Chapter 19
HURRICANE IN LOUBOUTIN’S
DALLAS
“So then it's settled?” I leaned back in my chair, studying her across the patio table. She'd been so adamant about not moving in here that her sudden cave felt suspicious. “You're moving into my house?”
She sipped her coffee as she processed the decision she'd just made. “Yeah,” she sighed, and I tried not to look too satisfied. “Your house is more accommodating than mine.”
“More accommodating,” I repeated, unable to keep the grin off my face. “That's one way to put it.”
“I don’t even have a spare room,” she continued, determinedly not looking at me. “And there's absolutely no room for an extra bed...”
Her eyes traveled down my body and back up, and I watched the exact moment she realized what she'd done. The flush that crept up her neck was worth every second of this conversation.
“You,” she finished.
I couldn't help myself. “You were checking to see if I'd fit in your bed.”
“I was making a practical assessment,” she said. “You're tall, and beds have dimensions. It's basic geometry.”
“Uh-huh.” I was definitely still grinning. “Geometry.”
“Shut up.”
God, she was fun to rile up. The morning sun caught the highlights in her hair, and even with her face scrunched in irritation, she looked beautiful sitting at my table, bare feet tucked under her chair, wearing one of my old t-shirts she'd borrowed after her shower.
I needed to stop noticing things like that.
We'd been out here for over an hour, her laptop open between us, going over every detail of our fake marriage. Travel schedules, living arrangements, what to tell people.
“Okay, then.” I stretched my legs out, letting the morning warmth soak into my muscles.
My run earlier had been good. I'd needed the time to think, to process everything, including the fact that this beautiful, stubborn, sharp-tongued woman was now my wife.
Temporarily. Fake wife. Whatever. And how much I liked waking up with her in my bed. “I think that's everything.”
She scrolled through her laptop, squinting at the screen. “Travel schedule coordinated. Living arrangements decided. Public appearance strategy outlined.” She looked up at me, and Christ, those eyes.
I sipped my coffee. I didn’t usually drink coffee, but I'd needed the caffeine to keep up with her this morning. “Anything else?”
She closed the laptop. “There's one more thing.”
I raised my eyebrows, waiting, trying not to notice how the morning light made her skin glow or how her hair was still damp from her shower.
“The podcast,” she said.
Relief flooded through me. “No, we covered that.” I waved a hand. “You go back at the end of this week, and you're having guests on the show until Brooke gets back at the end of the month.”
“Right,” she said, and the smile that tugged at her lips made my stomach do cartwheels. “But I think my first guest is going to have to be you.”
My coffee mug stopped halfway to my mouth. “Me?”
She nodded. “Yeah. We should get ahead of the rumors. We can try to control the narrative before the narrative controls us.”
I set down my mug slowly, my mind already racing. Going on her podcast meant answering questions, being vulnerable, and showing a side of myself I usually kept hidden behind the playboy persona. But she was right; if we controlled the story, we controlled the damage.
“Not a terrible idea,” I admitted, watching her face light up at the compliment. “That's kind of brilliant.”
“I hate lying,” she added quickly. “So we'll keep our story as real as possible by avoiding and dancing around words like love and future and all that mushy stuff.”
“Mushy stuff?” I couldn't help teasing her.
“You know what I mean. The forever and soulmate and when I first saw you across the crowded room nonsense.” She waved her hand. “We stick to facts. We got married. We're seeing where things go. Very casual, very us.”
Very us. Like we were already an us. The thought shouldn't have felt as good as it did.
“So you want to tell your listeners that you got blackout drunk and married a man you despised a few days ago?” I kept my tone teasing, but I was genuinely curious how she planned to spin this.
“Not exactly.” She scrunched her face in a way that was too cute for my peace of mind. “I was thinking more like... we had a spontaneous moment in Vegas, and now we're on an adventure.”
“Ah, yes, the PG version.” I leaned forward, unable to stop myself from getting closer to her. “The version where we don't mention the part about you calling me an overgrown frat boy with commitment issues.”
“Or you calling me an uptight control freak with a podcast.”
“That’s not exactly what I said.”
We grinned at each other across the table. This was dangerous, this easy chemistry. This was the kind of thing that made fake marriages turn into real feelings, and she deserved a hell of a lot better than me. She deserved the marriage of her dreams. Which was something I could never give her.
“We're doing our first public appearance tomorrow night,” she continued, and I forced myself to focus on her words instead of the way the breeze was playing with her hair.
“So, Friday we'll have you as a guest on the show. By then, word will have gotten out.” She paused, her expression turning serious.
“Oh, and you should be ready to answer questions about your past playboy status and the age-limit rumors, because my listeners are going to come for you with receipts and zero mercy.”
There it was, the reality of my reputation, the thing that had driven me to keep this marriage in the first place. My jaw tightened before I could stop it.
“Your listeners sound terrifying,” I mumbled.
“They're amazing and protective, and they will absolutely fact-check your entire dating history.” Her smile was sweet but merciless. “Hope you're ready for a deep dive into every relationship you've ever had.”
“Great. Can't wait.” I rubbed the back of my neck, tension creeping in.
Every relationship I'd ever had was going to be dissected, analyzed, and judged.
Most of them hadn't even been real relationships, just media speculation.
“But you think it will really take five days for the word to spread? That we're married?”
She shrugged, and I realized she had no idea what she was walking into. “I don't know? I've never fake-married a celebrity before. This is new territory for me.”
God, she was adorable when she was naive. “The last social media post about me supposedly dumping another girl before her twenty-third birthday got two million views by sunset.”
Her eyes widened as the reality sank in. “Two million? By sunset?”
“Welcome to my life.” I spread my hands, letting her see the frustration I usually kept hidden. “Every relationship, every date, every time I'm photographed within ten feet of a woman under thirty, it becomes a viral piece about my character.”
“That sounds… exhausting.”
The sympathy in her voice caught me off guard.
Most people thought the attention was glamorous.
“It is,” I admitted. “Which is why this…” I gestured between us, “.
..works. Being married to someone my own age, someone successful, someone who clearly isn't impressed by my bullshit? That's good press.”
“So I'm your PR redemption?” She scowled.
“And I'm your accidentally-married-in-Vegas story, that’s going to help you tone down your big dick energy.” I let my grin return to safer territory. “We're using each other. It works for us.”
“Exactly.” She crossed her arms and sank back in her seat.
“So… Brooke and Matt will be back at the end of the month, and I would like to be filing for divorce before then so we can tell them this hilarious story in past tense.
You know, after it's over and we can all laugh about that crazy time I married Dallas Dodger in Vegas.”
“I really think you're underestimating the power of the press,” I said, my laugh coming out hollow. “Brooke and Matt will know before they get back.”
She dropped her hands, frowning in that way that made a little line appear between her eyebrows.
“No, you're right. Brooke silenced all her socials before the wedding, but...” Her scowl deepened. “Kali and James will probably hear about it and call them. Shit.” She rubbed her forehead, and I wanted to reach across and smooth away the tension. “I really don’t want to explain this to them yet. Or ever.”
“What about our families?” I asked.
“I'll have to tell my sister, but my parents...” She trailed off. “They won't notice. They don’t have social media. What about you?”
“I will not only have to tell my entire family but also introduce you.” I grimaced. “Which means family dinner. Multiple family dinners. My mom will want to throw a party. My sister will want to interrogate you…”
“Your family sounds intense.”
“They're a lot,” I admitted. “But they mean well, and they're going to love you.”
It was true. My mom would be so excited that I got married that she would start planning real wedding parties.
“You don't know that,” she said, but I could hear the uncertainty underneath.
“Yes, I do.” I leaned back, letting myself really look at her. “You're smart, funny, successful, and you don't take my shit. That's literally everything my mother has ever wanted for me in a partner.”
“Except we're not really partners.”
“They don't know that.”
I watched the weight of what we were about to do settle over her. The lying, the pretending, the elaborate stories we were building. Her face cycled through panic and doubt, and I couldn't stop myself. I reached across the table and touched her hand.
“Hey,” I said softly. “Everything is going to be fine.”
She looked down at my hand on hers, then up at my face.
Her face scrunched up in that way I was already learning to recognize as her thinking face. “This was a terrible idea,” she said. “We should just fly back to Vegas tonight and see if we can get this annulled.”