Page 1 of Never Say Yes To Your Fake Husband

Chapter one

Weland

“I’m about to make a terrible decision, Smitty McSmittington.” Based on the fact that this man is my husband’s lawyer and, out of the two of them, the only one I’ve ever met before, I figure I should give him the best possible chance to talk me down and maybe even stop me. I owe him that, at least. He’s nice. Most of the time. Plus, I think his name is kick-ass. Even though he does boring things all day, like law, he’s all right when it comes down to it.

And my god, it's definitely coming down to it.

“Miss Bull, please don’t give me that.”

“Give you what? No bull?”

Smitty’s sigh is one of the longest, long-suffering ones I’ve ever heard through a phone. “For the love of turkey drums, what’s going on?”

Oh, maybe the fact that I’ve been married—technicallymarried—for four years, and I’ve never met my husband. Maybe that’s what’s wrong. Or maybe the fact that I used to be fun, butdue to the gag clause in thecontractI signed, I meanmarriagedocuments, I have to zip it. It means no telling my family and friends why I can’t go out, why I’m not interested in guys, and why my life is on pause while theirs goes on, and they get to do things, live, meet people, fall in love, get married, and have babies.

You know, all the regular, amazing, normal life things to do.

They get to share it with someone else.

I just have a piece of paper that bought my silence. Oh, and two hundred grand up front, with the other three hundred grand promised to me at the end of five years.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d do it all over again if I had to. I saved my brother’s life with that money. It was a no-brainer at the time. I just didn’t realize how hard it would be to be thislonely.

“I’m going out tomorrow night. My sort of best friend is getting married, and I’m going to her stagette.” I can only imagine Smitty’s face. Given that he’s pretty patient, I’d say he’s not pulling one at the moment. He has a good, resting, straight-laced face. A good lawyer face.

“There’s nothing wrong with that. The contract was never meant to make it so you couldn’t go out and have fun with friends.”

“Yes, but it’s at a bar. A bar with guys. Guys who are no doubt attractive. Guys who will buy us drinks. Not that we can’t buy our own because we can, and we will.” One day, I’m sure I’ll look back on this moment as the deciding moment of something or other, but right now, I’m going for it. And by going for it, I mean going off the rails. “I will no doubt be inebriated, and I haven’t been drunk in a very, very long time. I can’t promise I’ll behave. I also can’t promise I won’t find a handsome stranger and take him home. Of course, it would all be very discreet, so that should at least be within the parameters of the piece of paper that rules my life.”

I know I’m not being fair. I know the piece of paper kind of rules his life too. I know if I mess up, he’s going to get in shite. But honestly. Four years. It’s beenfourfreakingyears,and I am just sofreakingdone.

Will I actually get drunk this weekend? Probably. But too far gone drunk? Not a chance. I actually don’t even like drinking. I prefer more like nicely buzzed, still kind of sober, easy to get sober with a glass of water so I can still look after my friends kind of drunk. And that friend who’s getting married? She’s my sort of bestie, just as I said. The bestie I’ve grown a little apart from in the past four years, and no, it’s not just because of life. It’s the gag clause. She has no idea I’m married. As far as she or anyone else knows, my family’s health insurance paid for my brother’s surgeries.

Will I hit on a handsome stranger and take him home? Not a chance. I would never do that. But can I threaten and be petulant and wish for just a moment that I had someone to hold me at night and share my feelings and my heart and life with? It’s not as though I’d find that with a one-night stand, but yeah. It doesn’t stop me from wishing. Or from hurting.

“Miss Bull, please, let’s just talk about this.” This is where the calm lawyer stuff comes in. The rational tone and theI’ve got this because I can handle anythinglawyer voice.

“I’m not technically even a Miss Bull. Did you know that, Smitty? Of course you know that.Youknow what my last name is. I don’t. I don’t even know that. Because on the contract I signed where I gave up five years of my life, the real name of my husband was blacked out. In war times, I think they would call that redacted. Or not in war. In government documents. Which I feel like this crazy contract was.”

There’s a different kind of sigh this time. Heavier. Like he knows he’s going to have to get his hands dirty kind of a sigh that comes from the bottom of his chest. I can imagine Smitty,all six feet and seven inches of him in a designer suit, heaving and shuddering. He’s not fit. I mean, he’s not unfit either. He’s just a mountain. A mountain crammed into a suit with a huge red beard and a bald head. He’s one of those teddy bear guys who looks like a juggernaut. Like legit, he might be one. I’m not sure how or why he ever became a lawyer. I know he’s a business lawyer, but this seems more personal than business.

I do know that my husband, whatever his real name is, married me because of some family dispute that involved greedy Gretchen cousins—Smitty’s words, not mine. They wanted to take what was his, and there was something about a will and an aunt with a sick sense of humor who put a marriage clause in her will that said something about my unknown-named husband needing to have a wife for a minimum of five years. Since Smitty is a business lawyer, I imagine it has something to do with some business dealings or some company. Or likely shares because that’s the only thing that makes sense to me, but of course, I’m actually not sure. I only gathered this from seeing Smitty on and off over the years. I know just enough info from the beginning when I had to be talked into signing that darned contract in the first place.

So now I’m living a romance trope in a fake, contracted marriage, and my nameless husband is living it too, but he’s probably a gazumba bumba billionaire. If he’s not, then I’m not sure how he can afford to pay me what he’s paying me to live this trope.

Yeah, I know. Things like this only happen in movies and books.

Or to me, because I posted a video that I hoped would go viral so I could save my brother.

I got my wish.

Be careful about making wishes and all that. It really is good advice.

“I think I should come over, Miss Bull.”

I’ve zoned out, and it’s no doubt worrying Smitty on the other end of the line. Ominous silences are not my deal. “No, Smitty. There’s nothing you can do. I want someone to share my bed at night. I want someone there. I want…I want a family. All my friends are in love, married, or have kids. I’m twenty-nine years old.”

“It’s only another year, Miss Bull.”

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