Page 6 of Never Say Yes To Your Fake Husband

I shouldn’t find this so thrilling—this conversation about old dogs and Beans—but I do because Weland smells good, and she’s gorgeous and funny and sweet, and she’s so close to me that it’s doing things to my pulse, blood pressure, and man parts.

“I seriously do.”

Chapter three

Weland

As far as turn-ons go, the phraseyou like Beansshouldn’t be one of them, but who am I kidding? It certainly is. It takes a brave individual to admit to liking such a thing and an even braver one to talk about farts. It tells me this guy is comfortable with himself, his body, and the grossness that sometimes happens. He doesn’t expect perfection, even though his suit screams he has enough money to be perfect. He’s clean cut, which I normally find a little bit abhorrent, but maybe the Beans talks take the edge off the neatly trimmed dark hair, the too-square jawline, the handsome features, the soft dark eyes, and the tall broadness that is nothing short of drool-worthy. I’m a big grown-up girl, and I know guys like this can have the pick of the litter, and it’s not me.

Obviously. I’m platonically married, and despite talking a big game yesterday, I’m not going to cheat on that fake marriage. I’m not going to break the contract. I shouldn’t even be talking to this guy right now.

Or shouldn’t I? It doesn’t hurt to just talk. He’s nice even though I spilled my water all over him. Anyway, it doesn’t hurt to just give him a bit of conversation. Plus, I’m enjoying it.

I’ve looked forward to this night for so long. I thought I could go out and pretend everything was normal and that I was the same person I was four years ago before any of this happened and my life changed and all the secrets started, but I can’t pretend, even to myself. I don’t feel like I fit here. And honestly? My friends are just fine without me. Kate would still have a great time even if I left early. I call her my bestie because she is, or at least she was, but they’ve all moved on with their lives while I’ve been frozen in place, and as I said before, drifting apart is a real thing.

It feels extra real tonight.

And extra lonely.

Until he showed up. Mr. Stranger Not So Danger with the soft, deluxe hot chocolate eyes and the big smile that softens the sharp, chiseled angles of his face into something that is bone-meltingly attractive without being intimidatingly a turn-off. Too-hot men are actually not a turn-on. Trust me on that. It makes sense. Science can only go so far before reason kicks in, and no one likes an overconfident jerk. Hot guys who know they are hot aren’t very much fun for anyone. The same goes for hot girls who know they’re hot and want to weaponize it. Not cool. Not cool at all.

We’re just about nearing the area where they have servers who will bring us drinks. I’m letting him lead, which is something I don’t do. Also, clubs, bars, and flirting. Those are things I don’t do. I don’t act like someone under the age of eighty. Also, I haven’t done those things in a while. And now I’m talking to a guy who has no name because I didn’t ask for it, and he didn’t volunteer.

I’m so busy looking at this handsome, tall, built, dark-haired stranger that I pay less attention to everything else than I should.

Sploosh!

Oomph.

Holy farging bacon. Now I’m the one wearing a drink. I let out a gasp. I don’t even know where it came from, but it’s cold and milky and smells like sticky, sweet whisky, which immediately turns my stomach, especially when it’s dripping down my hair, my forehead, and all over my blouse. There’s probably some on my skirt too. Darn it. A milky, boozy mess is probably really hard to wash out, and I love these clothes.

Mr. Tall, Handsome, and Dangerous grabs the guy who just spilled his drink all over me. Not hard, but he closes his hand over the guy’s arm, which looks to be the only thing keeping the guy upright. The guy’s eyes are bouncing around in his skull, and it looks like he could use some water more than the whisky drink he just spilled all over me. But maybe it’s not whisky. Maybe it’s something else that’s hard. I don’t go for that stuff, so I don’t really know. But yeah, it’s definitely milk. I mean, I think. Please let it be milk. I’m scared to try and let my mind get to naming what else that creamy sludge could be.

“Hey, I know that was an accident, but you need to be more careful. Apologize to the lady, please.”

Gah. Even when he’s kind of pissed on my behalf, this guy has manners, and manners are hot.

More eyeball bouncing from Super Drunk Guy. “Smorry,” he slurs.

“It’s okay.” I swipe my hand over the goop dripping into my eyes. I’m sure it’s not a good look. “Can you get him some water? I’m going to go to the bathroom to try and clean this off.”

“Are you sure? I can come with you. Or I’ll get one of your friends to go with—”

I wave him off. “I’m okay. If you could also order them some water, I would be eternally grateful.” I know asking a stranger for this is probably more than he owes me. Okay, it’s definitely more than he owes me, based on the fact that I owe him for spilling my water on him. Maybe this drink is spillage karma.

“Of course. If you’re sure.”

I swipe another glop of milky crap away from my eyebrows. It seems to be replenishing itself at an astonishing rate, which means it hasn’t saturated my hair yet and is just sitting on top and dribbling down. Or it has saturated everything to max capacity, and this is the extra. Either way, it’s so nasty that my stomach rolls again.

I race off to the bathrooms, which have to be at the back of the club because aren’t they always there? Some big, burly bouncer dude in a suit back there spots me. He rushes up and doesn’t even need me to ask. Instead, he points me in the direction of the bathrooms and sees me back there.

The women’s washrooms might be huge with a ton of stalls, but the fact that this place employs bouncers back here just to watch over them is what no doubt keeps them clean and safe. There is nothing dubious going on in here. In fact, I’m the only one in here at the moment. Before someone comes barging in and asks me for help peeing because they’re super duper drunk and can’t figure it out by themselves, I head over to the row of free-standing pedestal sinks. I stick my hand under the soap dispenser and pump the little metal pump a few times until pink pools of soap line my palm. I’m not going to do a hair wash job over the sink in here, but I am going to wash my face.

I bend, and yeah, I know this is weird, but what other option is there? Once the soap is rinsed off my face and neck, I run clear water into my palms and do the best I can with my scalp. I spent so much time curling my hair for tonight, but I am certainlynot going to cry over that. My eyes definitely aren’t burning or watering. Nope. That’s the booze. And the soap.

Thankfully, this place has paper towels and not just hand dryers. I grab a handful, wet them, and dab at my blouse. The goop has already sunk in, and it’s probably toast. My skirt has a few spatters, but maybe they’ll come out in the wash. My boots were spared, which is a good thing because they’re vintage, and vintage red cowboy boots aren’t cheap. At least these ones weren’t.

My hair is a wreck, but it's a good thing I always have an emergency hair tie with me. I unzip my clutch, extract it, whip my hair over, and then twist it into a bun—a tight one at the scalp because it’s all soaked. Then, I make it messy enough on top that it kind of covers up the damage as the strands fall all over.

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