Chapter 7
chapter
seven
Evelyn
Last night, after Mike and I devoured pizza and beer and briefly discussed our new reality, we chatted. For being so distractingly attractive, he’s surprisingly easy to talk to.
I don’t remember the last time I’d laughed that much. I’d told him about Kurt, probably way too many details, but I tend to overshare. He’d told me about his dad, the serial marryier.
I think he said he’s currently on wife number seven. I don’t know. Seems bananas to me. But then again, my parents have been married forever.
When I’d yawned one too many times in a row, Mike had insisted I go to sleep. And then insisted I do it in the bed, leaving him on the couch. That might have made my eyes water a little, but I’m silly like that.
The following morning, I’m all packed and ready to go.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in Mike’s absurdly expensive hotel room, staring at my left hand.
I tried to give it back to him last night, but he wouldn’t have it.
I’m beginning to think that Mike Sinclaire might be wealthy to some extent.
I’m certainly not going to ask. It doesn’t matter to me, one way or another.
This whole situation is just temporary.
My phone buzzes.
Finley: 9-1-1!!! Where are you?
Finley: I got a call from the murder mystery coordinator and they said you never arrived.
Finley: You better not be dead somewhere. I will kill you!
I snort and start typing.
Me: Sorry if I worried you.
Me: I’m fine. Safe. I promise.
Me: But funny story…
Finley: That’s never how good stories start.
“Evelyn,” Mike calls out. “Car is here.”
“Coming,” I say. I type out a quick message to Finley, telling her I’ll text her back when I get into the car.
Me: The good news is I found somewhere to live. It’s temporary, but it’ll get me out of Kurt’s house.
Finley: That is good news.
Finley: The bad news better not be that you’re moving to Vegas, or Nebraska, or Portugal!
Me: Why would I be moving to Portugal?
Finley: I don’t know. I was just saying…
Me: I accidentally married a stranger.
The typing dots appear instantly.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Finley: I would call your ass if I didn’t have a sleeping baby on my chest!
Finley: Explain. Now!
Me: In my defense, I thought it was fake.
Finley: What does that even mean?
Me: Basically, we had a series of miscommunications that went something like this.
There is another Evelyn Barlow who was getting married in Vegas this weekend.
When I checked into the hotel, they assumed I was her.
I assumed the bridal suite, the dresses, the hot fiancé, and the ceremony were all part of the game.
Finley: O!
Finley: M!
Finley: G!
Mike glances over at me.
“I’m telling my bestie. Evidently, the murder mystery people contacted her when I didn’t show up,” I say.
He nods. “I’m glad you have people in your life who check in on you.”
Finley: Okay. First of all—iconic! This is sooo something that would happen to you.
Me: Fair.
Finley: Second, are you okay? Are you safe? Is he safe? I know you said he was hot, but even creepy people can be hot.
Finley: Howard Hugues was reportedly hot, and he kept his toenail clippings in jars.
“You told her I was hot?” Mike asks.
My cheeks heat. “Don’t act like you don’t know what you look like.”
He nods to my phone. “Tell her I think you’re hot.”
I laugh, then realize he’s being completely serious.
“Are you flirting with me?” I ask.
“Maybe, but also honest. I should be allowed to flirt with you; you are my wife.”
I hold my phone up in that non-verbal, can I take a selfie way, and he nods.
I put my face closer to his and take a few pictures, then send them over to Finley.
Finley: Ma’am!
Finley: First of all, y’all are fire together.
Finley: Look how he looks at you in that third pic.
Finley:
Finley: But also, that’s Mike Sinclaire!
Me: I know that. How do you know that?
Finley: Yes! He’s Austin royalty if we have such a thing. There was a whole magazine profile. Business. Tech genius. Billionaire-with-a-soul nonsense.
Finley: Maddox and I have run across him at some local fundraising events.
Me: I’m sorry, did you say Billionaire? With a B? As in Billions of money???
Finley: With a capital B. Private jets. Foundations. The kind of money where people stop using actual numbers.
Finley: Kurt is going to lose his damn mind.
Finley: Bahahahaha!
Me: Kurt will not even care. He’ll just be glad I’m off his couch.
Finley: Oh, sweet summer child. Men like Kurt absolutely care when their ex upgrades. Accidentally or not.
Me: Well, I mean, it is temporary.
I blow out a breath.
“Kurt doesn’t need to know it’s temporary,” Mike says.
“You’ve been reading over my shoulder this entire time, haven’t you?”
He gives me a sexy smile and a shrug. “Just making sure you’re not trading any of my secrets.”
I shift in my seat to look at Mike. “I need you to know that I don’t care about the money. I didn’t know, and it doesn’t affect me. That’s your money. Our situation is—”
He cups my cheek. “Hey, stop that. I know. I told you yesterday that I trust you. I meant that.”
“Finley says you’re like Austin royalty. Is my being your wife going to come with tabloid drama and paparazzi jumping out of bushes to take pictures of me?”
He shakes his head. “You know Austin. I’m not nearly as famous as Matthew McConaughey and paparazzi don’t follow him around.
At least not in Austin. It’s like there’s a code there since it’s such a laid-back city.
Not only that, there are a ton of billionaires who live there. I’m not all that unique.”
“Well, to this kindergarten teacher who just finished paying off her student loans, you kinda seem unique.”
“I’m sorry that I was eavesdropping on your conversation. I’m a nosy motherfucker. I guess that’s one thing you should know about me.”
“Technically, eavesdropping is when you’re listening to a conversation,” I correct with a grin.
He chuckles. “Fair enough. I’m sorry I was reading over your shoulder.”
I bite down on my lip. Looking at him like this, where he’s so close, I think I could count his eyelashes, is a heady experience.
His eyes flick down to my mouth. “You and I are going to have to have a conversation about boundaries in this marriage.”
I lick my lips, everything but my panties, feeling incredibly dry. “What kind of boundaries?”
“What I’m allowed and not allowed to do to you, wife.”
“What do you want to do to me?”
“Right now I want to kiss you.”
“That seems reasonable,” I say.
Then the car stops, and we’re right outside the airport. Mike’s eyes close briefly, then he kisses my forehead and leans away.
“Later.”