by Pippa Grant
“Sorry for your loss,” I say gruffly, extending my hand. “And thanks for your understanding.”
“Of course.” We shake—firmly, but with mutual respect, no alpha male posturing in the grip—and he backs away with a wave to Hope. “Have a great night. And remember to be good to each other. Being a newlywed can be stressful. Love isn’t always as easy as they make it out to be in the movies, you know?”
“Thanks. We will. Goodbye.” She returns his wave, waiting until he starts back across the road to his battered station wagon before she turns to face me and whispers, “Was that weird?”
“Dunno. I’ve never been trailed by a PI before.”
“They never introduce themselves in the movies. And how does he think he’s going to catch us when he told us he’s watching?”
“Maybe it’s a ploy to make us relax our guard?”
She shivers. “I don’t think he needs it. He’s got our number already, doesn’t he? I swear I felt like his moustache was looking straight through me.”
I arch a brow. “His moustache?”
“My dad had a moustache for most of my childhood. Nothing got by that man or his lip toupee,” she says, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder. “I’m very bad at lying to well-groomed facial hair.”
I smile. “Then let me do the talking, you can do the snuggling, and we’ll be just fine. When did you say Kyle’s leaving?”
“In a month.”
“Easy. What can go wrong in a month?”
Her eyes widen. “Everything?”
“No. Not everything.” I glance over her shoulder to where Dean appears to be reading a book in the driver’s seat. But even with his attention fixed on something else, I feel watched and I’m pretty sure every second of this interaction is being scrutinized.
Maybe he’s the decoy PI and there’s actually someone else watching us too.
Great.
Now I’m getting paranoid. And I suddenly feel a desperate need to go check on my grape vines.
“But don’t feel obligated to be friendly to him,” I say. “As nice as he might seem, he’s not on our side.”
“Right,” she says, nibbling at her bottom lip.
“What?”
“I just…” She shrugs. “Our side. It’s strange to hear you say that, to think that we’re actually on the same side for once.”
“You’re my wife,” I say, my brow furrowing.
“But not really,” she huffs.
“The ceremony was legal. So yes, Hope. Really.”
“But it’s not the same.”
“It’s the same to me. I don’t take promises lightly, especially promises made in a court of law.” I catch her chin lightly in my fingers, tilting her face up to mine. “So until such time as we obtain a divorce, you’re my wife, and I will personally destroy anyone who even thinks about fucking with you.”
Her eyes narrow. “Except for you, right?”
My mind dives straight between the sheets, imagining all the ways I would love to fuck with Hope as soon as possible, but before I can say something suggestive and make a fool of myself, she adds, “You’re still going to do your best to make my life miserable?”
Her words hit me in the gut and the pride with collateral damage to the integrity. Have I really been that awful to her? “I don’t try to make you miserable on purpose.”
“No?” she asks. “Because I’m the only person in town that you don’t get along with. And it’s not like I’m not a nice person. I have friends. I don’t cuss around babies or tap dance in church. Animals love me, and animals are very good judges of character. But I blow out one little toaster, and it’s all you can’t do anything right, can you, Hope? Just like my parents.”
“Yeah, well you—you look at me wrong.” Wow. That was lame.
She rolls her eyes.
“Let’s just go,” she says stiffly. “I need to check on Chewpaca, and the sooner we get your stuff, the sooner we can get you settled in the guest room.”
“And that’ll look good for our case. People come over and see my shit in your guest room. I’d be better off on the couch. At least that doesn’t look like a permanently separate situation.”
Plus, last I knew, her tiny guest room was overflowing with all the small appliances she’s blown out over the years. If she cleans that right after we got married, people will talk.
She exhales sharply. “Fine. I’ll clear out part of the closet and a few drawers in my room for your things., but you’re not sleeping in my bed. And you’re definitely not doing anything else in my bed, so you can get that out of your head right now.”
I snort, forehead wrinkling. “As if I would give you the pleasure. You think way too highly of yourself, St. Claire.”
“Felt like you thought pretty highly of me too, when we were kissing by my truck.”
I put an arm around her waist, pulling her close as I lean down to whisper in her ear. “There’s a private detective watching us right now. You want to keep fighting and screw this up before we even get started? Or do you want to get your sweet ass inside and make dinner while I go get my things?”
“I’m not your little Suzy Homemaker, O’Dell,” she says, her tone as sharp as her body is soft and sweet. Her arms go around me as she arches closer, putting on a good show for our spy while she adds, “I have animals to feed and evening chores to finish. If you want dinner tonight you’re going to have to make it yourself. My offer was to help you move your shit, not wait on you hand and foot.”
“I don’t need your help moving my shit.” I squeeze her ass in one hand, summoning a hungry sound from her throat that I know pisses her off. She can pretend she doesn’t want me, but her body betrays her every time.
She sounds even angrier when she says, “And I don’t need a knight in shining armor. You’re my pretend husband, that’s it. So keep your hands to yourself when you get back. As soon as we’re alone, we’re operating under the four-foot rule. Meaning there will be at least four feet of distance between us at all times.”
I turn my head, nuzzling my lips closer to her ear as I whisper, “You’re not making the rules, honey bear. Marriage is a team effort, which means you and I are going to have to learn to work together.” I slide my hand beneath her tee shirt, trailing my fingers up the hollow of her spine, wickedly satisfied by the way she shivers in response. “I’ll be home by nine. You can leave my plate in the microwave. I’ll warm it up after I get my things inside.”
“Fuck you,” she grits out, making me grin as I pull away.
“Maybe.” I wink. “If you’re a very good doo-doo-kins.”
“Your nicknames are an abomination,” she mutters through clenched teeth, wiggling her fingers as I back toward my truck.
“Keep pushing me,” I say with a grin. “They can always get worse.”
“I hate you.” She beams at me.
“Mutual,” I lie, saluting her before slamming into my truck and firing it up with a too-rough jerk of my wrist.
I don’t hate her, despite the fact that she’s right, and I am ruder to her than I am to anyone else on earth. But fighting with Hope is more fun than making love to most women.
Maybe I’m a sadist.
I never thought I was the kind of man who got off on punishment, but a month with that woman—being so close to her, so turned on by everything about her, but unable to get within four feet of her unless other people are around—is going to be torture.
And I sort of think I’m looking forward to it.
Yup, I admit it, as I catch myself whistling a jaunty tune while I pack up my clothes and essential items from the cabin. I’ve been living on Jace’s property for the past two years to be closer to my vines as they matured. I’m excited to move in with my nemesis.
And maybe she doesn’t hate me as much as she’s pretending.
When I get back to the farmhouse with the wraparound porch, Hope is locked in her office with classical music playing at a volume that doesn’t invite a knock, b
ut there are a series of sticky notes on the door that read—The two bottom drawers are yours and I cleared out half of the closet. If you need more space, I’ll see what I can do tomorrow. There are sheets and a pillow on the couch for you and a fresh towel in the guest bath.
See you tomorrow. Thanks for marrying me. You didn’t have to, and I appreciate it, even if we have differences of opinion on how a fake marriage should play out.
Oh—and I contacted the other people I asked to get hitched, and told them it was all a ruse to make you wake up and realize that we’re meant to be together forever. Hopefully that’ll hold up if Dean gets around to talking to any of them. Frederick, my first fake fiancé, lives in Atlanta, and I’m sure he has no plans to return to Happy Cat after I almost murdered his father so we should be safe on that front, too.
Have you been dating anyone recently? Someone we might need to make explanations to or for? Not trying to be nosy, just wanting to make sure we cover all our bases. I obviously don’t care one way or another.
And your plate of meatloaf and green beans is in the microwave. They’re leftovers from two days ago, though, so don’t start thinking you’re special.
I smile. “Don’t start thinking I’m special,” I mutter, as I watch the meatloaf spin in the orange glare inside her pristinely clean microwave that makes my soup-splattered one look like I’m a savage who was raised in a monkey cage.
Don’t go thinking I’m special…
But as I eat the homemade meal, by far the best I’ve had in weeks, I can’t help feeling a little special. Her gesture of kindness, even couched in insults, went a long way. Makes me wonder what a bigger gesture could do.
She’s right. I need to be nicer to her. It’s not her fault electronics blow up when she’s around, and while it’s technically her fault our Vegas wedding ended in an annulment, how many Vegas weddings last?
And what did she mean, I was just like her parents?
I don’t know the St. Claires well, but I know Hope.
Well enough anyway.
She’s right. Animals adore her, and she adores them right back. She works hard to give them a safe home, and I know she’s not doing it with family money.
She earns everything she has, even though she probably doesn’t have to.
Cassie and Ryan love her.
Olivia and Jace love her.
Hell, she and Clint barely crossed paths back when we were all in school—he only got to know her at the weddings—and as far as I can tell, he loves her.
So why can’t Hope and I get along?
Better yet…why can’t we do more than get along?
When I saw her in the casino in Vegas that weekend when I was in college, a blast from the past I’d rarely seen since our high school graduation—I was going to school at CalTech and had stayed out west for a summer internship—she was hunched over a slot machine looking like her dog died.
Like all of her dogs died.
I wanted to make her smile. I needed to make her smile.
I can’t finish vet school and my life is over and I don’t want to talk about it, but I kinda want to self-destruct, she’d said, tears in those big brown eyes that suddenly seemed even more beautiful than they had when we were just friends growing up.
I offered to sit with her while she waited for her friends to join her the next day.
The slot machine short-circuited.
Casino security asked her to leave.
And I designated myself her personal guardian while we went to a second casino, where she picked the blackjack table and then the roulette wheel—no electronics involved—and we won big and celebrated with too many rum and cokes.
Seven hours later, we were hitched.
Twenty-four after that, we were over.
I never got to romance her. Outside the bedroom, that is.
Maybe this is my second chance.
Hell, no maybe about it. Clint’s right. This is my second chance.
Once again, her life has taken a bad turn, and once again, I’m here.
It’s time for me to man up.
Pretend this is real?
Hell, no.
I’m gonna make this real.
Operation: Real Romance, here I come.
Eight
From the texts of Hope St. Claire
and Cassie O’Dell
Cassie: Hey babes! I hate to interrupt you on your first night of wedded bliss, but George Cooney is having tummy troubles, and I’d really appreciate some expert raccoon advice.
* * *
Hope: Hey! I’m no expert, but I’ll do my best.
* * *
Cassie: You are too an expert. You’re totally an animal doctor, just without the official paperwork.
* * *
Hope: Ha. Well, the state of Georgia likes official paperwork. And I’m sure there are a lot of things I missed dropping out of school with a year left to go. But I’m happy to try to help.
* * *
Cassie: You’re sure I’m not bothering you? Cramping your wedding night style?
* * *
Hope: Not at all. Blake was so beat from our big day he’s already dead to the world. I was just reading to unwind a little. What’s up with George?
* * *
Cassie: He got into the pantry after dinner, before I put the padlock on the door again, and he ate an entire jar of peanut butter. Now, he’s rolling around on the carpet in the living room, moaning and clutching his stomach like he’s in pain, while also trying to steal Ryan’s popcorn every time he leaves the bowl unattended. He could just be playing up his starvation to score treats after eight p.m., but this feels different than the usual theatrics.
* * *
Hope: Hmmm… A jar of peanut butter is a lot. Was it full?
* * *
Cassie: Practically. And he licked that sucker clean.
* * *
Hope: Did Sticky Fingers get into it too?
* * *
Cassie: No, just George. The babies didn’t touch it either.
* * *
Hope: Aww. That’s probably good. I loved the family photo of them you sent last week. Who knew George would be a family man? Although, I guess it makes sense, with you and Ryan as role models. So has he been drinking since the PB encounter?
* * *
Cassie: No. I refilled his water dish because I was worried he had peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth, but he hasn’t touched it.
* * *
Hope: Okay. Well, peanut butter is on the approved list of foods for raccoons. In moderation. But it’s got a lot of junk in it, too, and wild animals aren’t built to process that much refined sugar. Try giving him some ice chips in a bowl. That’ll give him something to chew on and get water into him at the same time. I think your best bet is to get him hydrated and keep him on crickets and found-in-nature foods tomorrow. That’ll be a fun treat for his family, too. But if he gets worse or you notice increased swelling or tenderness in the abdominal area, you should take him in to the vet.
* * *
Cassie: Gotcha. Will do. Thank you so much! Ryan’s going to get ice chips now. He said to tell Blake hi, by the way, and that he and Jace are going to take him out for a post-wedding bachelor party as soon as they all have a night off.
* * *
Hope: Oh good. I’m sure Blake will love that. But I bet Ryan and Jace are thinking we’re crazy people, huh?
* * *
Cassie: No, actually, LOL. Ryan didn’t seem all that surprised. Jace, either. Guess they know their brother better than the rest of us.
* * *
Hope: Wow. Really? They’re not just being nice?
* * *
Cassie: Remember who we’re talking about here, woman. Jace doesn’t play nice and Ryan is incapable of hiding anything from me. If he were secretly weirded out, I’d know about it. Oh, and speaking of weird, Savannah signed on for another year with her cranky old English dude, even though he’s the worst.
* * *
<
br /> Hope: Another year with his daughter, you mean. It’s Beatrice she loves. And living in England. And clotted cream.
* * *
Cassie: *drooling emoji* Omg, clotted cream. It’s almost enough to convince me to cross the pond for good. And lemon curd. And scones. And I know I’m in the minority here, but I love their gorgeous bloody breakfasts, complete with meat feast and grilled mushrooms and tomatoes and beans on the side. I mean, why not have beans for breakfast?
* * *
Hope: I’m totally open to beans for breakfast. Upon occasion.
* * *
Cassie: Me too. And I was open to Savannah nannying while she took the time she needed to heal from her divorce, but the clock is ticking. Beatrice is a treasure of a kid and I absolutely adore her, but I can’t help feeling like my sister’s signing over her life to this guy, a piece at a time. She’s still young, but she’s not that young. And if she’s spending all of her time taking care of another man’s child, she’s not getting any closer to having a family of her own. Meanwhile, Stuffy Old Colin could fire her at any time and she’d be cut off from Beatrice and her heart would be broken into a zillion little pieces again. I hate to think that way, but I can’t help it. And also I just…want her living close again. Is that awful?