Page 6 of Marrying Mr. Majestic

“I’m not the one in trouble this time,” he said quickly, never taking his eyes off me. “It’s Silas.”

The silence from Kenji lasted several beats. “It’s never Silas. What did you do to him?”

Blood pounded in my head as they all spoke over each other, discussing my “predicament.” Had I been targeted at the bar last night? Did this cowboy somehow peg me as wealthy and deliberately set out to entrap me?

Everything in my gut screamed that he hadn’t. That he’d genuinely been a fish out of water in that bar last night while people showered him with free alcohol.

I tried to remember how our interaction had begun. I’d noticed him the minute I’d entered the bar. In fact, I’d deliberately sat next to him because the only other empty stool had been next to a couple of women taking selfies from multiple angles.

And then I’d watched people attempt to pick him up for an hour. The cowboy hadn’t been the one to initiate our contact; it had happened when I’d started outright laughing at him. He’d been adorably oblivious and uncomfortable.

And hot.

My sluggish brain took a moment to ponder just how hot he was. Thick forearms and wrists covered in golden hair. Big hands with blunt nails and calluses. Working man’s hands. Blue jeans that might as well have been a love letter to the man’s muscular ass. That snap-front shirt, fitted enough to emphasize his trim waist. I’d assumed he was straight, but I still hadn’t been able to take my eyes off him.

And then we’d danced. My fingers flexed, remembering the feel of his abs under the warm cotton.

Fuck. Why had he let me touch him? Kiss him?

I pressed fingers into my forehead to try and stop the pounding.

Kenji’s voice was all business, as usual. “I’ll start an investigation on the man now. Zane, shoot me a picture of the document. I’ll get our lawyers working on an annulment. Silas, do you have the guy’s phone number?”

It wasn’t until Landry barked my name that I jumped and realized Kenji had been talking to me. “How the fuck would I have his number? It’s not like I asked him out.”

“No.” Landry’s tone was dry. “Just married him. No big.”

“His name was… Way?” I said, vaguely recollecting the sound of it spoken in his deep drawl. “That can’t be right.”

Zane read off the paper. “Waylon Heath Fletcher. Of… Majestic, Wyoming. Where the hell’s Majestic, Wyoming?”

The details came back to me in errant sparks. Way from Wyoming. The sweet man who was willing to marry a pregnant friend to help her out. The man who’d made sure to tip the bartender, even though his wallet had been painfully thin.

Landry snorted. “Silas got himself a real-live cowpoke from nowheresville. Tell us he’s pretty, at least?”

I snapped a curse at him without opening my eyes. “Kenji, figure out what I have to do to get this reversed. Surely they’ll void this thing if I just go down there and tell them it was a drunken mistake.”

Keyboard clacking came over the speakerphone before Kenji’s voice returned. “Doesn’t look like it, but I’ll wait to see what the attorney says. Hang tight.”

He ended the call right as the food was delivered to the room. The scent of it turned my stomach, but I forced myself to choke down some coffee and dry toast.

By the time Kenji called back, my head had begun to clear.

“No annulment,” he said quickly. “You don’t qualify. And since you used your Delaware address on the marriage documents, there’s a mandatory six-month waiting period after you file for the divorce to be granted?—”

I squawked. “No way. I’m not waiting six months.” I didn’t mention that this guy was straight and was probably freaking out even more than I was this morning. Surely Way would be as eager for a quickie divorce as I was.

“Let me finish,” Kenji said with his usual calm. “Your husband?—”

“He’s not my husband,” I growled, though technically speaking, I supposed Kenji was right.

“Fine, then. Your legal spouse… resides in Wyoming, which doesn’t have a waiting period. And if you get divorced in a tiny town, it’s possible our attorneys could try to obfuscate your statement of net worth so?—”

The blood started rushing again. Statement of net worth. Statement of net worth.

I was one of five people who’d founded ETC, an emergency traffic control program that had made us billions in our early twenties. Two of the other founders were in this room, Dev was most likely hiding away in a stable somewhere whispering sweet nothings into a horse’s ear, and Bash was probably in a cornfield in Indiana fucking his new boyfriend.

All five of us were billionaires. And, with very few exceptions—including our assistant, Kenji—all five of us had sworn each other to secrecy about it. We’d learned early on that this kind of money made it nearly impossible to trust people. It was much easier to simply pretend we were regular rich guys, the kind of guys who did well in corporate America and could afford vacations and fancy cars. Once people discovered your net worth was in the ten-figure range instead of the six-or-seven-figure range, things had a tendency to get scary.

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