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When my family sees that I’m engaged to an overly normal, average woman, there’s no doubt they’ll think I’ve stabilized my life. Then, after it’s over, I’ll just tell them that we broke up because...
Well, I haven’t come up with that part yet—but I will.
Or maybe Callie can come up with some sort of elaborate story, since she’s a writer. Speaking of, I pull out my phone, and head to Google, searching for her name.
Nothing.
Hmm.
I pull up the Kindle app on my phone, and search again.
Nothing.
“Hey,” I call out, heading toward the open bedroom door, where I can see her stuffing things into a suitcase. “Do you write under a pen name?”
She pauses as she’s putting her clothes into her bag, raising her eyebrows at me. “I don’t think you would like the kind of books I write.” Callie’s voice sounds hesitant, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.
“Alright,” I shrug, deciding it’s not worth it to argue with her, “I was just gonna look you up since, you know, you’re going to be my fiancée.”
“Can’t I just make up a fake identity?” Callie asks, her eyes lighting up. “Like maybe I can be a voice actress or backup singer.”
“No.” I shake my head, leaning against the plain white fluffy bedspread. “Just be who you are.”
Her face falls slightly, but she nods. “My pen name is Callie Stevens.”
“Why ‘Stevens?’” I ask, genuinely curious, as I immediately type it into the Kindle app—this time getting a whole list of books.
“I just thought it had a nice ring to it,” she answers me, zipping up her suitcase. “I don’t want people to know my real name, you know? I don’t want—”
“People to know who you are?” I finish for her, giving her a sympathetic smile. “I get it. Sometimes I wish I would have come up with some sort of stage name. But then again, I don’t know that it would’ve helped all that much.”
“Yeah,” she mumbles, lugging her huge bag over the side of the bed. Before it drops, I jump forward and grab the handle for her. My hand brushes hers and I swear it’s like a shockwave through my arm—it’s electric and unexpected.
“Thanks,” she mutters, her eyes meeting mine for a split second before looking away. She’s got on some sort of musky feminine perfume, and I am here for it.
I grab the bag and spin around to head to the truck. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“I’ll grab the cover for the backseat,” she calls after me as I head out the front door—Bear hot on my heels. I tromp down the stairs, skipping the step that’s only halfway there, and set her bag into the back of the truck. Once I get the chance, I pull out my phone with the list of books. For some reason, I halfway expected self-help or something despite her saying otherwise in the coffee shop.
Nope.
She writes small-town thrillers—like crimes with some romance apparently. Just like what she said she did.
Perfect. She’ll be just the right friend for Carson’s reality TV producer wife, Emma.
One of the titles catches my attention, mostly because of the two-star reviews, and for that reason, I buy the book. Might as well see her at her worst, right?
Chapter Four
Callie
“Can you please help me understand why you—a world-famous, alternative country singer—need a fake fiancée?”
I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m on a road trip to Texas with a famous singer whom I met two hours ago, in a coffee shop.
Is this real life? Or am I dreaming?
I pinch myself to make sure this is in fact … real.
