Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Her lips twitch. “Fake married.”
I shrug. “Semantics.”
“No—it was fake married. Like two kids pretending. Happens all the time.”
Sure. Right. Not to me.
“Know what I’m going to do?” I tell her, holding up my left hand. “Check my credit card statement to see if I paid for these.”
I open the credit card app on my phone with the grim determination of someone bracing myself for the charge while Annabelle hovers over my shoulder, chin resting on me.
“What if you paid with cash?”
I roll my eyes as I scroll. “Why would I use cash? What am I, eighty years old?”
“You had cash last night. I remember because you tipped the bartender because his little glass was empty. You gave him one hundred dollars.”
“Rings cost more than a bar tab.”
I swipe through a few pending charges.
And there it is.
Diamond Lab Bridal Pop-Up: $1500 Pending
Her gasp is immediate and so dramatic. “Maverick! Th-that’s so much money!”
Pfft. Hardly.
She does not realize I can well afford it. In fact, not once has this woman asked about the money I make, what my place is like, or thought about the benefits of dating a professional athlete—let along being married to one.
Overnight, Annabelle became a WAG, and she doesn’t even know it.
She paces, mumbling about refunds and how it’s illegal to marry someone while they’re intoxicated, as if she’s going to take the pop-up bridal jeweler to small-claims court.
I watch her as I lean back on the bed, rubbing the ring with my thumb. She’s beautiful. Hair a mess, face flushed, pacing barefoot and naked like she owns the place.
She kind of does now—half of it, anyway.
“I’ll pay you back,” she says at last, decision made.
I raise a brow. “Babe.”
“I mean it!”
“You’re not paying me back. That ring is a gift.”
Her mouth falls open. “Fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of gifts?”
“Technically it’s a wedding present,” I say with authority. “From me. To my wife.”
She groans. “This is a nightmare.”
I laugh. “This is too much to handle before breakfast. Maybe we can go back to the resort and—”
Annabelle holds up her hands. “No. No, no, no—we are not going next door ever again. Ever! Bad things happen at that resort.”
She paces some more.
“Let me at least order breakfast. You can hide in the bedroom when they deliver it.”
My wedded wife hesitates. “Mm. I guess I could eat.”
Good girl.
By the time the food shows up, she’s mostly stopped pacing, though she still glares at the ring on her hand like it’s personally responsible for global warming. I carry the tray outside to the small patio, and she follows, now wrapped in a robe.
Ahh. What a day to be alive!
The lake glitters, and I slide into a chair, stretching my long legs beneath the table, content with the world.
“Truce?” I offer, passing her a mug and filling it with coffee as she settles in across from me. “Let’s not talk about annulments or court proceedings until after we stuff our faces with carbs.”
She snorts. “You’re not funny.”
Sure I am.
After a while, I glance over and say, “Let’s talk about what our actual lives are like.”
She pauses, a pastry halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”
“I mean we’ve possibly married, and you’ve seen me naked like six times. Maybe we should backtrack to basics. You know, last names—you know mine, but I don’t know yours. Pets. What our houses are like.”
“Houses,” she giggles. “You’re hilarious—I live in a shitty apartment.”
I inhale. “I’ll start. Callum McBride. I have no pets and live in a penthouse apartment, downtown Scottsdale. My place is actually fucking awesome, but you know—lonely.”
She sits up straighter in her seat. “Annabelle Franklin. No pets. I live in a small apartment in downtown Star Lake, and I dumped the guy I was seeing because there was no excitement. I’m finally putting myself first. I love wine and movies at the theater and . . . breakfast.”
“See?” I nudge her foot with mine under the table. “This isn’t so scary.”
“Speak for yourself.” Annabelle clears her throat and looks toward the windows. “Tell me something else.”
I think for a second. “I like puzzles.”
She blinks. “Jigsaw puzzles?”
“Yup.” No shame, puzzles are my game.
She stares. “Okay, that is not what I expected.”
I get that a lot. “I’m full of surprises.”
“Scottish and loves a puzzle. What else?”
I consider this, humming low in my throat. “I hate olives with a passion. I’m a sucker for cinnamon rolls. Like, if you ever want to get on my good side, bring me a warm one.”
Annabelle grins. “No to olives, yes to frosting. Got it.”
“My turn,” I say, pointing a finger at her. “Your guilty pleasure?”
“Romance novels.” She looks embarrassed. “Specifically historical Highland romance—or rom-com.”
I nod. “That’s cool—I used to read more, but now I don’t make the time. I’m too busy falling apart.”
Her gaze goes to my knee. “How does it feel today? After, you know . . .”