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

Chapter Eighteen

? ? ?

The duplicity of Liams.

Amber

The visible breath of relief Liam exhales on the last day of January—otherwise known as Secret Cupid day—makes me stuff my laugh deep, deep down in my chest as I keep working.

Brian, our Secret Cupid , has arrived.

Clothed.

Which is important.

Because one of the emails I found myself compelled to answer earlier this week was from Brian and consisted of a single, harrowing question: Am I fired if I wear a diaper on Wednesday?

Liam’s answer: Yes.

I sent the information with the smiling three-heart emoji, to show that, as Liam’s assistant, I approved his message, and would also personally murder a man for showing up in front of me in only a diaper.

So, here Brian is, dressed in a usual polo and two tiny feathered wings. Wearing his usual mail bag stuffed to the brim with stuffed animals, he hands Liam an adorable black and white cow, shaped like a milkshake. A milkshake cow. What will they think of next?

Cute as ever, Liam murmurs, “Moolkshake…” when he takes it from Brian’s hands.

Moolkshake.

What a sweetheart.

What a completely and entirely non-evil sweetheart.

As Brian shuffles in his bag for what I can only assume is my stuffed animal, Liam’s attention hits me, and a shiver plows down my spine. Never mind. There it is. The evil .

Wicked, a smile touches his lips.

I fix my gaze on my work computer screen to check on my current project of transforming Liam’s dull gray-on-gray schedule into something more him colored. By that I mean pastel, and pink, lots of pastel pink.

I’m color-picking from Barbie movie covers and creating a brighter day-by-day. I am not recognizing that his eyes are screaming, The moolkshake is your color, it’s so cute, please cuddle it, please let me take pictures of you cuddling it, please let me cuddle the both of you together .

He can’t chide me if I refuse to speak to him telepathically. Normal people can’t read his mind. I deserve the respect and consideration a normal person gets.

Even if I am his wife.

And even if there is a possibility that the man is…in love with me.

I try not to think about that, because William Warrick would not fall in love with a normal person, and—again—I deserve such simple considerations.

Rainbow sparkle eyes placed within the soft pink body of a floppy-eared rabbit appear in front of my face, so I proceed to do what any normal person might—cuss.

“Tada!” Brian cheers, undaunted by my swear. “Here’s yours, Amber, a bunny bun.”

Liam, behind Brian, eyes locked on the rabbit, mouths bunny bun in a way that is, honestly, quite pitiful. Yeah. Don’t worry, hub. It’s yours. Trying not to sound disgusted, which is not hard because my voice is naturally bright and quirky, I say, “Wow. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me! Thank your Secret Cupid.”

Secret Cupid better shoot an arrow real fast. This thing is about to grow up without a mother’s love.

Twirling—yes, twirling —on his heel, Brian puts his wings to me and chirps, “Guessing time! I’ve got loads more friends to match with their forever homes. Who do you think gave you yours, Boss?”

The Secret Cupid list will be released tomorrow, and anyone on it who guessed their stuffie-giver correctly gets a very unmotivating baby box of chocolates. Wise of the committee for Countdown to Valentine’s to make the prize for this one mediocre considering it’s not exactly difficult to cheat.

Limoncella does love chocolates, though.

I wonder if I can snatch a leftover box for her.

However, with my luck, Liam decided the prize, did the math using stupidly detailed statistics, and determined exactly the needed number of boxes.

I pout at him, hoping he can read the distress concerning how good he is at being evil on my face, but he’s staring hard at his moolkshake. Finality in his tone, he says, “Will. This is Will.” His gaze skids my way, but lands on my rabbit. “That’s you.”

Brian balks, mouth opening and shutting, before he says, “Wow. That was…chilling.”

Evil. The word he’s looking for is evil . Supernaturally evil.

Brian crosses his arms. “You weren’t supposed to guess for Amber. You’ve stolen her fun.”

And gifted me chocolates for Limoncella. Score.

“She did not care, and if she had, it wouldn’t be fair, because she hasn’t worked here long enough to know anyone,” Liam says. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Shoulders deflating, Brian nods. “I ordered it online the day after you approved everything. Isn’t it adorable ?” The mailman’s eyes light up and glitter in a way reminiscent of the bunny bun’s. He should probably have that checked if it doesn’t go away.

Liam, dressed completely in black holding that black moolkshake of his, states, “Yes, it is adorable.”

Brian, for reasons unknown, takes Liam’s deadpan and eschewing of contractions to mean that Liam hates the bunny bun and will be ripping it out of my hands to burn before it can enter his house. Brian pouts, severely, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say even the man’s wings droop. “Well, at least Amber will appreciate it.” Sniffing and picking himself back up, he skips his way to the elevator. “I’m off!”

The door closes on his salute, and I drag my gaze to Liam, who is already at my desk, bunny bun an inch away from his hand.

“Oi.” I swat at him. “That’s mine .”

His dark eyes shatter, and he squishes the moolkshake in his arms a little tighter. “Surely not.”

“Her name is Gertrud . And she bites anyone who tries to make it cute by calling her Gertie .”

“Fiend,” Liam says.

I let the deepest, evilest laugh I can produce giggle pathetically from my chest.

Liam’s distress melts. “Adorable fiend.”

My eyes roll as my head shakes, and I extend my hand for the stupid black moolkshake. “I prefer the fabric on that one anyway. Go on. Take your bunny bun , you disaster.”

He smiles, like a cutie, not a disaster, and hands me the cow milkshake abomination of cuteness as though he is bestowing a grand honor upon me. “Her name is Mildred , and she loves going by Millie . Because it’s cuter.”

I take the thing in against my corset and give it a little hug. “Good to know.”

Bunny bun already scooped up and cuddled close, Liam watches me, smile tender. “So cute.” A light ignites in his eyes, and he pulls out his phone. “May I?”

“The pictures are starting to concern me. Why do you need so many?”

“I bought an electronic frame for my room. I’m going to have it cycle my cute wife. I’d also like to have you on my phone lock screen, but preferably you’ll be looking at the camera for that one.”

“I’m bad at smiling for the camera.”

“Then don’t smile. Glare. I like you however you are.”

Posing is so uncomfortable. Because of how I look, people have been demanding it of me my entire life. When my smiling inevitably looked like an unnatural, constipated mess, they’d get disappointed in me. And then I’d feel terrible. As though I even knew them and the majority of people asking for photos weren’t random strangers on the streets who noticed me in the clothes I liked and wanted pictures, as though I were a cosplayer at some convention.

Stupid photos.

At least, Liam’s lack of expectations means I don’t have to deal with disappointment.

Puffing a sigh, I lift my eyes toward the camera and let whatever pout I’m wearing suffice.

Liam’s smile nearly shows his teeth as he snaps the photo. “Little angel.” He gets a different angle. “So precious.” A third angle. “I need more picture frames. I want an entire album on my walls, like Will has in his office, of Ruby.”

I blink, and shove my hand in front of my face when the maniac opts for a fourth angle. “Whoa, calm down . I’m not a model.”

“I’m glad you’re not a model. I don’t have to share these with the world. They’re all mine. You’re all mine. Never become a model.”

My lips purse. “Um. Yeah. I’ll make note of that. I think I’m a little too short, anyway.”

His head firmly shakes. “You’re perfect.”

I’m a company’s downfall waiting to happen. From most angles, I’m a little too doe-eyed. I scream fetish content when I’m not even doing anything remotely suggestive. It’s a problem, I think, where obtaining any commendable modeling gigs is concerned.

“Hey,” I say.

Liam drags his attention off what I can only assume is him picking his lock screen picture. “Hm?”

“Branding.”

His attention piques.

“Do I actually mix with dark romance ? I’m not… spicy enough for usual expectations. I’m not even sure I look old enough to be writing it, which will be a turn off for decent human beings and a disappointing not that kind of spicy for the others. If the cowboy thing didn’t take off, I was going to try sweet romcom, because maybe people were getting hung up on my image, and maybe I just… fit better with lighter and brighter.”

“You do not look like a child, neither do you act like one. Also, there’s an audience for slow burn dark romance, and I doubt anyone would be disappointed in your spice with the way you orchestrate tension like a masterful conductor of all things sensual. Personally, I’ve found every one of your intimate moments in your other books to be quite illicit.”

“Right. But. You don’t read what my sister does. It’s not just dark and twisted, it’s kind of bleak . It’s not…” I motion at my face. “You know?”

“I’ve been reading your genre as research in between self-help topics on the subject lately, Bambi.”

My brain shuts down. “You’ve…been doing what now?”

“If you’re comfortable with it, I’d like to read what you’ve written so far. It’s important for me to understand which successful authors right now are aligning most closely with the brand you’re going to be building around your product. That will help me and my team pinpoint exactly what your visual brand will consist of. I’ve kept myself in stories that have the themes from your other works—slow burn, generally enemies to lovers—but the more exact I can niche down, the better the results.”

I squeeze Millie as my bodily functions shut off. “H-hold on. Did you just say… your team ? What team?”

“Frank.”

“ Frank? Who’s Frank ?”

“My best graphic designer. She’ll be helping create your brand package, which will include your brand colors and fonts, a logo, and a banner, with your tagline. I like Cute, but Spicy .”

There is nothing cute about an illegal fight club. That is my point. I look like this , but I’m writing about stab wounds . And, again, spice is not at the forefront of my work by any means.

Playing with his bunny bun’s paws, Liam murmurs, “ Like a mini taco ,” before my mouth can spout something angry.

It is, now, impossible to spout something angry.

The man might be evil, but he may also be a touch too precious for this world.

“ Cute, but Spicy is a terrible tagline for me. Cute is not what dark romance readers are looking for, I’m pretty sure.”

“I know,” he says, cheerfully hugging Gertrud. “I am biased, and—therefore—not your target audience. My opinion is moot in this regard; however, I have been thinking about your pen name, and I think I’ve come up with something that fits.”

Come on, man. I’m just trying to get to the midpoint of writing the book itself here… Also, losing Amber D’Amore still hurts. That’s my name. My literal, actual name.

Yet I flubbed it so badly that if I want this to work in a timely manner, like before I get divorced next year, I have to change it.

Remembering how well Liam means in spite of my ruffled emotions, I hedge, “What…?”

“Tempest Rain. Common words. Easy to spell. Perfect imagery. Very you .”

My lips part as thunder crashes, and dark clouds unleash their torrent. “Tempest is…also my middle name.”

“Exactly. It’s you . Your brand will become you. And people will learn what to expect with consistency. And it won’t matter that you’re the cutest person to have ever graced this world with her presence.” His smile warms something inside me. “Tempest Rain, taking you to another world by storm.”

I do not hate that. But I also don’t love how taking your branding by storm is already his company’s motto. “I like the name. I’ll workshop the tagline.” Putting my attention firmly on my writing laptop, I scroll all the way to the top, where TITLE GOES HERE DINGDONG heads my page. “You should really get back to work. I’ll continue updating your schedule for next month so it can be ready in the morning.”

“Great. Thank you.” He pauses before returning to his office. “Since you like the name Tempest Rain, will you also open the accounts on your list that you need to with it?”

A bundle of nerves knots and loosens as I highlight by Amber D’Amore and replace the name with Tempest Rain . Fresh and new. Just like the world after a storm. This time, I’m not fumbling through on my own, with a thousand streams of information hitting me on all sides while the only person really supporting me lives twenty minutes away in a magical bookstore.

This time, it will work.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll open the accounts.” Breath constricting, I add, “…and send you what I have written so far in my draft.” I wet my lips, trying to ignore the way Liam’s gone very, very still. “T-thank you. For…everything. I don’t want to work against you while you’re doing everything you can to help me. Just…please remember it’s a first draft. It’s going to be messy, and probably horrible, and—”

“Shh.” Approaching my desk, Liam leans all the way across, tips my face, and kisses my cheek. “It will be raw, and beautiful, just like you. Never forget how important you are to me, Bambi. This is nothing close to what I would do for you if you just asked.”

His touch abates, taking my sensible thought with it as he enters his office—while still cuddling a pink, sparkly-eyed rabbit.

“How dare he,” I whisper, as my face burns.

Cutie pies really have no business being that hot .