The Weekend Wife Read online

  “Want to talk about it?” he asks, close to my ear.

  I break into a full-body flush, but then I realize he can’t read my mind. He’s offering me a chance to vent about my canceled contract.

  Do I want to explain that I was let go because I suffered more injuries and mishaps this year than any other, probably because I’m not as agile as I used to be? Do I want to share that ratings suggest viewers are bored with me and my so-called epic adventures? That a focus group prompted the creation of a program that features adventures for “extreme thrill seekers” and a sexually charged, vapid host? A woman in her early twenties? A freaking reality star with no training whatsoever?

  Not particularly.

  On the other hand, I’m suddenly not in the mood to be alone. I’m conscious of the way Nick’s holding me and wishing I hadn’t warned him off taking advantage.

  That’s not to say I couldn’t take the lead. I’ve never been into the cougar thing, but on this particular night, getting off with this charismatic hunk would do wonders for my ego. Yes, I’m feeling that fragile and needy, which isn’t like me. It only makes me more disgusted with myself and the situation.

  “Sorry about this,” I say, while backing away and making use of his tissues. Needing to change the subject but not wanting him to leave—yet—I follow my nose’s lead. “Are you hungry?”

  “Pardon?”

  I gesture to the Styrofoam container, the one that’s filling my place with a decadent tang.

  “So that’s what smells so good.”

  “Fresh from the Topaz Room. Help yourself. It’s the least I can do, given your chivalrous race to my rescue.”

  He peeks inside the container and whistles low. “That’s a lot of meat.”

  “The studio footed the bill so I stuck it to them by ordering the most expensive thing on the menu. The Oscar topping cost extra. I don’t even like crabmeat. It turns out revenge isn’t very fulfilling.”

  Nick grins and my spirits lift a blip. I quickly remind myself why it’s not a good idea to indulge in a fling. The man lives next door. Things could get messy. And that’s just the start of my reservations. Okay. No sex, but maybe a drink. I tap the wine bottle. “Join me?”

  “Sure. If you help me eat this steak.”

  I pass him the bottle and a corkscrew. Then I root out two glasses, two plates, and some utensils. No sense wasting a good meal. I can scrape off the lump 0f crab and hollandaise.

  “Thank you for checking in on me. And for the company. You spared me a hangover,” I say, as he passes me a glass of wine. Drinking myself into a self-pitying stupor had been on the agenda right after the self-indulgent cry-fest. “If I can ever throw you a lifeline, let me know.”

  His playful expression turns earnest, much as it did when he sang “Imperfect Love.”

  “As a matter a fact,” he says in a deep smoky voice that sets off alarms, “I’m in urgent need of a wife.”

  Chapter 4

  THE ONLY THING more shocking than Nick’s predicament is the intensity of my curiosity. “I sense a juicy story.”

  He squirms a little as he saws into his steak. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nick look anything less than two hundred percent confident.

  Oh yeah. This should be good.

  “Let me preface this by saying my judgment was impaired.”

  “You were drunk?”

  “Bachelor party,” he says.

  “Ah.”

  “So we’re at this club indulging in…time-honored traditions.”

  Now he looks sort of embarrassed, which is kind of cute. “Strippers? Lap dancing? That kind of thing?” I ask to bust his chops.

  He peers across the counter at me and, after seeing the twinkle in my eye, plows on.

  I listen and eat and try not to stare, because, yeah, Nick’s a stunner. Soulful dark eyes. Shaggy brown hair that’s always somehow perfectly messed. Unlike an hour ago, when I was sitting across the table from a perfectly coiffed Ben and getting dumped, I’m feeling fit and flirty.

  “Then my ass vibrates.”

  “Must have been one hell of a lap dance.”

  “She was straddling the groom. Not me. I’m talking about my phone.”

  “Ah. Phone. Pocket. Tingly tush,” I tease. “Got it.”

  “I answer without thinking. Unfortunately, it’s my grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother?” I imagine the look on his face when he hears her voice and the racy chaos surrounding him. I laugh. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Long story short, she practically raised me until I was about ten and then…” He shrugs. “She moved on.”

  It’s slight, but I sense resentment. “Moved on?”

  “New husband. New love. New life,” he says while topping off our wine. “In Tuscany.”

  “Italy?”

  An ocean away.

  “But she kept in touch,” I demand. “Visited occasionally. Right?”

  “A few cards. No visits. That left me in the sole care of my mom and her new husband, my stepfather, a guy named Ron. My grandmother didn’t like him very much.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Could’ve been worse. Anyway, zip ahead about two decades. Gram’s second husband dies and she’s suddenly intent on reconnecting with me.”

  “Making up for lost time?”

  “I guess.”

  In all the months I’ve known Nick, we’ve never had a heart to heart. We’ve never shared a meal or had drinks. Yes, he asked me out several times, but I never took him seriously. Besides, aside from the dangers of hooking up with a next-door-neighbor, Nick’s too young for me. Whereas Ben’s got a year on me. At least I can envision a future with him if we ever take our flirtations to the next level.

  For a second my mind goes down that track. Would Ben be open to an affair now that we’re no longer working together? If that was the case, why didn’t he make some sort of comment or move at the restaurant? Like insisting on seeing me home?

  I blink back to the present, sip wine, and focus on Nick, who’s almost polished off his portion of the rib eye. “So you’re indulging in bawdy tradition,” I say, “and your estranged grandmother calls to chat.”

  “To nag. She’s worried that I’m in my thirties and still single. I—”

  “Where in your thirties?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “I was thirty-four once.”

  “What, like a year ago?”

  He’s kidding, right? Although it’s nice to know I’m only eight years his senior instead of ten or twelve. I only feel slightly less cougar-like for imagining us in bed together. “Anyway,” I prompt.

  “Gram’s going off about the lack of a steady woman in my life and the insane notion that I’m love-starved and lonely and…remember, I’m trashed…I blurt a lie to get her off my back.”

  I lean closer, anxious for the punch line as he hesitates over wine. I raise an impatient brow. “Oh, the suspense.”

  He smiles a little then scratches his jaw, looking a tad contrite. “I told her I eloped and that she just happened to call during a celebration with friends.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did. And then she retaliated with a shocker of her own. A dying wish.”

  My heart jerks. “She’s dying?”

  “She didn’t share specifics but indicated a ticking clock. She wants me to visit her in Tuscany with my new bride in tow.”

  “Yikes.”

  “So now I’m due for a trip. What kind of a schmuck says no to a dying wish? I just need a pretend wife for a weekend. In and out. So what do you think?”

  I blink at the absurdity of his predicament and rack my brain for a suitable stand-in. “Not that I approve of lying to your grandmother, but I understand your objective. I’m just trying to think of someone who’d be willing—”

  “I’m not interested in one of your friends, Meg. I’m interested in you.”

  I ch
oke on my wine.

  Nick lays his hand over mine. “You okay?”

  I’m in shock. Also, his touch sends heat scorching up my arm and throughout my body. Warning bells clang. Don’t go there.

  I wave off his concern and slide off my stool. Self-conscious, I tug down my short hem as I open the fridge. I swig chilled water, hoping to soothe my throat and cool my libido. “Why don’t you ask one of the many girls who hang all over you at the bar?” I ask as I spin back around. “Any one of them would be a more convincing choice.”

  “Why more convincing?”

  Do I have to say it? “They’re closer to your age, Nick.” Since he looks clueless, I forfeit my pride. “I’m forty-two. A little old for you, don’t you think?”

  “I think you’re perfect,” he says while standing and clearing our dishes. “And given your profession, you’ve got acting chops. You’re not intimidated by overseas travel, you have downtime ahead of you, and,” he says, while placing the dishes in the sink, “I like you, Meg. I’d like to spend some time with you. Since you keep turning down my dinner invitations…”

  He faces me and angles his head. “Look. This isn’t a manipulated come-on. I’m seriously in a bind. It’s just my luck you offered a lifeline. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m asking. Will you be my wife for a weekend?”

  I want to laugh off his insane proposal, but I can’t. There’s not a lick of smarm in his expression or tone. I sense a desperation that rivals my own and I instantly want to help. What kind of a schmuck turns their back on a conflicted man and his dying grandmother?

  Intrigued by his ridiculous crisis and desperate to escape my own depressing reality, I smile, even as I question my sanity. “I’ll sleep on it.”

  Chapter 5

  I TOSS AND turn all night because not only am I out of a job, but I also can’t stop thinking about Nick’s offer.

  It’d be a chance to lick my wounds and contemplate my future in a foreign country (my happy place) rather than wallowing in my studio apartment as the walls close in. A chance to get cozy with a handsome, virile man.

  I’d be crazy to refuse, right?

  I know. I know. I was dead set against the potential ugliness of hooking up and then falling out with a neighbor, but somewhere between midnight and daybreak that concern flew out the window. It was an ultimate answer to my job crisis, and I might end up relocating anyway.

  My phone rings and, thinking it’s Nick calling for the verdict, I almost fall out of my sofa bed in my rush to answer.

  Taking a breath, I glance at caller ID.

  Not Nick.

  Drew. The primary cameraman on my field crew. Strike that. My former field crew.

  I allow the call to roll to voice mail. Between pre-production, the field crew, and post-production, I work with a lot of people and, over time, I’ve forged friendly relationships with quite a few. Coordinators, writers, directors, camera operators, and sound techs. I’m not ready for the wave of sympathy messages coming my way. I’ll acknowledge them. I will. Soon.

  I also need to inform my parents and siblings about my unemployed status.

  But not today.

  My temples throb due to too little sleep, a shitload of resentment, and a dollop of self-pity. I need water, aspirin, and a bracing shower. I start to chuck my phone, but then it rings.

  My agent.

  The one person I absolutely do want to speak with…aside from Nick. “Hi, Liza.”

  “I know Ben shared the crapola news last night,” she says with high-octane annoyance, “so let’s cut to the chase. It’s not you, it’s them. You are an amazing talent and they are shortsighted, bean-counting, opportunistic asshats.”

  Fresh tears burn my eyes, but instead of crying, I laugh.

  “Unfortunately, contractually, we have no recourse,” she plows on. “So let’s think forward instead of fighting a losing battle. One door closes, another opens. Just yesterday I got a call and, oh, Meg, this is so you. This is so perfect!”

  Adrenaline bitch-slaps my headache and puts a spring in my step. Jazzed at a new and exciting prospect, I fairly skip to my java maker and pop in a pod of Dark Chocolate Delight. Chocolate makes everything better, right? “Hit me.”

  “The Shopping Bonanza Show launched a new segment that features travel gear and accessories. Packing organizers, passport covers, health and wellness products—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up, Liza. You’re not suggesting I host—”

  “Co-host. Guest co-host, actually. They had someone else booked but that someone fell through and now they’re auditioning for a permanent replacement via a string of guest hosts. Talk about perfect timing! Given your experience and charisma, you’ll smoke the competition and nail this gig, Meg.”

  “I don’t want to nail the gig.”

  “What? Why?”

  I’m no longer jazzed. I’m disappointed and teetering on depressed. Even the scent of brewing chocolate loses its zing. “I’m forty-two. Forty-two does not equal dead.”

  “Of course not. I—”

  “You jumped on the first thing that would keep me in the business. Sort of. Well, this would keep me solvent, anyway. Thank you. I appreciate that Liza. But, no. No, thank you.”

  “Meg—”

  “Taking a studio position, hawking travel products that aren’t even designed or inspired by me, no less, suggests I’m washed up in the field.”

  “It suggests you’re in demand.”

  “A nice spin, but I’m not buying it. Or selling it. I’m not a has-been, Liza.”

  “Of course not, but…Meg. Be reasonable. You know how this business is. Stay visible. Use SBS to keep you in the limelight until…”

  Liza’s reasoning buzzes in my ears. Steam hisses from my single-serving coffee maker. Standing in the cramped kitchenette of my practical apartment, a low maintenance dwelling that looks more like a pit stop than a home…I’ve never felt more at sea.

  “The production studio is in Delaware,” Liza says. “You could be there in an hour. At least meet and talk—”

  “I can’t,” I blurt as I mentally commit to the absurd. “I have a thing.”

  Chapter 6

  ANY LINGERING DOUBT I had about playing Nick’s temporary wife evaporated in the middle of Liza’s call. Not wanting my agent to think I’m bonkers, I simply tell her a friend’s in need and I intend to help.

  Now all I have to do is tell Nick.

  Preferring to speak with him in person and not wanting to look like a bedraggled, puffy-eyed wreck, I chug my java, then speed-shower and dress. I opt for my normal daywear—cargo pants, chucks, fitted T—but I forgo my signature ponytail and leave my curls loose. After applying minimal makeup, because, yeah, I feel like I’m gearing up for some warped-ass audition—I dial Nick.

  “Hey. It’s Meg. Are you home? Can we talk?”

  “I’m at work,” he says. “But I’ve got a second. Especially if you’re about to make my day.”

  My stomach pitches. In a good way. A dangerous way. I shouldn’t be so excited about this pseudo-romantic adventure, especially since it involves lying to his grandmother, but I am. I glance at my watch. Eleven a.m. He must be rehearsing. “You’re at the bar? Can I hop over?”

  “Oh, the suspense,” he teases, tossing my words back at me and ramping up my pulse.

  Chapter 7

  JOEY MAC’S PUB is a popular watering hole for locals of the Old City neighborhood. The appeal? Quaint atmosphere, hearty food and drink, and the rotation of three talented house musicians—one of them being Nick.

  Since it’s just down the street, it’s a hangout I know well. Like I said. Good food. Good drinks. Good music. And—bonus—it’s a short walk from our brownstone.

  I hustle down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrian traffic and ignoring the chill in the air. My heart’s pumping. And not from exertion. I do cardio once a day. Nope. This is nervous excitement.

  Reaching my destination, I pause at the threshold and steel my spine. I’m going t
o do this. I’m going to say yes to Nick’s wacky proposal.

  Fleeing the States for a few days will make it easier to dodge Liza’s temporary fix gigs. Selling compression socks as a chipper guest co-host of a shopping show freaks me out more than kayaking over a waterfall. Epic Adventure #36. It wasn’t pretty.

  I push open the heavy mahogany door and, leaving the cool temps and congested streets behind me, I enter the cozy and quiet, dimly-lit bar.

  Given the early hour, I’m not surprised by the lack of people. It’s the perfect time for Nick to rehearse. Although I can’t imagine what he’s rehearsing since he mostly plays the same songs time and again. Favorites requested by customers. Standard pop and classic rock. Beloved and popular tunes that prompt sing-alongs or at least the nostalgic fuzzies. But instead of sitting behind the baby grand, Nick’s standing behind the well-stocked bar. He’s towel drying a brandy snifter and shooting the breeze with two senior barflies who are both nursing beers.

  Huh.

  He glances my way, smiles, and waves me over.

  My pulse skips and I wonder at my annoying attack of girlish infatuation. I’m smitten by a smile.

  “Damn.”

  Hoping to keep our conversation private, I perch on a high-back at the opposite end of the long bar. I shrug out of my lightweight jacket and tame my tangled curls.

  Nick’s dressed in jeans and an untucked oxford, the long sleeves rolled. He looks relaxed and gorgeous. “What’s your poison?” he asks as he nears.

  “Caffeine. Espresso would be perfect. But,” I say while gesturing to the nearby coffeemaker, “Black java’s fine. Thanks.”

  I watch as he pours me a mug of bean juice. He has beautiful hands. Sexy even. I confess to being seduced by those hands every time I sat close enough to the stage to watch them gliding over a keyboard or strumming his acoustic guitar.

  Just now I’m imagining those fingers working their magic on me.

  Senses buzzing, I admire six feet five of perfection. In the past I easily snuffed my physical attraction to Nick. Now it’s burning unchecked, as if his invitation to play his wife gives me a license to prowl.