“So you just left him there? Butt-ass naked? Did you even check to see if he was wearing a ring too?” Dylan asks, a hand slapped to her face, no doubt covering a wide smile.
“I’m glad you find my marital status amusing,” I mutter as I slink further under the covers.
Sneaking out of the hotel room undetected was a bit of a challenge. So was hopping on a commercial flight when I was supposed to be at the game. I sent Beckett’s assistant an email, informing her that I’d woken up with a stomach bug and asked that she call him to let him know I’d left.
I’m a coward.
“We don’t even know if you’re legally married,” she says, far too jovially, her auburn curls bouncing around her face.
“Could you at least pretend to be upset about this?” I hiss.
Dylan folds her lips over themselves. She’s sitting cross-legged on top of my comforter, fiddling with her rose quartz pendant, while I’m doing everything I can to disappear under the covers. God. How am I going to face my boss tomorrow?
“Has he called?”
Once. He called once and left a message. “Liv,” he said, his voice tight and desperate. He took several deep breaths, then he was silent for a long moment before he finally choked out, “Please call me when you get this. I hope you aren’t really sick. But if you are, I hope you feel better.”
It was probably the most he’d ever said to me in a voicemail. Normally, he barks instructions and hangs up without a goodbye.
His voice this time, though? It sounded like he actually cared.
I pull the covers over my head and groan. “I can’t talk to him.”
Above me, Dylan giggles.
I peek out from under the sheets to glare at her.
She holds up her hands. “Calm down. Even if you really married your boss, it’s not like it’s the end of the world. Hell, you just finalized one divorce; what’s one more?”
“Do you hear yourself? The ink isn’t even dry on my divorce decree. I cannot be married! How am I going to face Beckett tomorrow?”
Dylan raises her eyebrows, her expression still so goddamn giddy. “Is it because you saw his ass? He’s got a nice one, doesn’t he? There’s obviously a stick lodged up there, but I bet it’s round and juicy. Kinda makes you want to take a bite out of it.”
My mouth falls open, and the headache I’ve been nursing since the moment I woke up naked beside my boss returns. “Are you insane?”
She lifts a shoulder and tilts her head. “It’s debatable. But I’m not the one who married my boss.”
I throw a pillow at her, and she tips over sideways, dissolving into laughter.
“You can’t tell anyone.”
Dylan’s face falls and she rights herself. “Oh no, we aren’t doing this again. Remember what happened the last time you all made me keep a secret?”
“You tormented my boss with voices, got us all drunk, and made us strip around a fire pit?”
She rolls her eyes. “No. I had a meltdown and came up with the ridiculous idea that we should all move into a dilapidated house.”
We both peer up at the water stains on the ceiling directly above my bed. We need a new roof. And new stairs. Hell, we need a new house.
“Don’t lie. You’re happy to be living with me,” I prod, smiling for what might be the first time since I woke up yesterday morning.
She shrugs. “You’re all right.”
A giggle escapes me, but I sober quickly when I remember what I’m up against. “Dyl, seriously, what am I going to do?”
“You’re going to get dressed, and we’re going out for brunch. Then we’ll pick up your kids from your no-good ex and spend the day having fun. The universe obviously has a plan. Trying to figure it out is a waste of time.”
“That’s your suggestion, then? Leave it to the universe?”
She smiles, and I swear, her eyes sparkle. “The universe brought the four of us together all those years ago, right? She’s got a plan.”
Confident that this weekend was all some sort of misunderstanding, I walk into the Langfield corporate offices with my head held high and the diamond ring tucked safely in my purse.
“Liv!” Gavin’s secretary hollers, her glasses sliding down her nose as she chases me down the hall.
I smile, and genuine affection tugs at my heart. She is a disaster, like always, and I’m nicely dressed, with my hair in a bun. Dylan was right; the universe is righting the world again. Everything is back to normal.
“Hey, Stace, how was your weekend?” I ask over my shoulder as I slow my pace so she can catch up.
She launches into a story about a disaster of a date, but halfway through, she slaps a hand to her chest. “Oh no! I’m late. Can I finish this over lunch?”
“You got it,” I offer.
She smiles, and with a wave, she scurries back down the hall. Unlike Stacey, I’m no one’s assistant—even if Beckett has never gotten that memo.
He has a secretary and a personal assistant. He also has a driver, a butler, a chef, and an ex-girlfriend, who, like clockwork, shows up once a month to vie for his attention.
I have no doubt he pays for plenty of other services—not that I want to think about them—and yet, despite all that luxury, all the people fawning over him at all times, the man never smiles.
I’m instantly on edge when I open my office door and find him propped up against my desk. For what might be the first time in his life, he’s actually wearing a genuine smile, and he’s holding a picture of me and my kids.
I clear my throat, and he jumps a bit, his smile disappearing as he slips off my desk and stands. “You’re late.”
Before I reply, I slowly count in my head, reining in my anger and annoyance. “By five minutes. And I didn’t know we had an appointment. What can I do for you, Mr. Langfield?”
He glowers at me, and his shoulders sag. “We got married, Liv. Could you please, please, try to call me by my first name?”
My spine goes ramrod straight, and a squeak escapes me. I was not prepared for such a blunt conversation so early on Monday morning.
He smiles, and I swear my heart stops. It’s breathtaking.
“You thought I’d forget that little fact?” He holds up his left hand and wiggles his fingers, drawing my attention to the black wedding band circling his fourth finger.
Holy fuck. We really got married.
I mean, I definitely thought we did. I kind of sort of remember a man who looked like Elvis—if you squinted and were obscenely drunk, which we were—pronouncing us husband and wife. If my boss’s bare ass is any indication, then I can safely assume we consummated the marriage too. And I have a ring on my left hand, or I did until I hid it in my purse, ready to return to my… husband?
I open my mouth, but no words come out, so I close it again and swallow past the lump in my throat.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, scrutinizing me with a small frown.
The way he’s staring is uncomfortable because he seems far too comfortable, like he’s seen me naked. In all likelihood, he has.
I highly doubt I waited until after he was asleep to get undressed. We probably had sex.
God, I can’t believe I had sex with Beckett Langfield and don’t remember a single second of it. I’d smack myself if I didn’t have company.
“Liv?” he says softer. When I don’t reply, he hangs his head and sighs. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“We got married!” I hiss. Clenching my fists and shooting daggers his way, I round my desk, shove my purse into the drawer, and slam the damn thing shut.
Beckett sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Yes, I suppose we did.”
“Why aren’t you freaking out? Oh, you have a plan, don’t you? Of course you have a plan. You’re Beckett Langfield. Everything always works out for you.” I huff and drop into my chair.
Rationally, I know it’ll all be fine. Beckett doesn’t want to be married to me. We’ll fill out some paperwork, and it will be like it never happened. He’s got the resources to keep things quiet, which means the news won’t get back to Drake. For the first time in forty-eight hours, a tiny wave of relief hits me.
Beckett settles into the chair on the other side of my desk. “I do have a plan.”
“Great. Just tell me what you need me to sign, and we can forget this entire mess.”
Beckett frowns and scoots forward in his seat. “Well, no, that’s not my plan at all. Actually, to be fair, this is Gavin’s plan.”
“Gavin? You told Gavin that we got married?”
The creases in Beckett’s frown deepen. He almost looks hurt. “No, I haven’t told anyone.”
I lean back against my chair and blow out a breath. “Thank God.”
“Is being married to me really that awful?”
“Oh, please. Of course it is.”
“Why?” His nostrils flare, and his cheeks are a little pink, like maybe I’ve offended him.
“Not because of you. You’re… you.” I wave a hand up and down, gesturing to him. “You’re great. It’s me. I’m a mess.”
With his lips pressed together, he scrutinizes me for a long minute, his frown one of concern more than offense or annoyance now. “You really don’t think very highly of yourself, do you?”
Shaking my head, I grumble, “Trust me, you don’t want to be married to me. This was a mistake.”
“Or maybe the universe intervened,” he offers.
Gritting my teeth, I bite back a shriek. “Have you been talking to Dylan?”
“Your hippie of a friend?” He laughs and sits back. “No. Why? Is that what she said? Maybe she’s not so bad after all,” he mutters softly, his eyes still holding mine. It’s unnerving the way he’s looking at me. Like he sees past the professional mask and the pressed clothing. As if, even after he’s seen me with a dryer sheet stuck to my back and mismatched shoes, after I drunkenly married him, then ran out without a word, he still likes what he sees.
In all my years married to Drake, I never felt this seen.
“You can’t possibly want to be married to a single mom with three kids.”
Beckett shrugs. “It’s for the media, just like we discussed.”
My heart sinks just a little, but I clear my throat and sit up straight. Right. The media. The bad publicity. That’s why we got married.
But then why did we end up naked in bed together?
I swallow and push that question out of my mind. “What else did we discuss again?”
“You mentioned that your house needs work, so we agreed that I’d pay you $100,000 to stay married to me until the end of the season.”
Thank God I’m sitting down, because my knees wobble and my lungs seize.
“Think about it, Liv. I’m giving you $100,000, and all you have to do is take a few pictures with me and your kids. Nothing else changes.”
“Nothing else changes,” I murmur. Could it really be that easy?
One hundred thousand dollars would go a long way in fixing broken steps, and the leaky roof, and well… we could take care of a good chunk of the projects we need to complete, and I could set some of the money aside for the kids’ extracurriculars without having to ask Drake for help. Hell, we could hire a babysitter every once in a while so the girls and I can all take a break.
I must still be drunk to even be considering this. “Nothing else changes?”
“Just the balance of your bank account and the diamond on your left hand.”
Taking a deep breath, I hold out my right hand. “Okay, Mr. Langfield, I’ll be your fake wife.”
“You agreed to what now?” Delia demands, holding the bottle of wine hostage above my empty glass.
“Oh, fake marriage! That’s one of my favorite tropes,” Dylan says, bringing her own glass—full of wine, I might add—to her lips.
“Tropes?” Shayla asks, cutting the broccoli on Kai’s plate into small pieces. The kid is nine. It’s unlikely he’ll choke on mushy broccoli, but if Shayla can fathom the possibility, then she finds a solution.
“Yes, like Mafia romance. Or cowboy. God,” Dylan gushes. “Those men and their hats. Although sports romance has always been my favorite. Men in tighty-whities? Sign me up!”
Liam groans beside her. I grab the bottle from Delia’s hand and pour until my glass is completely full.
Swiping the bottle back, she gives me the stink eye and pours herself a more reasonable portion. “I thought we agreed we were swearing off men.”
I take a healthy gulp and shake my head. “I’m not really marrying him.”
Dylan smiles, looking far too enamored with my situation. “Until you’re forced to share a bed. ’Cause we all know what happens next. He’ll take a shower, and when he walks out of the bathroom in nothing but a white towel that accentuates his abs, it’ll slip just enough that you’ll get a peek at the trail of hair—”
“Trail of hair?” Shayla makes a face. “Gross.”
Delia and I laugh, but Dylan just smiles like we’re the crazy ones. “You’ll see. He’s a broody one, so it’ll probably hit her the first time she sees him smile at her kids. Our days are numbered, ladies; Liv is a taken woman.”
“I’m not a taken woman.” I drop my chin and shoot her a look. “The last man I would ever get involved with is Beckett Langfield.”
“You need a contract,” Delia says, transitioning from friend to attorney in seconds. She recently left her job at a big law firm to work as a prosecutor. She hops up and hustles to the kitchen. A minute later, she comes back with a yellow legal pad and pen.
When she settles beside me and writes Rules for Fake Marrying your Billionaire Boss, I groan.
“He and I have already come up with rules.”
Delia stares me down. “Did you discuss PDA?”
“PD-what?” Shay asks as she spears another vegetable.
“Public displays of affection,” Dylan advises, her chin tilted high. “Yes, that’s a good one to start with.”
“Mr. Langfield does not like to be touched,” I interject.
“Well, Mr. Langfield is going to have to get over that,” Dylan croons.
Delia bites the end of her pen and tilts her head back for a moment. “No, this is good. If he doesn’t like to be touched, then people won’t expect any PDA.”
Dylan laughs so hard her wine sloshes onto the folding table. “No. She’s going to be the only woman he likes touching him.”
The way she says it, like she knows precisely how this will go, is slightly concerning. It’s not that I think Dylan can see into the future or anything. It’s just… she sounds so sure of herself.
Delia scrawls limited PDA next to number one, then drops down a line. “What next?”
“Oh, what about laundry? Ajay always helped with the laundry,” Shay says with a soft smile.
I squeeze her hand. “That’s sweet. Drake never did. This isn’t a real marriage, though, so I don’t think we need to add chores to the list.”
“Compensation?” Delia questions.
I take in a deep breath. “He’s going to pay me enough to fix the steps—”
Shay whoops and Dylan cheers before I even finish.
“And the roof,” I add. “We might even be able to splurge on a hot tub,” I mouth so the kids don’t get their hopes up.
“Shut up.” Delia’s pen clatters to the table. “Just how much is this man giving you?”
I grab the pen and scribble $100,000 next to compensation.
All three women scream so loudly I clap my hands over my ears.
“Seriously?” Delia asks, her eyes already swimming with possibilities and calculations.
We could check off so many items on our to-do list. Now we just need to find a contractor that she’ll actually agree to hire. She’s rejected half a dozen already, but there’s got to be someone out there who can live up to her expectations.
Yes, moving in with my three best friends and all our kids was a whacky move, but as I look around the table, where Liam is feeding Adeline and Finn is watching him like he hung the moon—and hopefully learning to be just as helpful one day—I can’t help but think it was the best crazy idea Dylan’s ever had. And just maybe this crazy fake marriage will turn out the same way.
