Never Say Yes To Your Fake Husband (I said Yes #4)

1. Weland

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— technically married—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, but due to the gag clause in the contract I signed, I mean marriage documents , 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 this lonely .

“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 been four freaking years, and I am just so freaking done .

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 the I’ve got this because I can handle anything lawyer voice.

“I’m not technically even a Miss Bull. Did you know that, Smitty? Of course you know that. You know 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.”

“And that’s no bull. Ha. Okay, stopping that. But seriously. My name, Smitty, is Weland. I’ve told you a hundred and one million times to just please call me that.”

“Okay, Miss Bull. Okay.”

My phone is on the older side of things and doesn’t need to be clenched this hard. “Grr.” No, that’s not me practicing being a bear. That’s me being totally frustrated by all of this. “I know I got two hundred grand. I know that. But if I break the contract now, you do realize if he sued me to pay it back, which yes, I know is one of the clauses I signed off on, I could just declare bankruptcy?”

“You wouldn’t do that, Miss Bull. You’re too good for that. Too kind.” Oh, well, it’s a good thing Smitty believes in me. “Your brother got what he needed because of my client, and I know you’ll hold up your end of the deal.”

My eyes start to sting. “What if I don’t? What if I’m so hopeless that I don’t want to? What if I go to the clinic and get in vitro tomorrow and get pregnant and cause a huge fuss and stir? There are no rules against that. I also have the money.” Kind of. I kind of have the money. Not that there was much left over after Bryan’s medical bills were paid.

“Would you do that?”

“I don’t know. Would I not do it?”

“I really hope not. You’re a good girl. I really like you, Miss Bull. I don’t want to have to sue you, but I’m my client’s lawyer before I’m your friend.”

“I think we have different definitions of friends.”

I know that’s doubly not fair. Smitty has always been so good to me. So nice. None of this is his fault. I suppose he could have said no to taking this job, but then someone else would have done it. Maybe he donates money that he feels is dirty money to charity. He seems like he’d be the type. He probably donates money anyway. Probably for homeless cats or sweaters for hairless dogs so they don’t have to shiver in winter. Believe me, Michigan can get really cold. Sweaters are a great thing. We need more sweaters in this world. And more dogs. And people with hearts like dogs have.

“If you’re lonely, I’m sorry, but why don’t you get yourself a dog?”

I almost laugh because, really? Are we that in tune that we’re on the same wavelength about dogs here? “Um, I don’t think I’m looking for that kind of relationship.”

“I know you’re not the kind of woman who does one-night stands.” Smitty’s voice goes from deep to deeper. “But more importantly, you’re not the kind that goes back on her word.”

“I want to be that woman, Smitty, but I don’t know. I can’t make any promises.”

Actually, I can. Because this phone call is actually bull . I know I won’t find someone and take them home. I could never do that. But it doesn’t hurt to vent. And who am I supposed to vent to? Only a few people in this world know the truth. And that’s me, Smitty, and his client—as he terms him. My family thinks I got the money from my song going viral, then selling the rights to it, and some of my other work to some big record exec who discovered me and didn’t like me but liked my music. That’s the convoluted story I gave them, but it worked. It explained where I got a large chunk of money from, why I took the video down, and why I haven’t put anything else up.

My mom didn’t even know the whole story, and she still begged me not to give up the rights to my songs, even knowing that as she was telling me not to give up something that should have been mine, she was resigning her son to a life of never being able to walk properly again. My brother shattered his knee in a stupid dirt bike accident. On a friend’s bike. Driving it when he didn’t really know how.

It was pretty easy to convince my mom in the end that songs didn’t matter. My brother did. When I put it like that, she understood, even if she sensed there was more, and I wasn’t telling her all of it.

“I’m going to get you a dog. I’ll have him or her delivered within the hour. Personally. I will personally pick him or her out for you.”

I know he won’t do it. Smitty has more important things to do. These are empty threats. Just like I’m calling him to threaten and vent because he’s the only one I can call at this point. It’s not like I know my husband’s number. It’s not like I know anything about him. He could be called Buttfink Finkle Finkleton the Eighth and makes his oodles of money by selling photos of his hairy big toe, for all I know.

Fine, so I know he’s not named Buttfink, and I know he doesn’t sell photos of his toes, although they might be hairy. Do I know he doesn’t sell photos of his toes? No. No, I don’t. But I would bet he doesn’t.

“Okay, Smitty. I’m hanging up now.”

“Okay, Miss Bull. Take care. I’ll see you soon.”

I hang up, confident he’s bluffing and that he’s called my bluff. That we’re both bluffers, and all this amounted to nothing, though I do feel just a little bit better. Smitty has that effect for some reason.

Two hours later, I realized one of us wasn’t bluffing.

I open the door to a red-bearded, big-hearted, big juggernaut lawyer dude in one of those custom huge and extra huge and then some suits, holding what can only be described as an old and slightly moldy ancient-looking dog in his arms.

It only has one eye and one ear on opposite sides, half a tail, and very, very strange fur. And its tongue lolls out. Permanently, I think. There is also a decrepit odor that has to be the dog because Smitty doesn’t smell like old armpits.

“His name is Beans, but you can change it if you want. He’s had a hard run of things, but his luck changed today because you’re going to love him. He’s your new best friend.”

He holds out his arms, and the dog rips a massive fart. It absolutely rips it. Like, loudly. And eye wateringly too. What were they feeding this guy? The dog probably also weighs at least sixty pounds. It’s not a small breed. I’m not sure what breed it is. It’s some terrifyingly cute mix of every single breed on Earth. Honesty, he looks more like a scraggly potato than a Beans.

The poor thing’s tongue is lolling out, and it makes me think he can taste the fart. Dear god, I hope he can’t taste the fart. It’s potent. So, so potent. I can feel myself tearing up because it’s that bad.

“Can you set him down on the couch?” I shouldn’t be asking this. I should be telling Smitty absolutely not and to take that dog back to wherever he got it, but it was probably a shelter, and who knows? Maybe this poor guy won’t find another home. He’s old. He’s a scraggly potato with mold, and he looks very, very sad.

But he wags his half-a-tail when Smitty sets him down, and I don’t have the heart to tell him no. I don’t have the heart to say that if I were a dog person, I would have had one by now. Or a cat. Or a plant. Something I can keep alive. Something other than just me here in this condo I rent for a normal amount of money because people need to believe I can afford it on a guitar teacher’s salary. Because that’s what I do. I teach guitar lessons. I used to do it at a school, but then they downsized, and I was out of a job, so now I do it from home.

Which is another reason I don’t have pets. What if some of my students are allergic?

“They’ll love him,” Smitty assures me, even though he has no idea what I’m thinking.

Or does he? Gah! Does he ?

“We’re all good then? You’ll be okay? This was just you letting me know you’re frustrated? You’ll make Beans here feel at home, and we won’t have a problem with the contract?”

“Yeah, sure.” But I shake my head and shrug. “Beans is good.” I don’t answer about the rest.

Smitty gives me a very lawyerly look, which makes me feel like I’m melting on the spot. “Alright, Miss Bull. Have a good rest of your day.”

“Yeah,” I gulp out. This bluff was a bad idea. And now I have a dog. Beans wags that stump of his even harder. “You too.”