Page 16 of Beauty and the Beach

This couch might be the worst part. It’s still on the cinderblocks Holland put beneath when Nana could no longer get up on her own from such a low surface. It should have been burned decades ago.

I sink back into the orange-brown cushion anyway, turning my gaze to Holland as she emerges into the room. She comes to a stop in front of the couch, her arms crossed once more, her foot tapping impatiently.

“Come on, Peacock,” she says, shooting me an irritated look. “Tell me what the job is.”

“It’s not quite a job,” I say. Then, weighing my words carefully, I go on, “It’s more of an arrangement.”

Her brown eyes narrow, and she steps closer to the sofa, all five-feet-six-inches of her towering over me. “So you mentioned,” she says. She couldn’t look more suspicious if she tried. “Explain.”

I keep my expression passive, blank, but my mind is working furiously as I try to figure out what to say. I’ve never had a conversation like this before, and I’ve certainly never had it with someone as explosive as Holland.

“All right,” I finally say. There’s nothing to do but spit it out. “I’m interested in entering a contract-based matrimonial agreement with you.” And I’m playing a game calledHow can I make this marriage proposal sound unlike a marriage proposal?

“A contract-based—what?” she says, and she’s confused enough to stop glaring. Lines furrow her brow instead as she blinks at me. “Did you saymatrimonial?”

“I did, yes,” I say with a slow nod. “Have you heard of contractual marriages?”

“Yeah,” she says, fainter now. “It’s a whole genre.”

I blink at her. “Sorry?”

“Never mind,” she says. “Forgot you don’t know how to read. But—you’re obviously not proposingmarriage.”

When she says it likethat?—

“I think you’ll find semantics very important moving forward,” I say quickly. “But—technically—I suppose I am proposing that we get married.”

The words have barely left my mouth, and I already know they’re going to be received poorly.

“I’m not marrying you,” she says, and I can read every emotion playing over her face—her confusion, her shock, her utter bewilderment. “You’re not—you can’t possibly be serious.”

Once again, I nod. “Sadly, I am.”

“You’re not.” She shakes her head, her blonde hair brushing against the silky fabric of her pajamas. “I can’t believe I actually thought you’d be helpful.”

“I’m not messing around,” I tell her firmly. Can she hear how uncomfortable I am with this entire conversation? “Our usual pranks aside, I’m very serious about this.”

“You can’t possibly?—”

“I can,” I cut her off. “And I am. I’m asking you to become my legal wife—in name only,” I stress.

“I’m obviously not marrying you,” she says. “Get out. Get out of my house.” Her eyes are deer-in-the-headlights wide, darting back and forth; she’s on the precipice of losing it completely.

I’m right there with her.

I sigh. “You mighthaveto marry me.”

She scoffs, an unhinged sound. “That has never been true, and it’s certainly not true today.” She turns away from me and folds her arms. “I’m not marrying you.” I can’t see her now that her back is to me, but I can hear her facial expression—brows set, mouth pinched into a tight line.There might even be a muscle twitching in her jaw—left side only.

I stand up and lean sideways, just a bit, and sure enough, there it is: that little muscle that ticks only when she’sreallypissed off.

I roll my eyes. “Look, Amsterdam. I don’t want to marry you any more than you want to marry me. But they’re making me get married. Do you understand? My grandmother is forcing me to get married, or I can’t inherit the company—not all of us have a Nana Lu, you know? If I don’t get married, the company will go to my cousin Lawrence instead.” I glare at the back of her head. “That’s the one who found your number on my phone and called you to ask if we were sleeping together. A few years ago. You remember Lawrence, don’t you?”

“Lawrence can swan dive off the nearest cliff,” she says icily.

I sweep my arms in exasperation. “Wonderful. It’s settled, then. You and me, one week from today.”

“I’m not marrying you!” she says, finally turning back around. She stomps her foot and then winces; my gaze darts to her bruised knee.

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