discipline and Leah, from the first minute I’d laid eyes on her, had become a serious test. I was supposed to be gaining ground on the distraction. That was the point of subjecting myself to Leah’s presence every week.
I don’t even like breakfast food.
But instead of my lust dissipating by the strength of my will, Leah had gradually gone from the cute girl I was attracted to, to a full-blown obsession.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I ate and listened to every word that crossed her lips. I watched her wait on her tables with a cheerful smile. I heard her laugh no matter where she was in the restaurant. I knew the sway of her hips and the swing of her ponytail. I had dreams about her singing voice.
Shit had gotten out of control. I had failed. Lost the battle against my cock. I was raising the flag.
There were only two options available to me at that point—either do something about the lust or stop exposing myself to temptation.
It wasn’t even a question what I wanted to do.
I wanted to take Leah home and hear her hit a high note with me inside her.
But. Damn it. The “but.”
Reality. I didn’t do relationships. Not even dating. It would be different if I’d met her out at a bar or on a dating app and she was down for some fun. But Leah flirted with me in a way that was so goofy I didn’t think that she had any desire in a hookup, so I’d decided it was time to remove myself from the situation. Even if I was wrong and she would happily get naked with me, Leah made me feel way out of control. I wasn’t sure one night in bed with her would do anything more than stoke my desire.
Then where the hell would I be? Stoked was not the answer.
Screwed was the correct answer.
The tip was meant to be something of a thank-you for inadvertently fueling my fantasies for six months because I was never setting foot in that diner ever again.
In hindsight, I could see why she would think the excessive tip was a mistake given I usually left her ten bucks.
And why, if I told her the truth, it would come off as more than a little creepy. A lot fucking creepy.
As I held her by the shoulders, I told her the truth, if not the full truth.
“Then you’re an excellent waitress and a very honest person,” I told her. “Because chasing anyone down in New York is next to impossible and dangerous as hell.” I pulled back and eyed her. Her ponytail was askew and she had dirt on her skirt and arm, but there were no obvious injuries. She wasn’t bleeding anywhere that I could see. “Are you actually okay or are you just saying you’re fine? Do you want to go to the ER?”
I had a business meeting at ten but I owed her a ride to the hospital at the very least.
“I’m fine,” she insisted.
But then she took a step and almost crumpled to the sidewalk. She let out an involuntary cry of pain.
Horrified, I glanced down and saw her right ankle had already swollen to double the size of the left. Her little white sock was squeezing tightly into her pale flesh. “Your ankle is sprained,” I said. “You are not going back to work. You need an X-ray to make sure it’s not fractured.”
“But my shift…” She glanced back at the diner, catty-corner from where we were standing.
We both saw her co-worker in the doorway gesturing frantically for her to come back. I made a quick decision. I reached down and swept Leah off her feet into my arms.
She let out a shriek of protest. “Oh my God, you don’t have to carry me!”
“This is easier than you hobbling.” She was average height, but very waifish. Her voluminous skirt might have weighed more than her, and I had her back to the diner in only a couple dozen steps.
Leah gripped the lapels of my suit and said, “I should demand you put me down.”
“Why would you do that?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m not going to. I just said I should. Because I’m supposed to be an independent woman and you’re practically a stranger. But I actually really love the drama of this.”
That made me glance down at her in amusement. “You like drama?”
“I like an entrance. I am an actress, you know. When I’m not serving chocolate chip pancakes to businessmen.” She gave me a smile that instantly disintegrated into a wince when a woman walking down the sidewalk accidentally bumped her leg.
I had guessed she was either an actress, singer, dancer, or all three. That was the majority of the wait staff. Another reason I had vowed to steer clear of Leah. I didn’t do d
rama. My entire childhood was a theatrical production starring my mother.
“Did you just get hit by a cab?” the other waitress exclaimed, holding the door to the diner open. “That’s insane!”
She usually worked on Wednesdays too. A few years older than Leah, she always had heavy makeup on and rolled her eyes a lot. She was the kind of waitress who didn’t even attempt to move beyond a lazy stroll and forgot any special requests.
Leah was always smiling and moved with a quick step.
“Can you get her some ice?” I said, before carefully putting Leah onto the stool I had been sitting on.
“What is going on?” The manager appeared by our side, a man in his fifties, with a substantial middle girth, looking annoyed. “Leah, you have tables.”
“She sprained her ankle,” I said, gesturing to her foot. “She needs to go home.”
“We’re really busy,” the manager said. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
His attitude annoyed me. “Call in someone else. She can’t work like this.”
“Who the hell are you, by the way?” he asked, already pulling his phone out of his pocket. He looked at Leah’s ankle and swore under his breath.
“He’s Grant Caldwell the third,” Leah said, giving me a wink.
The way she said my name made it sound very important and very pretentious. I wasn’t sure if she was making fun of it or not, but either way, my name did hold weight in certain circles. My grandfather made billions developing blighted neighborhoods in both Manhattan and Miami Beach in the sixties and seventies. By the nineties, his return on investment was so great he’d bought a pro basketball team, which my father oversaw. My mother came from old money in the Hamptons and spent the early eighties partying with rock stars, snorting cocaine, and spending money.
Then without warning there was me.
Weekend Wife: A Fake Fiancée Romantic Comedy Standalone Page 1