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

2. Sterling

Chapter two

Sterling

W hat is it that all the young people say? This club is pumping?

If anyone heard me say that…well, they wouldn’t. Because I would deny it. I would never, ever say such a thing. But I suppose it is. The music—some heavy bass stuff—is hitting pretty hard. But it’s not my taste. My taste is country. Pure voices. Angelic voices.

Voices like Weland Bull. A voice like all the angels singing in unison, like a fresh spring day, like an uncomplicated life and a pure heart. That voice has lived rent-free in my head for the past four years and eighteen days since I first heard it.

The video she posted was just her and her light wheat-hued hair, bright blue eyes, and flushed cheeks singing in rapture and bliss with the purest and rawest talent I’ve ever heard. It was just her and her guitar and that frilly floral dress that people would also call boho, and no, I will never say that word out loud either.

There are a few stagettes here tonight, but I only have eyes for one. The one my wife is attending. I have never met her in person. She doesn’t know what I look like, what I do, or even my name. It’s all very cloak and dagger, but Smitty thought that was for the best, and since Smitty is the best of the best, I trust him with the business side of my business. I’ve trusted him with more than that. She has no idea he moved his entire practice up to Detroit just because I asked him to. Because I wanted someone close to her, someone to watch out for her. Security would have been better, but when I mentioned that to Smitty, he didn’t like it. He said she would hate it, so he moved close by to keep an eye on her himself and be a friend to her because he figured she would need it.

It’s why I’m here.

Because he called and told me that she was lonely—lonely enough to do something drastic and done enough to be really done with all this. He thought she was joking, but he wanted me to know, just in case she was serious about getting drunk, finding someone, and wrecking this whole thing when it was almost over. And the baby? She couldn’t be serious about that, could she?

A blonde who is probably smoking hot by definition of anyone in this place except me bumps me hard in the back. I’m a few feet away from the bar and being as casual as I can, which in this place means getting in line to get a drink.

“Sorry,” she drawls, grinning at me and batting her fake eyelashes. They’re very heavily…gooped. I know that’s not a good word, but it’s the only word I can use right now for all that mascara and eyeliner. Her teeth are very, very white, and her boobs are also…umm…fully on display, pushed up in a barely there hot pink dress. Her hair? Not a real blonde. She’s one step away from freeing the nipple with that dress. I back up a step, but it makes her smile even harder. “Don’t be shy. You can buy me a drink. That’s fine with me.”

“Sorry, I’m just having water tonight. I’m a designated make-sure-no-one-here-gets-into-trouble person.” No one here named Weland, at any rate.

“Aww, you came with someone then?”

“Taken, I’m afraid,” I reply.

“Probably married.” She pouts, but then she laughs, and I swear it’s loud enough to cut over the pounding music. The lights are strobing, too, or at least I think they are. I don’t think that’s my eyes and brain. God, when did thirty-two start to feel this old? “But that’s okay! The married ones are more fun.”

“Ohhhhhh, no. Not me. I’m very—very—married. Very married.”

“Not happily, though, or you would have said so. Although, that’s usually just a lie people tell when they’re not. You can still buy me a drink, you know.”

While she pouts at me and I shake my head, I realize Weland and her group have moved to some other part of this club, which is entirely too massive. Panic claws at my throat. Panic because I can’t let all this be for nothing. Not this crazy amount of work, the past four years, Weland’s sacrifice, or the fight of my life that I’ve had to do to keep my company mine . A company that I built myself from the ground up. From nothing. I had to borrow money at the start to buy shares. Shares that were worth nothing one day and then worth everything the next. Shares that my aunt, who backed me, left to me only on the most clichéd conditions. No doubt she’s laughing from beyond the grave at all this.

But no doubt I’m not.

“I’m sorry. I really am.” I’m only sorry that a line like that actually works on some people. I back out of the line, and the blonde just shrugs and turns around to find a more receptive audience in the guy behind me.

Alright, I’m sorry I had to drag someone like Weland into this too.

I’m sorry she’s been having a hard time. I’m sorry she’s sad and lonely and— holy shit.

Right freaking here.

She’s right around the corner. In fact, I nearly plowed right into her. I bring myself up short, and my sharp athletic reflexes save me.

But they don’t save her. I guess I’m a little bit too close because even though I come up short, she must sense the air shifting or something, so she spins around. Her drink goes flying out of her hand and lands right on the front of my suit.

Because yes, I’m one of those guys who wore a suit to a club. To be clear, it’s not a formal, suit-wearing kind of place.

“Oh my holy smokies and onions! I’m so sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Oh my goodness, you scared the life out of me, and it just went flying. I’m…jeez, well, you did sneak up on me. You shouldn’t do that in a club. People get the wrong idea. Something about darkness and weird lights and too much music and too much booze, and ahhh, look at me. Talking too much. Hold that thought.” She holds up a hand. “I’m going to run to the bathroom and get some paper towels to wipe you down. Again, I’m so, so sorry about the suit. It looks expensive. Gah, look at me. I’m still talking too much when I should be moving. Okay, moving now. Right now. Right now now .”

She’s nervous, but she’s over her scare. With those wide blue eyes, the adorable way she’s biting down on her bottom lip, and the way she won’t look me in the face after that first initial shocked glance, it all tells me that she likes what she sees, and she’s flustered from more than just her projectile drink, which honestly, appears to just be water.

I brush at the wetness and raise my fingers to my nose. I don’t care that I give them an undignified sniff. Yup, it’s just water, which is funny because when I look over at the other women—there are at least fifteen or so in the stagette group, and they are all packed into one big booth—they all already look beyond slightly inebriated.

“It’s not a problem. Don’t worry about it.” I don’t think club bathrooms are a safe place for a woman to go alone. Is any bathroom safe? God, I want her to be safe.

Catching a plane from London, I literally got here just in time. Smitty did the rest, finding out which club the stagette was going to take place at, and if there were more than one, he would have found out the specific times. I have no idea how he did it, but he gave me the time, address, and name of the place, and he had it for me within twenty minutes of the phone call with Weland.

It sounds a lot like he tattles and spies, but in reality, he doesn’t do either. Not much. But maybe kind of. I have to keep tabs on my wife, okay? The marriage thing was a rocky idea at best and fucking straight-up awful multiplied by infinity and spiders at worst.

“No, I need to worry about it. I’m sorry again.”

“It’s alright. It’ll dry,” I tell her.

Weland sighs. She has one of those open, honest faces, so I’m not surprised by what she says. “I’m not even drunk. That’s the sad thing. We took a bus here. This is my first night out in forever. The woman getting married? That’s Kate, my bestie. I should be really, really drunk, but I don’t know. I thought this would be super fun, and it’s alright. I just feel…” She pauses, her eyes fluttering upward. The lights flash over her face. She’s dressed quite conservatively for a club, with a vintage white lace blouse and a high-waisted skirt that looks handmade, also trimmed in lace. She’s rocking red vintage cowboy boots. I had no idea she liked vintage fashion. But maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she just put on that outfit because she really thought a stagette at a club meant polka night with a hint of line dancing at some hall where no one would be under the age of a hundred and eight.

Whatever her likes or dislikes, the strange outfit is adorable on her. She’s totally cute from head to toe. I knew what she looked like from her videos online and the few photos I have, but she’s a knockout in real life. She has sunshine eyes and is beautiful in an old-fashioned and new-fashioned way mixed together and stirred with a hint of sea breeze that clings to her. She reminds me of someone who would look good wearing flowers, and seriously, isn’t that out of style already? But no, not on her. On her, they would never go out of style. She’s got that petite, sweet little frame that would look good in anything, new or old, in or out of style.

She’s not the kind of person who fits in here. Or maybe even anywhere. She’s all around too sweet and honest for the world.

“Can I interest you in a walk then?”

“A walk?” Her light blue eyes flash as they dart over to her group. They’re mostly sitting around one of the huge booths, all of them crammed into one, though I don’t know how they’ve managed even with a few of the women sitting on each other’s laps and one of them perched half on the table, and two standing at the ends. “I was just going to take a walk to order a round of water, actually. I told them I was getting drinks, but I think water is what’s needed. We’ve only been here for an hour, and it’s already getting out of hand. No one needs to get alcohol poisoning tonight, and ending up on the floor or holding back someone else’s hair while they upchuck for hours isn’t how I want this night to go.”

“Alright, a walk to get water then.”

She gives me a once over, and it looks like she’s trying to assess my level of stranger danger. Her cheeks turn pink, which makes me think that maybe there was a little bit of truth to what she said to Smitty about finding some dude and getting laid tonight, though I didn’t think it was possible. From what I know of her, it didn’t seem like more than an empty threat. Even Smitty didn’t think she was going to do it, and he usually has a pretty good read on people.

But here I am, ready to prevent anything from happening. I take all threats seriously, especially when it’s a threat to my personal privacy and the stupid will that still hasn’t gone to bed yet because five years aren’t up, and I have a pack of ravenous cousins waiting in the wings who could put any salivating, aggressive, and snappy wolves to shame.

“Don’t worry. I won’t try and seduce you,” I add, with just a hint of velvet burr in my voice. I don’t know why I do that. The last thing I’m going to do is seduce my wife, and that sounds like I mean the opposite. Total creep zone, but Weland throws her head back and laughs.

“Don’t worry. I’m not so easily seduced. Certainly it would take more than a walk across this club. Although it is packed, so it will take us a while to get over to the bar. We’ll also have to wait because there’s a long line, and we’ll no doubt get shoved together by all those people waiting rather impatiently. And if we didn’t, we’d still have to lean intimately close in order to not yell at each other with all this music blaring.”

“Do you like it? The music…” I ask. Her smile falters, and she gives me another long, searching look. She’s trying to figure me out. She senses that I know something about her that I shouldn’t know. I try and give her an innocent smile but probably come off a little bit dopey. I haven’t done this in a very long time. Bars, smiling at women, thinking about anything other than business, talking to my wife. “I’m just trying to make conversation. Ignore me,” I add.

“No.” She’s trying to be polite, I can tell. “No, I don’t have to ignore you. The music is…interesting, I guess. It’s not my favorite. My jam is more singer-songwriter and country.”

Does she even want to be standing here having this conversation, or would she rather be crammed into that booth, laughing and screeching uproariously with her friends? It doesn’t look like she wants to be doing that. Maybe she thought she did, and then she got here and found she craved the quiet she was used to.

I’ve asked Smitty about her so many times. What she’s like, what she likes. He’s always told me that she’s kind and quiet and that she loves her family above anything and will always put them first.

“That’s quite a far cry from this,” I comment.

“Yeah, but this is okay too. Everything is okay. Some music is better than none. I like to give anything a chance.”

She’s so open-minded. Smitty was right about the kindness. She radiates it like chocolate chip cookies radiate deliciousness.

I motion to the bar with a nod of my head. “Shall we then?”

“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 looks old . 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. He makes 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 said sad . 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?”

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.”