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)
Be cool. Be nonchalant. When you’re ready, you can tell your best friend that you—
“Are You Freaking Married?” she shouts from the other end of the phone, screeching so loud I pull the device away from my face and stare at the screen.
“Annabelle Franklin, Are You Freaking Serious?” she continues shouting. “You Go on One Staycation and Shack up With One of the Most Famous Linebackers in the Freaking Country? Who Are You?”
So much ground to cover. “Listen. It was an accident—and it’s not legal.” I laugh, looking over at the suitcase on my bed, half packed with clothes and toiletries, enough for thirty days in Arizona.
“Not legal?” she yells. “Your face is plastered all over the damn internet and the news. The media is having a field day with this.”
Dang. Lucy is normally so soft spoken.
“We were drunk.”
“Apparently.” She cackles. “Know what I’m pissed about?”
So many things. “No, but I bet you’re going to tell me . . .”
“That you never called! Did it occur to you that I might want to be there?”
I pull the phone away again, staring at it. “Lucy, I just told you—we were drunk. In the moment. The officiant who married us was the bride’s cousin and a youth pastor.”
“Bride’s cousin?” I hear the confusion in her voice.
“We crashed a wedding at Moonlight at Star Lake.”
“You what?” Her horrification amps up a notch at my audacity. “Who Are You?”
“Mrs. McBride, apparently.”
“You’re not funny, Annabelle. I’m coming home, and we’re going to—”
I shake my head. “Too late, I’m packing for Arizona.”
This gives her pause. “You are?”
I nod. “He’s not ready to . . . call it quits yet. Apparently he can’t get enough of me,” I joke.
“You married a linebacker.”
“So? You’re dating one too.” I point out.
“You’re moving in with a linebacker.”
“Temporarily!”
“For a Month?”
“Think of it like . . . experimental cohabitation. Research for science purposes.”
Lucy huffs. Then: “You’re going to fall for him.”
“I’m not,” I say quickly. Too quickly, because it may be too late for that.
“Annabelle—I love you and I support you, and Lord knows this may be partly my fault for pushing you into this trip. But you do not know this guy!”
“Pot to kettle! You jetted off to Arizona after knowing Harris for, what, one week? It’s the same amount of time!”
She makes a scoffing sound. “We’re not married—we’re dating.”
“How many times must I remind you this is not legally binding?”
“Do you have a ring on your finger?”
I glance down at the ring on my finger, then pull my arm behind my back to avoid its sparkly glare.
When I don’t respond, Lucy exhales. “Annabelle, sweetie. Darling. Newlywed by accident. The world thinks you’re legally married. He thinks you’re legally married. Which means, even if this is just a joke to you, it’s very real to everyone el—”
“It’s not a joke!” I snap, immediately wincing at how loud it came out. I look at the door, waiting several beats in case Maverick comes busting through it. “I mean. It started as one. Kind of. A sexy, tequila-fueled, moonlit oopsie. But now . . .”
My best friend waits me out.
“It’s not.”
“His name is Maverick.” She snorts.
“It’s not. His name is Callum,” I say quietly. “And he’s Scottish.”
I can practically hear Lucy leaning into the phone. “What’s this now? You know how I feel about accents.”
“Yes,” I groan. “You once told a British guy in town for a regatta that you were ovulating because he asked if you were ‘bloody hot in that jumper.’”
“I was bloody hot in that sweater. It was seventy degrees, and he was sexy!”
“Well, Callum says things like lass and reckon and yer bonnie mouth is gonna get you in trouble.”
Lucy goes completely silent.
“Hello?”
“Sorry, I blacked out for a second. I think I need a cold shower.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, flopping face down on my bed.
“Well, it’s settled then. You have my approval.”
Chapter 20
Maverick
A knock at her door startles me.
Don’t know why—it’s not like I’ve never heard a knock on a door before. But something about the way it cuts through her hushed voice in the bedroom—as I do my best to eavesdrop while she hurriedly explains about whatever the hell this situation is—puts me on edge.
I glance at the door, then back down at the half-zipped suitcase on her couch. Her place is small. Tiny, even. One of those shoebox apartments with more knickknacks than space.
I open the door.
And come face-to-face with the human embodiment of your stereotypical dork; someone who looks as if he ought to be on the East Coast strutting around a dock in his boat shoes, sweater vest, and falling grin.
And two takeaway cups of coffee.
He blinks up at me like I’ve answered the door to his house, little prick.
“Uh,” he says. “Is Annabelle here?”
I narrow my eyes. “Who’s asking?”
“Tim.” He straightens like that’s supposed to mean something. “Her boyfriend.”