21. Jules
CHAPTER 21
Jules
Stunned, I wriggle my hand free from his grasp, my heart pounding like a drum solo at a halftime show. Calmly, I set down my glass, trying to convince myself I’m hearing things again. “You need a what?”
“Wife,” he says, his voice clear as a church bell. “As in matrimony.”
“Matrimony,” I repeat, my head slowly nodding as I slide his glass of wine just out of reach. He’s obviously had more than enough.
He smirks, completely unfazed. “I’m serious.”
“Really? Because I’m pretty sure you’re drunk. And insane.”
“I’ve had one glass of wine. Drunk? Not even close. Insane? Debatable.” He shrugs with that casual confidence that drives me crazy. “I need a wife, Jules,” he repeats, layering on that maddening charm as he tacks on the word, “temporarily.”
“A temporary wife? Like a prostitute? ”
“More like a business arrangement. Though I’m not exactly opposed to...more.”
What the actual fuck?
I narrow my eyes, studying him.
And then it clicks. The real reason he’s buttering me up with food, wine, and that damn scruffy charm. “So that’s why you’re here,” I say, letting out a disappointed breath. “Another practical joke, is that it?”
I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. At which point he stands, too, towering over me and the tiny furniture like it belongs in a dollhouse.
“It’s not a joke,” he insists.
I glare at him. “You saw me at the restaurant, rich jerk that you are, and thought, hey, this’ll be fun. Same old asshole—maybe with more muscles and swagger, but an asshole all the same.”
He smiles wide. “So, you noticed my muscles and swagger?” He waggles his brows and, damn it, I didn’t mean to mention that, but they’re right in my face, impossible to ignore.
Argh. I push past him and move toward the door, forcing a polite smile. “Thanks for the meal, Bri . Time to go.”
“Not until you hear me out, Peach Pop .”
“Ugh!” I shove him aside, frustration bubbling over. “Stop calling me that.”
I bolt for the door, but he’s quick for an ogre, stepping in front of me and blocking my path again. “Just listen. You need a job?—”
“Not that goddamned bad,” I snap.
Before I can push him away, he presses a finger to my lips. The touch is electric—a slow burn searing through me, making my breath catch as his finger brushes along it just long enough to leave me aching when he finally pulls back.
His voice drops, low and raspy, the heat radiating off him in waves. “As I said, I need a wife. A billboard to the throngs of women stalking me around the clock showing that I’m off the market. And Logan wasn’t bullshitting. I’ve been pinched, grabbed, robbed...” He lifts his wrist, showing me the pale line where a watch once sat.
“You poor billionaire,” I retort, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Lost another Rolex, did we? Too bad. Go cry in your pile of money.”
I spin around, hand on the doorknob, fully prepared to kick him out, when his next words stop me cold. “It was a gift from Jess.”
I freeze, my heart squeezing. He might be a total wad of used toilet paper, but his love for his family? It’s the one thing we actually have in common and hits too close to home.
His voice grumbles in my ear, raw and laced with an emotion that pins me to the spot. “When Mom and Dad died, it was hard. On all of us. Tough on me, but roughest on Jess. Before my second deployment, she saved up everything she could to get me that watch. I’ve only taken it off when I had to. It’s cracked across the face and keeps its own sense of time, but it means more to me than a thousand Rolexes. And now it’s gone.”
I turn slowly, suddenly face-to-face with him. The heat between us feels like lava below my skin, melting me from the inside out.
For a long, drawn-out moment, I just stare at him, caught between the urge to rip him apart for everything he’s done to me and the strange, unwelcome need to actually hear him out.
“Why me?” I whisper.
He swallows, drawing way too much attention to his neck. “I need someone I can trust,” he says, his voice almost vulnerable. “Someone who won’t see dollar signs when they look in my eyes. And considering you once rode your bike an hour and a half out of your way to return a book Angi stole, you’re the first person I thought of.”
“Two hours.” The memory gets me thinking of Angi.
He shakes his head, frustration seeping into his voice. “There are hundreds of millions on the line. Do this, and you can name your price. Anything you want.”
“Anything?” I ask, amused.
He spreads his hands, a hint of resignation in his eyes. “Feel free to screw me over six ways to Sunday.”
“Oh, you’d love that,” I bite back.
He shrugs, smirking. “I’ll take Peach Pop any way I can get her.” Then his expression shifts, more serious. “I mean, Ms. Spenser.”
Our eyes lock, and everything I’ve kept buried rushes to the surface in a messy swirl of sharp, jagged pain. “You don’t get it,” I say, my voice trembling with hurt. “This isn’t just about that nickname. That photo cost me everything.”
“Photo?” The word rolls off his lips, slow and confused. “What photo?”
“What. Photo?” I sneer. “The one that captured me from behind, just enough skin showing to make me look naked. And my face turned just enough for everyone to know it was me. The one that went viral overnight. Ring a bell? ”
The look on his face is unreadable. Then, he stammers out, “It was...” He hesitates, like he’s trying to find the right word. “Art,” he finally blurts out, and it’s like a punch to the chest.
“Art?” My voice screeches, the floodgates threatening to burst. “I lost everything. Every friend I had except Taylor. And my scholarship.”
His face falls as if for the first time in his life, the weight of what he’s done is actually starting to sink in. Then he says what I never thought he’d ever say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he says quickly, almost desperately. “I deployed right after graduation.”
“And since graduation, I’ve been hiding from life,” I falter out, the sting of tears burning my eyes. “Terrified that anything I do will end up plastered for the world to see.”
And then, despite everything, he reaches out. And when his hands cradle my face and his thumbs brush away every last one of my tears, I lean into it. And I hate myself for it.
“I know a little something about having my world crumble around me and crawling my way back,” he says, his voice softer now, laced with an unexpected pain.
When my eyes flicker to his leg, he shakes his head, stopping me. “That’s not what I mean,” he adds. “I lost my parents. Mark and I nearly died. Trust me when I say I’m not the man I was. Not by a mile.” He reaches out, tucking my bangs behind my ear, his fingers lingering a moment longer than they should. “I really have changed, Jules. I’m not asking for your forgiveness. But do this, and let me make it right.”
For a long moment, I stand there, trying to process his words. I can’t believe I actually ask it, but the words slip out before I can stop them. “How temporary?”
“A month. Two tops.” He flashes a shy grin, and there’s that weird quirk—a dimple that suddenly appears, like he’s holding on to some kind of hope.
I sniffle. “I still hate you,” I say, my voice wavering as I try to keep my composure, the cracks in my armor barely holding.
“And the more you hate me, the better this works,” he replies, his tone almost too casual. “Quickie wedding, quicker divorce.”
“Thirty days,” I mutter, thinking it through.
“Could be sixty. Ninety tops.”
I need a little power in this bizarre exchange. I stand taller and clear my throat. “You can’t humiliate me. Ever. No women traipsing around if you and I are hitched. Even if it’s not real.”
“Agreed.”
The speed of his response almost throws me. Just like that, no hesitation. So, I go for the one thing that feels impossible to ask—a silver bullet in the dark. A sliver of hope.
“Here’s the thing, Brian. I need to find Angi. Like, yesterday. And it’s not just for me. Colby needs this,” I say, my words tumbling out faster than I can control. “Angi messed up—bad. If we don’t find her, Colby’s fucked.” I look at him, desperation creeping into my voice. “I wouldn’t ask, but Colby mentioned that the two of you served together. I know it’s a big ask, but someone like you...you have the resources, the connections to track her down...”
“Hey.” He steps closer, his hands finding my shoulders, steadying me. “That’s family. You don’t even have to ask. I’ll do that no matter what your answer is, no strings attached.” His fingers tilt my chin up, and I’m suddenly trapped in the depths of those darkening blue eyes, intense and unreadable beneath his thick brows .
My mind spins, trying to process his words, the wine humming through my veins, making my pulse race.
Him.
This offer.
And a marriage proposal—fake or not—means being bound, ball and chain, to the Iron Man of Manhattan himself.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, too heavy. When I finally manage to speak, my voice is barely a rasp. “I don’t know.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I can’t help but lick my dry lips. “What do you want out of this?” His voice is soft, like a feather along my neck, down my spine. “Something just for you.”
After another awkward beat where I’m definitely staring at him way too long, the stupid billionaire assignment and the Herald flash through my thoughts.
Why not go for it? Ask Brian for an interview. He practically rolled out a red carpet at my feet—well, at Sydney Sun’s feet—handing me a shot at an exclusive. But then I’d have to explain that I am Sydney Sun and dive into the tangled mess of why I wrote a story that opened him up to a flood of psychos.
One of whom stole his sister’s watch.
And seriously, what the hell? Did Wyld Richards know who Brian was when he handed me this story? Because it feels like I’m the only one who missed the memo.
Brian trusts me. He said so himself, and whether I like it or not, I can’t carve him up for the world to see. It’s just wrong.
“Well?” he prompts, snapping me out of my thoughts.
That’s when I realize I’ve been standing here, zoned out, staring at a small cluster of scars on his neck I never noticed before.
I dodge the tension with a smirk. “What do I want? Well, for starters, I expect you to keep me in the lifestyle I’ve become accustomed to.”
He glances around the room, his eyes lingering on the lumpy couch and the lived-in vibe that clings to the place. “If you insist.”
“And a prenup,” I throw in, challenging him.
“Come again?” His smirk shifts, curiosity piqued.
“You might be a bazillionaire or whatever, but you said it yourself—there’s hundreds of millions on the line. My meager pennies might not be much, but they’re still mine, and I’m not about to let them sink with the Titanic.”
“Fair enough.”
“And no expectations of, um , consummation.”
His full lips twitch, barely containing a grin. “I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want to do.” He leans in close, his voice dropping to a whisper that skims my ear. “No matter how much it tortures you, Peach Pop.”
I burst out laughing. “Ha! No women for months on end? Yeah, that’s got ‘torture’ written all over it. The infamous Fuckboy of Bishop Mountain going celibate? Perfect. Desert droughts for everyone.”
He chuckles, the sound a deep, steady rumble that vibrates through his chest. He takes my hand, his grip firm and steady. “Deal.”
Then, before I can say another word, he guides me to the center of the room, drops to one knee, his firm grip wrapped my hand.
“Juliana Grace Spenser,” he begins, his voice dropping to a dangerously seductive octave, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? For the next thirty to sixty days? Ninety max? To hate, torment, and...let’s say tolerate, for as long as you avoid murdering me in my sleep?”
A small smile lifts, and I don’t know if it’s the wine, or the fact that he actually knows my middle name, but I well up.
I blink through tears. Am I seriously contemplating doing this? Getting married? To my worst enemy?
And just then, as if on cue, Logan and Taylor burst through the door, arm in arm, giggling like school kids.
Taylor’s eyes go wide as she takes in the scene. “What the fuck?”