Unwillfully Wed to My Valentine (Fire at Will #1)

Prologue

Happy Birthday to me, I guess.

Amber

Evil.

Pure, unadulterated, unfiltered, undiluted, 100% All Natural evil .

My word.

If he’s still as vegan as he was almost a decade ago, that means he’s grass-fed, too…

Breath held, I stare past my mother at William Reid Warrick , a man I have not seen since our high school graduation. Foreboding as a storm, he fills the doorframe, garbed top to bottom in an obsidian suit.

“Good morning, Mrs. D’Amore,” he says to my mother, voice level. “Is your daughter available?” His eyes slip past my mother’s petite form, land on me, and spark . Heat suffuses into every inch of the formidable creature as a rare—for the rest of the world—smile just barely softens his lips. “Ah,” he murmurs, and it is lethal . “Bambi. There you are.”

My stomach knots as my senses go on hyper-alert. Danger sirens flash in my brain, sending warning signals to every last one of my physical functions. My heart rate spikes. My hair stands on end. My nerves fizzle and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies.

Wide angel eyes that match mine fill with shock as my mother looks between us. Her hands land over her pouting mouth, and she gasps. “ Amber . Did you not tell me you were dating someone? You’re supposed to tell your mother these things!”

Her tone cuts through me like a knife, and the warning bells heighten until my head throbs.

From the living room, my father booms, “Amber’s dating someone?”

“There’s a man here with flowers!” Mom snaps.

I wince, noticing the flowers when William Reid Warrick lifts them a centimeter higher, above my tiny mother’s head. Crimson fights through the stunning black roses in muted shades, creating a patchwork of bleeding veins over every lush petal. Crow and peacock feathers balance the bouquet, making it quite literally the most beautiful arrangement I have ever borne witness to.

While I’m effectively stunned, my father comes up the narrow hall, heavy footsteps stopping a yard away. He grunts. “Those are ugly.”

“Morton!” Mom hisses. “That was an inside thought!”

Dad’s flailing hand catches in the corner of my vision. “What? They’re ugly! I’m not supposed to tell the truth? No daughter of mine should be given ugly roses. They look like the kind of disaster Limon would get just to spite us.”

My wince morphs into a full grimace at the suggestion that my beloved older sister would spite anyone.

Mom plows on, like a freight train, oblivious to decorum. “You’re supposed to use tact, not just spout whatever obscene nonsense launches itself into your itty bitty brain.”

Wishing I could vanish into the ether, I find Liam’s eyes wholly fixed on me, unconcerned entirely by the bickering. Once our attention locks, his mouth opens, which—historically—has never been a good thing.

“Bambi,” he begins with all the warmth of a volcano, and all the diplomacy of a government leader, “you’re twenty-six.”

My gut drops itself off a skyscraper as a world of bad decisions bombard me, settling pristinely on one specific bad decision that bears relevance where my being twenty-six is concerned.

Notice: Liam did not say “Happy Birthday.”

His tone, in fact, gave all the delicacy of an IT IS YOUR BIRTHDAY. banner.

Except, somehow, with more daunting undertones.

I find myself unable to quell a shudder as three hundred truths race through my mind:

As of today, January 3rd, I’m twenty-six. By the end of January, I will no longer be on my father’s work insurance plan. He’s already confirmed that I’ll need to start paying for my own phone, too, and Mom?

Ha.

Mom’s mocked up invoices for rent that will start in February. The invoices are adorable, honestly, which is sickening. Pay me seven hundred dollars should not have tiny sunshines dappled about in the margins. According to her, since I’m irresponsible with money , I need to start budgeting better . So, she’s going to start setting aside monthly payments in order to help with that . Except, of course, she’ll be keeping it. For who knows what. Because we are mortgage free and I already help pay for groceries.

Yup. Fun.

Problem: I am between jobs right now. Again. And I only have about half a month of rent in my savings.

Therefore, my life crashes and burns come February 1st.

Thank goodness I thought ahead—when I was the most idiotic eighteen-year-old in the world… As if Liam would genuinely be here about a marriage pact , though.

Liam proceeds, “I’m here to discuss the terms of our agreement.”

“An agreement?” my mother asks, pulling herself out of the argument with my father. “What sort of agreement? Amber, who is this man?”

Cordial as the black plague, Liam extends his free hand to my mother. “I don’t believe we’ve met. William Warrick, your daughter’s future hus—”

My legs march . My hand darts .

The door slams in Liam’s face.

Heart pounding, I stare blankly at the chipping paint in front of me while quick breaths funnel through my lungs. Mouth dry, I battle the panic consuming my brain. No. No, no, no. He’s not serious. He can’t be serious. This is just one of his stupid, stupid, stupid games that I never could figure out the rules to.

It has been eight years . Eight.

He has not contacted me for eight years.

Now he shows up to cash in on the world’s stupidest trope, second only to—I don’t know—the bet ?

How dare he. How. Dare. He.

“Amber,” Mom mutters, arms crossed, “you better explain yourself, young lady.”

When I glance at her, she’s glaring, but on dollish faces like ours, the expression comes off more like a pout.

She asks, “What was that about?”

I return her pouty glare with one of my own, try to settle my heart with a deep breath, and stomp past my father, grumbling, “How many times do I have to tell you people? Don’t open the door for strangers . You might let in a religious representative. Or, worse, a vacuum cleaner salesperson .” Looking back, I jab my finger toward the door. “If he knocks again, call the cops.”

Once I turn the corner out of view from the front door, I stop, wait, listen.

Mercifully, William Reid Warrick does not knock again.