10. Callum
Callum
“My most brilliant achievement was my ability to be able to persuade my wife to marry me.” —Winston Churchill
K nock, knock.
This is an idiotic idea.
Knock, knock.
What am I even doing here?
Knock, knock.
No, I’m not here because I like her. Quite the opposite, actually.
Knock, knock.
But what’s the alternative? Enduring their schemes until I die? Hell, no. I’m not falling prey to those love vultures.
If only she’d bother to open this damn door, but there’s no answer, so I try again and again and again.
After a solid ten minutes, I hear feet shuffling and a loud groan coming from behind the brand-new door that could only belong to my little menace.
“Whoever you are over there, you better be freaking dying, I swear.”
A disheveled Sophie swings the door open, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with a confused frown, and then before I can say anything she swings it back and forth as if testing it. “Huh, it’s not broken. So, you do know how to knock?”
That little…I stomp out the urge to smile, my eyes taking her in that oversized jersey I first saw her in, and the words just spill out of me.
“Marry me.”
Sophie sways on her feet slightly, unblinking.
Okay, so this is not how I was originally planning to do it, but whatever. Best get this out of the way as soon as possible.
Sophie blinks a few times and then her hand reaches out to touch me. I swivel out of her way, so she can’t reach me. “What are you doing?”
“Shh, don’t move.” She goes for it again, and this time—for some reason—I stay unmoving, allowing her small, soft hand on my chest then on my cheek. I even stay still when she pokes my stomach and pulls on my hair, standing on her tippy-toes to reach it.
“Huh, either Willa’s drinks are that good or you’re really not a mirage,” she finally concludes, and I roll my eyes, taking her hand off me.
“So?”
“So, what?” She draws her eyebrows.
“Will you marry me?”
“Shrek, are you drunk this time, because I can take you to my cell. That bench in there isn’t so bad.” She leans in sniffing me.
“Jesus, no, I’m not drunk.”
“High then?”
“Funny,” I deadpan.
“Actually, it is, and I’m sorry, but I have a headache and not in the mood for jokes at the moment.” Sophie starts to close the door in my face, but I slap my hand against it, stopping her.
“I’m not joking. ”
She blinks for a few seconds, watching me and then shrieks, “ You want to marry me? Ouch.” She winces right away from her own volume, covering her head with both of her hands.
“Jesus.” Pushing her slightly out of the way, I step inside the apartment, shutting the door behind me before half of the Loverly Cave will know what we are doing here.
I grab both her shoulders, guiding her to the couch as I try really hard to ignore the very short jersey that barely covers her ass. Again.
Lifting my eyes up from said ass, I take in the apartment that somehow looks completely different than it did a week ago.
Where there used to be white or gray walls and ceilings are now shades of pastel pink, green and yellow.
Her windows are partially closed with velvet curtains in that screaming pink color I think they call fuchsia.
The flower-patterned couch Luke and I dragged in here standing proudly in the middle of the room with a million blankets thrown all over it.
Two green side tables are on each side of it and a glass coffee table with golden legs in the front of it.
And on it is a colorful vase with fresh flowers and what looks to be a day-old sandwich.
The new TV I bought six days ago is right where I left it. In front of the couch, but next to it, is what I can only call a hockey shrine.
Jesus…there are jerseys, hockey sticks, and signed posters all hanging together in this creative mess.
I desperately fight the twitch in my eyes.
Chaos. Pure colorful chaos!
“Sit,” I instruct and go into the kitchen. That’s no better with the freshly painted mint-green cabinets on the bottom and just open wooden shelves, piled with mismatched plates, cups, and glasses on top. Butcher block counters and a pink fridge.
Don’t look, Callum. It’ll be okay. This is all temporary!
Filling up a glass with water, I carry it over to her. “Drink.”
“Bossy,” she grumbles, massaging her temples, but takes a long sip of water before those chocolate brown eyes settle on me. “So, when did this happen?”
“What happened?”
“You, falling in love with me. ”
“I’m not in love with you.” My tone’s almost affronted at her statement. I haven’t been in love for so long I wouldn’t know the feeling if it was biting me in my ass. And I don’t want to be, for the record.
“But you want to marry me.”
“No, I don’t want to, I have to.”
“Have to…” She drags out the words. “Who are you? Mother Theresa? Helping all those in need?”
“This is going to be a mutually beneficial agreement. So, are we doing this or what?”
“Oh, gosh, this is the most romantic proposal of my life,” she says in an exaggerated voice. “However could I decline?” Sophie drops the theatrics. “Oh, wait, I can. See you never, Shrek.” She starts to get up, but I snatch her small wrist in my hand, pulling her back down onto the couch.
“Can you just listen, please? I need your help getting Love Hive off my ass.”
Sophie pulls her wrist out of my hold and sits back. I eye it, fighting the urge to snatch it back. To make sure she doesn’t run away, of course. That’s the only reason.
“You need my help?”
“Yes.”
“Did that hurt?” she says after a long pause.
“What?”
“Admitting that you need my help with something? You just seem like one of those macho dudes that never cry and all that.”
I tilt my head up to the ceiling. “I’m already regretting this decision.”
“Don’t evade the question.” Sophie folds her arms across her chest, and I grit my teeth.
Damn it, it did hurt, how did she know that?
And by the smirk in those naughty eyes, I can tell she already knows the answers. “Say it,” she taunts me.
“Fine, I don’t like asking for help, satisfied?”
“For now. Okay, let’s hear it. ”
“Love Hive, in particular the Granny Gang, my mother included, decided to get me a girlfriend and they’ve been on my case for months now.”
“Okay? I don’t see a problem there.” Of course, she doesn’t. She’ll probably end up in that gang sooner or later.
“The problem is that I don’t want a girlfriend.”
“Mm-hmm, just a wife.”
“Exactly!”
“That’s it, you’ve lost it.” She claps her hands and tries to get up once again.
I snatch her hand and don't let go.
“A fake wife!” I cry out. “A fake wife who will show them I’m off the market so they stop pestering me.”
“Why me?”
I’ve been asking myself that same question since the idea popped in my head with her face next to it.
But Sophie is the only one that came to my mind.
This little menace who dances in the fountains, sings old songs, loves all this color, and will kill someone for her hockey.
Someone with the ass that was sent here to torment me and a sassy mouth with a comeback for absolutely everything I say.
The little menace who’s been polluting my headspace since the first time I saw her.
But I don’t say that, because it's irrelevant. There are more important factors.
“Because I know that this will stay strictly in the lines of the contract between us, and because I know there’s no way I’ll fall in love with you. Therefore, we’re safe.”
“Once again, so romantic.” She rolls her eyes before setting them on me again. “And what’s in it for me?”
“Remember last night?”
“ Theè mou. ” She slaps a hand over her face. “What have I done?”
“Apart from dancing drunk in the fountain, singing at the top of your lungs in the cell, and being the menace you always are? You shared some tad bits about your brother and how you wanted to show him that you’re a stable adult. What better way to do it than be in a committed relationship? ”
I can see those wheels turning in her head and a small part of me relaxes slightly.
This can totally work.
“What did I sing?”
I frown. “That’s your question right now?”
“What? I need to know. Some songs sound better than others—”
“Sophie,” I snap. “Focus.”
“Oh, fine, fine.” She rolls her eyes at me again. “There’s a flaw in your system.”
“What kind?”
“You see, I”—she points to her chest—“want a boyfriend who will love me, buy me pet ducks, and tattoo our wedding rings on our fingers. So, exactly how am I supposed to find one when I’m married to the local grumpy sheriff?”
“Jesus, a pet duck?” My face twists.
“Duck, sheep, chicken, or a pig!” Sophie throws her arms out. “I don’t care what it is. The point is, I want a real boyfriend.”
“Fine, how about we set an expiration date for our fake marriage? A year? You will have the time to get settled in here and show your brother that you have it all handled while the Granny Gang should be moved onto the next target by that time.”
Sophie considers this for a second. “You’re an adult,” she says almost as if she’s checking some mental boxes in her head. “You have a steady, reputable job. Wait, do you have a house?”
“No, not yet.”
“Okay, that’s fine, we can tell him we’re waiting to invest in a good one. That sounds very adult-like. But a whole year…” she whisper-shouts to herself. “Okay, we can get fake married, but I have a condition.”
“What condition?”
“You must send me at least one dirty text message every day.”
“Excuse me, what?” I rear back.
“Hey, it’s a whole year, buddy, and if you’re not going to supply the orgasms, the least you can do is supply the inspiration.”
Speechless. That’s what I am .
“You do know how to dirty talk, don’t you, Shrek?” She quirks a taunting eyebrow at me, and I feel something primal inside me surge to the surface, despite me stomping it out completely over a decade ago.
I cock my head to the side, regarding her, before leaning in so close I can smell that mint, still lingering on her skin.
“Baby, you better buy your panties in bulk because I’ll dirty talk them into a wet mess every.
Fucking. Day.” I linger in her space a beat longer, my eyes on hers while also catching those pretty little lips parted and her chest heaving with the corner of my eye, before pulling away and covertly shifting in my spot.
Because damn it, maybe I should buy boxer briefs in bulk as well.
“Yeah, just like that,” Sophie breathes out. “That will do.” She mimics my motion, shifting on that couch and I clench my teeth so hard, I’m sure I sent a crack through a few.
She’s wet. Just like that. Just from one sentence, she’s wet. Her soaked pussy throbbing, in those barely-there-panties, rubbing against the velvety fabric mere inches away from me. I can smell it.
The scent of her arousal mixed in with that fucking mint, searing through my brain and all sane thought.
This was a mistake. It was a fucking stupid mistake.
Because if she’s this wet from one sentence…
Fucking hell…how much further I could take this with my fingers, my tongue. My cock. The bastard jerks in my pants, wanting to show off right here and now.
The things I could do to her are now running rampant inside my head after one short sentence.
Big. Fucking. Mistake.
And yet…I run the pad of my thumb over my lips, not able to tear my eyes away from her.
“So, will you marry me?”
“Yes.”