The Fake Mate

by Lana Ferguson

Surely you know how to smile, right? You can think of something you enjoy, like glaring at small children or criticizing baristas at Starbucks.”

ME: Noted. I’ll text you tomorrow to check in. MACKENZIE: I’ll be waiting by the phone, lover. I shake my head as I let my phone drop to my lap, covering my mouth for absolutely no reason, given that I am alone in my house. It’s not as if Mackenzie is here to catch me smiling.

“I’m trying to decide what rumors I can start about you. Would you prefer people thinking you once played bass in an all-shifter heavy metal band or that you belong to a secret alpha biker gang?” “Is there a third option that involves me being an interventional cardiologist and nothing else?”

“You guys dropped, like, the biggest bomb the hospital has ever heard. Our Mackenzie? With Cardiology’s version of a Nosferatu?”

I swallow thickly when she seems to collect herself moments later, her scent dissipating as she leans her head on my shoulder. “Hopelessly in love,” she half sings. I’m still looking at her as I mutter, “Deliriously happy.”

“Only you could hook up with the biggest asshole we’ve ever met and turn him into a house husband.”

“I should page you more often.” I chuff out a laugh. “Much more of this, and they’ll have to find an interventional cardiologist for me.”

“It’s going to be fine,” I promise. “Everyone in there loves you.” “How do you know?” “Because I love you.”

“This is going to be fine.” “It is,” I assure her. “We will not let either of them intimidate us into having babies this soon.” “We won’t,” I answer, crossing my fingers behind my back. I don’t have to tell her I’m not as opposed to the idea as she is.

The Fake Mate had many champions while being worked on, even if my oldest friend, Dan, was not one of them. (Dan, you bland, tasteless jerk, you will never know the glory of knotting!)

And to my dude of more than a decade—I’m sorry I haven’t made you a househusband yet, but I’m still working on it, never fear.