Page 5 of Never Say Yes To Your Fake Husband

“I guess we shall unless you’re completely awful and insufferable. In which case, tell me now and save me the ten minutes I’m going to have to spend in your company.”

I think she’s serious for a second, but then she cracks a smile and laughs. I can’t hear it above the bass, but as I watch her shoulders shake, my stomach flip-flops at the way her eyes crinkle and her nostrils flare because she means it when she laughs.

Watching someone laugh shouldn’t make a guy hard in strange places, or like normal places in strange ways, but garlic on garlic toast, Weland is just so intriguingly beautiful.

“I’ll do my best not to be an insufferable prick.”

“Okay then. Off we go.” She turns and waves at her friends, and they give a cheer, thinking she’s going to get them another round of drinks.

Halfway across the club, even though Weland is close beside me, someone slams into her. Not just bumps but slams. She goes off balance, rocking on her red cowboy boots, and I catch her before she can fall. I steady her and put out a hand to ward the asshole off, but he’s already lurching away.

“Are you okay?” I want to keep holding onto her shoulders and letting her body heat burn through her blouse and into my palms. I want to keep drinking in her fresh, breezy ocean scent. She reminds me of white sand beaches and palm fronds, coconuts, drinks with little straws in them, crashing waves on a beach, and monkeys flinging poo at each other from the trees.

Trust me, no beach vacation would be complete without the monkeys, and somehow, they just about always end up in a poo-flinging fight. Who can blame them, really? It would be awfully fun to engage in something like that and give zero fucks about it. Tell me with a straight face you’ve never wanted to fling poo at someone before. I’m sure certain circumstances definitely call for it.

“I’m fine.” She shrugs out of my hands. I want to be a gentleman and offer her my arm and jacket to keep her warm even though it’s so damn hot in here from all these bodies packing the place. But I suppose I’ve offered her enough already—half a million dollars and my last name. Actually, minus my last name because she doesn’t know it, but err, metaphorically and all that.

She raises her chin and I let her go now that she’s perfectly fine on her own two feet. She marches forward. “It’s not going to stop me from getting water. My friends all need it, and I’m a good, responsible person.”

“I can flag down one of those servers and ask for a round if you like.” I pull out my wallet.

There’s no need to impress Weland with money. I know it’s impossible when it comes to her. Somehow, I knew it from the start. A woman who gives up five years of her life for her younger brother to get surgeries to repair his knee and other bones in his leg so he can walk normally and even run and do sports again isn’t the kind of woman who gives two flying monkey turds about things.

Her right brow arches up a little. “You’re going to pay for water?”

“I’m going to tip. Because that’s a lot of water. You have a lot of people at that table.”

“Right, yeah. That’s a good point. It will probably be more than one tray and more than one trip. How much should a person tip for that?” She reaches for the little clutch attached to her wrist. It’s sparkly and has cat ears. I didn’t notice it before.

“Funny. I pegged you for a dog person.”

She freezes, and I realize I messed up. “Why—why would you say that?”

“Oh, just, uh…I don’t know. I really don’t know why I said that.” Actually, yes, I do. Because Smitty told me all about that poor decrepit dog that he found at the shelter. The dog was initially found on the street, so someone must have dumped him at some point. He clearly didn’t have an easy time surviving either. Of all the dogs Smitty could have picked, he thought Weland would love that one best.

He knows her. I don’t. And it makes me feel like I’m thrashing around in my own skin.

“Well, I got this dog,” she says. “I actually just got him. He’s probably not that old, but he looksold. He looks like a hairy potato and an ancient dry sausage had a baby. He’s the sweetest. Most people would say he’s so ugly, but I think he’s beautiful. Hemakes me want to speak dog so I can ask him to tell me about what happened to him, about how he lost an eye and an ear and half his tail.”

“Jesus Christ.” Smitty didn’t go that far in his description. He just saidsad. Very sad. And heartbreaking. The obvious choice for tons of love from someone who has love to give.

“Yeah, I know. It’s really sad. He’s so sweet, though. He’s a good boy despite all that. To me, he’s lovely. I just wish he could talk to me when I talk back. He’s a great listener, but I want him to tell me if he’s hurting. In his soul or in his body. He’s old, so I can’t imagine that’s very comfortable.”

This. Woman.

Of all the women in the world I could have picked to be fake married to, I knew she was the one the second I heard her angelic voice and took in the plea for people to share her videos so she could maybe get one viral in order to support the people she loved. Yes, fake marriages require one as well, and it requires two people who know they can make it work. I didn’t want someone who was just in it for the money. Even if it would only ever be platonic and I had no plans to ever meet the woman who signed her name next to mine on the paper, even if she knew nothing about me, it was still important to me that she had a good heart and a good head on her shoulders.

“I don’t imagine it is. I’d like to hear more about him. What’s his name?”

“Beans. But I don’t know if I’ll keep it. The only accurate thing about that name is that he smells like farts.”

“Oh geez. Like bad farts?”

“I don’t know. Like real farts. He’s gassy. It’s not a lingering body smell, and it’s not coming from anywhere but the rear. It’s legit farts, and I think a better diet will help.”

“Beans. I like that. Beans are tough. They’re a staple. Versatile. Delicious.”

Her face lights up. “Seriously? You like Beans?”

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