Page 33 of Fake It Til You Break It

“I don’t know, Mr. Shaw,” Beckett called back from the living room. “Where did you see it last?”

We had married three years ago in a quiet, intimate ceremony with only his parents in attendance, and I still went weak in the knees every time he called me Mr. Shaw.

Pausing in the bedroom doorway, I rested my hands against the frame and frowned at my dear husband. “You were supposed to wash it.”

“I did.” He froze in the middle of straightening the pillows on the sofa and looked up at me. “Oh shit, it’s still in the washer. My bad.”

“Beckett!”

“Calm down.” He held his hands up in supplication, a sexy smile on his lips. “It’ll be okay. Besides, it’s really ugly.”

“That’s the whole point! It’s an ugly Christmas sweater party.”

It had become something of a tradition at the center over the last few years. We even hosted an event the week before for the kids to decorate their own sweaters, with prizes for the most outrageous designs given out the night of the party. Everyone looked forward to it, and now I’d be showing up without a crucial piece of my wardrobe.

“Can’t you just wear the one from last year?”

It was like he didn’t even know me. Huffing dramatically, I spun around and marched back into the bedroom. Beckett followed seconds later, just like I had known he would.

“So…is that a no?”

“No, my love, I cannot just wear the one from last year,” I countered in the most obnoxious voice I could muster. “The kids would think I’m not taking this seriously.”

“Is it supposed to be serious?”

“Ugh!” I threw my hands in the air and flopped face first onto the bed.

The mattress dipped next to me, and a wall of muscle and warmth pressed against my side. “Jazz, your speech is going to be amazing.” As he spoke, he stroked my hair, combing his fingers through the curls. “You’ve been practicing it for weeks.”

Of course he had realized this wasn’t actually about the sweater. He always saw right through me.

“What if it’s not amazing?” I asked, my voice muffled against the comforter.

“Babe, it will be. And if it’s not, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Everyone laughs at me, and I have to move to North Dakota.”

And yes, I knew I was being dramatic, but that didn’t negate the real worry.

It had been almost fifteen years since I had opened the doors of Project SafeHouse, and in all that time, I had never given a speech on behalf of the center. I always left that kind of stuff to my amazing director.

Why the hell had I let Beckett talk me into this?

“You would never survive winter in North Dakota.”

My husband. Always practical.

Groaning, I rolled onto my side so I could face him. “I’m having a crisis here.”

“I can see that.”

Damn, I loved that smile. That cocky little curve of his lips that said he knew exactly what he’d gotten himself into by choosing me, and he still stood by his decision.

“Be helpful.”

“Okay, okay.” He laughed as he leaned in to kiss the tip of my nose. “What are you really worried about?”

“That I get up there, panic, and forget everything I’m supposed to say.”

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