Best Fake Fiancé: A Single Dad Romance (Loveless Brothers Romance Book 2)
Best Fake Fiancé: Chapter 9

ACCORDING TO TOWN LEGEND, Sprucevale was founded in 1775 by Heath McCoy, a highwayman, brigand, rapscallion, and all-around guy of questionable-yet-rakish character. He’d either stolen several chests of gold coins from the British or absconded with the Governor’s daughter — maybe both — and after being on the run for a few weeks, he found himself holed up in this holler when the first snow fell.

Apparently, Heath was also a strapping Daniel Boone-slash-Johnny Appleseed type, because he made friends with the local natives, built himself and his possible paramour some shelter, found food, and made it through the winter.

Spring came, everything thawed, and in the meantime the British became fairly preoccupied with that whole ‘the colonies are fomenting revolution’ thing, forgot about Heath, and thus, Sprucevale was born.

There’s a statue of him in front of the library, standing heroically in some old-fashioned clothes, looking off at the horizon with a rifle in one hand, its butt resting on the ground.

He’s pretty dashing for a statue. If I were a British governor’s daughter in 1775, I’d probably let him abscond with me.

Anyway, Riverfest celebrates the date of Sprucevale’s supposed founding, on that day in 1776 when McCoy first broke ground on the farmhouse that would grow into his homestead, and later, this town. The whole story of the founding might be apocryphal, but if it is, I don’t want to know that he was actually just some surveyor sent out to map the wilderness who decided to stay and blah blah blah.

Riverfest is your standard small-town carnival. There are stands serving food on sticks. There’s cotton candy. There are not one but two bouncy houses. There are tchotchke booths. There are two stages set up, one at either end of the several-blocks-long festival area, that feature local performances.

It is, fittingly, next to the Chillacouth River that runs through town.

Right now, we’re watching a stage full of pre-teens in leotards, pointe shoes, and long, floaty skirts do some sort of ballet. They all look deadly serious, and, bless their hearts, they’re not that good.

“She doesn’t know the steps,” Rusty mutters critically, her eyes trained on one ballerina in particular. “She keeps messing up.”

“Maybe she’s got stage fright,” Daniel says. “It’s scary to perform in front of people.”

“No it’s not,” says Rusty. “It’s no big deal if you practice.”

“Some people replace it really hard,” Daniel says, ruffling her hair slightly and shooting me an amused look over her head.

You can’t say that Rusty’s not confident, that’s for sure. She’s got all the self-assured, cocky swagger of a Loveless in a pint-sized package.

“I get stage fright sometimes,” I tell her.

“You do?” she asks, still watching the dancers.

“Sure,” I say. “When I was in high school, my softball team won the regional championships, and they voted on me to accept the award at this banquet in front of all the other teams. I had this whole speech ready, but when I got up there, I totally froze, so I just said ‘thank you’ and pretty much ran back to my seat.”

“Did you practice?” Rusty asks.

She’s currently in ballet and piano lessons, and I know Daniel’s been emphasizing practice over talent a lot with her. He read it in some parenting book.

“Probably not as much as I should have,” I say, and Rusty just nods.

The dance ends. The dancers flit offstage. Someone gets on the microphone to tell us that in fifteen minutes, the elementary school clogging team will be gracing the stage, so we drift off toward the rest of Riverfest.

It’s a beautiful spring day. It’s sunny and warm, but not too warm. There’s a pleasant breeze and plenty of shade from the trees growing along Sofia Street, where this is taking place.

And my stomach is in knots. For starters, I’m wearing a dress and I think I regret it. Daniel keeps giving me weird looks, and I think maybe I’m overplaying this whole ‘engagement’ thing. I should have stuck to shorts and not made a big deal of it, but I let Betsy talk me into dressing up for our first date, and now I’m pretty sure that everyone is town is staring at me behind my back.

Surreptitiously, I smooth the back of one hand over my butt, just double-checking that my skirt’s covering it. The dress is a little longer than knee-length, but I’m still paranoid that somehow, I’m showing someone the goods by accident.

I’m not.

I’m also nervous because everyone I’ve ever met in my life is probably here, and I have to convince all of them that Daniel and I are so in love that we’re going to get married. No matter how many times Betsy told me to chill, and that engaged people pretty much just act like regular people, I’m anxious.

As if on cue, a shrill whistle cuts through the noise of the crowd. Daniel and I both stiffen and turn our heads at the exact same time, and even though it’s a small town I’m ready to flip someone off when I see Silas waving his arms in the air at us.

“Oh,” I say, and Daniel laughs.

“That was rude,” Rusty points out, but we make our way through the crowd and toward Silas.

Along the way, Daniel takes my hand in his, and instantly I step on the back of my own shoe, stumbling for half a second. He just holds my hand a little tighter and looks over.

“You okay?”

“Fine, just clumsy,” I tell him, fighting the redness I can feel creeping into my cheeks.

Bang up job so far, I think.

“I’m not eating all the powdered sugar parts,” Silas is saying when we make our way over to him. “It’s funnel cake. It’s all powdered sugar parts.”

“Yes, you are, and stop it,” the woman next to him says, taking a forkful of fried dough and tugging it off the plate they’re sharing. “I swear I’ll tell Mom and Dad.”

“What, that I offered to share my funnel cake with you, and you complained? Hi,” Silas says, that last part to us. “You know June, right?”

June waves her fork in greeting, her mouth full of funnel cake.

“You visiting for Riverfest?” I ask.

Silas is Levi’s best friend, three years older than Daniel and me, but his younger sister June was in our class. We were friendly in high school, though she went to college and then moved to Raleigh, so we haven’t talked much since then.

She shakes her head, still chewing.

“June moved back to town,” Silas says. “She’s exploring some promising opportunities in Sprucevale, considering a few other options, and taking some downtime to weigh her next career move.”

June raises both her eyebrows at Silas and swallows.

“Can you write my resumé for me?” she asks. “That sounds way better than ‘I got fired so I moved back home.’”

“You got laid off,” Silas protests, tugging more funnel cake off the plate. “It’s completely different.”

“Still unemployed,” she says, then turns her attention to us. “Hey, guys. How are you? Engaged, right? Congrats!”

“Thank you,” Daniel says, and squeezes my hand. “We’re excited.”

“Who won the betting pool?” she asks.

“Betting pool?” I ask.

Silas shoots her a look, and she ignores it.

“I think it was at like five hundred bucks or something,” June says. “There was maybe a five-dollar buy-in, and you had to name the month and year that you two would finally go public — what?”

Silas is giving his little sister a look.

“You’re not supposed to tell them,” he says.

“Why?”

“You’re just not. It’s manners.”

“Is it also manners to have a betting pool in the first place?” June asks. “Or is it perfectly all right to wager money on people as long as you never tell them what you’re doing?”

“It’s complicated,” Silas mutters, and June rolls her eyes.

“Besides,” she goes on. “I knew about it and I was in another state, how did you two not know?”

“No one told us,” I say, trying not to laugh at them.

Even in high school, June was straightforward, fearless, and unafraid to speak her mind to whoever was listening. It got her in trouble more than once, but I always liked that about her.

“You can’t tell them, because then they could win the pool by rigging it,” Silas points out.

“So don’t let them enter.”

“They could easily use a proxy,” he says, and then nods at something over my shoulder. “For example, they get Levi to enter them, tell him the day that they’re going to go public with their relationship, and then split the winnings with him.”

“What did I win?” says Levi’s voice. “I hope it’s not another lifetime supply of Capri Sun, that was a complete — hello.”

He stops next to me, a huge pink puff of cotton candy in front of his face, and suddenly looks lost.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Levi look lost before.

“Silas. Daniel. Charlie. Rusty. Ma’am,” he says, forced casualness back in his voice.

Every head in the circle turns toward Levi.

Did he just call June ma’am?

He’s blushing. Behind the beard, I swear he’s blushing.

“Miss,” he corrects himself, standing stiff as a statue.

June cocks her head and narrows her eyes.

“You forgot my name again,” she says.

“Of course not,” Levi says quickly, lowering the cotton candy a few inches. “June. It’s June. I know your name is June. I was being proper.”

“Nice save,” June says, laughing.

“It wasn’t a—”

“He thought my name was Julie for like six months,” she explains to Daniel and me.

We’re still holding hands. He hasn’t let go. I haven’t let go.

It’s starting to feel… normal?

“When Silas was in Afghanistan and they were writing each other letters all the time, Levi would ask how Julie was doing, or say he’d seen Julie in the market and said hi, stuff like that. Silas didn’t bother telling him that my name was actually June until poor Levi actually called me Julie and I corrected him,” she says. “So the moral of the story is that Silas is a jerk.”

“Levi’s got bad handwriting,” Silas protests.

“It’s not that bad,” Levi says. He hasn’t moved a single muscle since June accused him of not knowing her name.

“It’s pretty bad,” Daniel says.

“And Julie’s not that far off,” I point out.

“Oh, it’s a really close guess,” June says, still laughing. “And, to be clear, I’m making fun of Silas for not correcting him. Because Silas definitely knows my name and just felt like being a dick.”

“What do men need to know your name for?” Silas says, and June rolls her eyes again.

“Ignore him, he thinks it’s the middle ages and sisters should be traded for several goats and a brood mare,” she says, stabbing more funnel cake.

“I’d trade you for more than one brood mare,” Silas teases. “Shit, June, you’re worth a couple hogs, too. Don’t go undervaluing yourself.”

“So,” June says, pointedly ignoring him. “You guys buy your duck for the regatta yet?”

“HE’S GOT a mask and a cape so he can be sneaky and sneak past the other ducks in the water,” Rusty explains excitedly, drawing on her rubber duck with a Sharpie. “And then I’m going to give him laser eyes so that he can zap them out of the water and win.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” I say. “You know, they say the best defense is a good offense.”

“And stripes,” she says. “Because stripes make things go faster.”

“Exactly,” I agree. I’m pretty sure Seth’s the one who told her that, once, when he was explaining why his mustang had a single racing stripe down the side. The real reason, of course, is that Seth thinks it looks badass, but he and Rusty both get a kick out of his tall tales.

“Lemonade,” Daniel announces behind me, and a second later, we’ve got plastic cups with straws in front of us.

“Thanks,” I say, as Daniel moves to sit next to me at the table.

As he does, he puts his hand on my upper back, his fingers alighting on bare skin, cold from bringing us drinks.

I swear the shiver courses through my whole body. My toes clench in my sandals. I sit up a little straighter, sharpie still in hand where I’m decorating my own rubber duck, and before I can stop myself, I turn my head and look at him.

He looks back, eyes as blue as the Caribbean Sea.

There’s a moment, a single tiny moment when I think what if? and then he sits and takes his hand off my back and drinks his own lemonade and the moment’s gone, only the cool spots on my spine lingering a few more seconds.

“What’s your strategy?” he asks me, leaning both his elbows on the folding table in front of us, the top strewn with markers, other people sitting around decorating their rubber ducks.

“Mostly to just act normal,” I tell him, bringing my own lemonade to my lips.

And to keep pretending that it does nothing to me when we touch, I think.

Daniel raises one eyebrow.

“I guess that’s a start,” he says. “How about your duck regatta strategy? Looks like Rusty’s got laser eyes, so you’re gonna need shields.”

Right. Obviously that’s the question he’s asking, my mind is just somewhere else.

“Well, you know,” I say. “We’re gonna go out there and give it our all, really focus up and lay it on the line. Give a hundred and ten percent. Do our best. Stick to the inside lines.”

I take a sip of my lemonade, trying to recover some dignity as I also try to remember more of the pep talks my high school field hockey coaches liked to give out.

“Gonna leave it all on the field,” I deadpan. “And also, shields for the lasers.”

“Smart,” he says. “Very sportsmanlike of you.”

He tips his lemonade toward me, and we cheers them together.

“Thanks,” I say. “I think I’ve really got a shot at it this year.”

“Not against lasers,” Rusty says, still coloring furiously, mostly to herself.

“We’ll see,” I tell her.

“Better hurry up with those,” Daniel says. “Five minutes until it starts.”

“Plenty of time,” Rusty says, her brow furrowing.

The duck regatta is technically a competitive event, in that only one duck will win, but it’s definitely not a sport.

At one end of the race, everyone dumps their rubber duck into the river. When it starts, the floating barrier goes up, and all the ducks float downriver.

The first duck to the finish line wins. Pretty much all you can do is stand on the bank and shout at your duck to go faster, so it gets pretty boisterous.

“You didn’t get one?” I ask Daniel.

“I figure if you win, I get half anyway,” he says, his blue eyes laughing.

“Who says I’m sharing?” I tease, even though my heart thumps one percent harder.

“What’s yours is mine, right?”

“Not yet.”

Not ever.

“Isn’t the prize a gift certificate to La Dolce Vita?” he says. “Who else are you gonna take on a fancy date?”

“Someone’s being presumptuous,” I say. “I’ve got a sister. I’ve got friends. I could even take Rusty.”

La Dolce Vita is the swanky Italian restaurant downtown. It’s candlelit. It’s got a long wine list, good tiramisu, and mood music, and I don’t hate the thought of going there with Daniel.

Just the two of us. No Rusty. No Betsy, none of his brothers, just us trying to act couple-y across a candlelit table. The spots where he touched my back a moment ago prickle cool again, even under the warm sunlight.

Daniel grins.

“Yeah, but you’d take me,” he says. “You’re just talk.”

He’s right, so I stick my tongue out at him. If Rusty weren’t here I’d flip him off.

The loudspeaker crackles.

“One minute until the race starts,” Hank Rogers’s voice booms out. “Please bring your ducks to the starting line.”

Rusty takes her duck in both hands and blows on it, a look of total concentration on her face.

“You ready?” Daniel asks her. Rusty nods very seriously and stands, her folding chair scraping across the asphalt below it. He points at the uncapped Sharpie still on the table, and she sighs dramatically, but puts the cap back on.

We head to the starting line. Before we toss our ducks in, we turn them upside down and check the number.

“Fifty-seven,” Rusty says.

“I’m fifty-eight,” I tell her. “Can you remember that for me?”

“Yes,” she says, as serious as can be, and we both toss our ducks into the river behind the floating barricade.

The racecourse is maybe two city blocks long, and the finish line is another floating barricade, right before some rapids begin. Every year a few ducks escape and get away, and every year the day after Riverfest, at Daniel’s house for Sunday Dinner, I have to hear about it from Levi.

“Come on!” Rusty calls, darting ahead.

“Stay where I can see you!” Daniel calls, taking my hand again. There’s a paved bike path along the river here, a wooden fence separating it from the water. Right by the finish line there’s a spot with a few benches and a low stone wall, and Rusty’s making a beeline for it, Daniel and I following behind.

Any time she disappears for a split second, his grip on my hand gets tighter, then relaxes when she reappears. Even though she’s not fifteen feet away. Even though we know pretty much everyone here.

“No one’s going to steal her,” I tell him, keeping my voice low. “They all know what a pain in the ass she is.”

That gets a laugh out of him, another hand squeeze, and I think he relaxes. Then she’s up ahead, again, heading into the area with the stone wall by the finish line.

The wall’s only about three feet high, and she goes up to it, standing on her tiptoes, leaning over as far as she can to see the ducks. We’re ten feet behind her, the ducks coming on quickly.

“Rusty, be careful,” Daniel calls out as she leans a little further over.

“Stop it, she’s fine,” I tell him.

“I don’t want her to fall in,” he protests.

“She’s barely taller than the wall, she’s not going to,” I point out.

“I just—”

“Besides, Hank is right in front of her, and the water’s barely to his knees,” I say, pointing at Hank Rogers, who’s in the river, wearing waders and a hat with a rubber duck glued on top. His outdoors supply store, Bear Hollow Sporting Goods, sponsors the duck regatta every year.

Daniel just sighs.

“Relax,” I tell him, and squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

We stand there, together, keeping one eye on the oncoming ducks and the other on Rusty, who shows no sign of falling into the river. After a moment, I lean my face against his shoulder, my cheekbone against soft cotton and thick muscle.

He shifts his hand, laces his fingers through mine.

What if? I think again.

“I think the lasers might be broken,” Daniel murmurs to me, a smile in his voice.

“They probably got wet,” I say.

“We should’ve warned her to use the waterproof lasers.”

“Too late now,” I say. “Remember it for next year’s duck regatta.”

Now the ducks are coming on fast, little yellow dots bobbing furiously up and down on the river. Up against the stone wall, Rusty’s bouncing with glee, her ash-blond curls sproinging in the sunlight.

Daniel’s gonna have a hell of a time untangling that later, I think.

“How long do you think we’ll have to listen to Levi go on about the environmental impact of escaping ducks tomorrow?” Daniel asks, his voice low and slow, even over the rising hubbub.

“He’s not wrong, you know,” I point out.

“Hank always goes on a duck cleanup mission the next day,” Daniel says. “He’s very conscientious. Levi just doesn’t like him.”

“I think it depends on whether Silas brings June,” I say, and Daniel snorts.

“Levi has seen a woman before, right?” he asks, rhetorically.

“He went to college,” I say. “He has a master’s degree. There must have been some women somewhere.”

“He’s been in the woods too long,” Daniel says. “Too much communing with birds and bears and squirrels and poof, you’re calling your friend’s little sister ma’am.”

“I should go get drinks with her,” I say. “I didn’t know she was back in town.”

“For some reason, that’s been relegated to the second-hottest gossip this week,” he says, and he flicks the engagement ring with one finger. “I don’t think she minds too much.”

The ducks sweep past the observation area, Rusty hopping up and down, surrounded by other kids who are also hopping up and down.

“Yeah, she probably owes us for that,” I say.

There’s a furor at the finish line, mostly of kids. Hank holds a duck up, and he’s shouting something, but it’s too loud to make out what it is, and besides, I’m making sure I keep track of Rusty.

Suddenly, she comes tearing out of the knot of kids, hair wild, face lit up like a lantern, breathless.

“CHARLIE,” she practically screams. “YOUR DUCK WON!!!!”