The Fake Fiancée Who Sang at Her Own Wedding novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Live at Six

Callie sings on a live morning show and invents their proposal story, and Joanna's mother invites them to Sunday dinner.

The morning host leaned toward his microphone at ten past six and asked the question we hadn't practiced.

"So how did she ask you, Joanna? Everybody in Nashville wants to know."

We sat side by side in the Breckinridge station's glass studio, with a red ON AIR light burning over our heads.

Joanna's face did not change at all.

Under the desk her knee began to bounce.

I had known her for five days, and that was the first time I saw her knee move.

She had prepared for budget questions, board questions, and a question about ratings in Texas.

She had not prepared for a proposal story.

The host waited with his eyebrows up, and a producer behind the glass made a rolling motion with her hand.

"It was a wedding," I said.

Joanna turned her head and stared at me.

"I sing at about a hundred and ten weddings a year," I said into the microphone. "That's how we met. Joanna came to a reception in a barn in Franklin, and she stood at the very back by the coat rack the entire night."

"Of course she did," the host said.

"She didn't dance and she didn't eat the cake. But when I sang the last song, I looked up and she was crying."

Joanna's knee stopped.

"I was not crying," she said.

"You had a napkin."

"It was for the cake I didn't eat."

The host laughed so hard he had to take off his headphones.

"So who asked who?" he said.

"I did," I said. "In the parking lot, with my boots in my hand. I asked if she wanted to hear the song again, just the two of us."

Joanna was watching my face now, and she had gone very still.

"And what did you say, Joanna?"

She took a breath.

"I said yes," she said. "I said yes before she had finished the sentence."

It sounded more like the truth than anything either of us had said in a week.

The host clapped his hands.

"Folks, we've got a singer in the building. Callie, will you give us one live?"

Joanna looked at me with a flash of alarm.

I did have to. It was my job, and my favorite part of any job.

A producer pushed a guitar through the door and I settled it on my knee.

I played an old Patsy Cline song, slow, with no band.

It's a song about falling for someone you know you can't have, and I had sung it a thousand times.

I always keep my eyes on somebody in the room while I sing.

Today I kept them on Joanna.

She sat with her hands pressed flat on the desk, and her lipstick was perfect, and her eyes were wet again.

She didn't pretend this time.

She didn't reach for a napkin.

When I finished, the studio was quiet, and the host cleared his throat twice.

"Well," he said. "I'd say we have a hit."

The board in the corner lit up with every line on the station.

On the way out I passed a young engineer with his arms folded and a grin on his face.

"Ms. Breckinridge," he said. "That's the first time I've seen you cry."

"I didn't," Joanna said, and he laughed at her all the way to the elevator.

Outside, the sun was low and orange over the parking garage.

A black car waited with its door open.

We climbed into the backseat, and the driver, a quiet man, pulled out into traffic.

My hands were shaking from the adrenaline.

Joanna noticed and put one of her hands over both of mine.

Then she seemed to realize what she'd done, and she did not take it away.

"You made all of that up," she said.

"Most of it."

"Which part was true?"

"I do sing at a hundred and ten weddings a year."

"Callie."

"The back of the room is where you were standing," I said. "I saw you at the Hendricks wedding. You stood by the coat rack."

She looked out the window, but she didn't let go of my hands.

"I wasn't crying at the Hendricks wedding," she said.

"You had a napkin."

"I had a napkin."

We were both smiling at the glass.

Her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket.

She frowned at the name on the screen and let it go to voicemail, and then, after a second, she put it on speaker.

"Joanna, honey, it's your mother." The voice was warm and slow, with a soft Tennessee drawl. "I heard the show. I cried in the kitchen like a fool."

Joanna closed her eyes.

"You bring that girl to Sunday dinner," her mother said. "I want to feed her a proper meal before your uncle talks her out of it."

The message ended with a kiss noise and a click.

In the quiet car, Joanna slowly looked at me.

"My mother," she said, "has never once asked to meet anyone I've dated."

"Am I a bad sign?"

"I don't know yet," Joanna said.

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