Page 59 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
For good.
I was only eleven years old.
I was confused. Angry. Heartbroken, even. Italy was my home—my friends, my school, my life. And suddenly, it was gone.
But a week later, Sasha and Anton’s families showed up at my nonna’s door. They’d come to live in Argentina, too.
I still didn’t understand why we left so suddenly, or why they had to come too—but none of us asked questions. We were kids. All that mattered was we were together. The world still felt upside down, but at least it wasn’t lonely.
They’re my brothers—my people. The ones I’d go to war for without thinking twice. I’d follow them into any battle, no matter how reckless their decisions might be. Even when their choices are questionable. Even when they drag me into the madness with them. Especially on nights like tonight.
“She’s pretty,” Sasha says, nodding toward the photo clipped to the paperwork we’re all pretending to read.
“I noticed.”
Like the overgrown children they are, my friends have been lingering around, restless, waiting for this so-called game to end.The dare that started as a joke, a laugh, something wild to mark the end of my “freedom,” is somehow becoming the best night of my life.
We’re watching from the edge of the room as Maddy finishes signing the last of the paperwork. Her brow furrows slightly as she reads each line, like she actually wants to understand what she’s agreeing to. Most people don’t bother to read anything these days. Especially not after that much tequila. But she’s sharp. Sharp enough to scare me a little and that makes me like her more.
Sasha nudges me, whispering like an idiot. “She signs with her left hand. You know what they say about lefties…”
“Please don’t finish that sentence,” I mutter, but I don’t look away from her.
Because while they’re making jokes and acting like we’re still in grade school, I’m standing here watching a woman I just met become something I didn’t see coming.
Mine.
The producers made us sign all kinds of papers. One to confirm we were of sound mind—whatever that means. One to confirm we weren’t being forced. And another that said we had to stay married for a full year if we wanted the prize. One million dollars.
I kept thinking about what my dad and Nonna could do with that kind of money. Fix the roof. Pay off the debts. Get Nonna her surgeries and my dad the quiet piece of land he’s always wanted. Hell, maybe I’d even start something real for myself outside of football.
I knew this marriage contract was crazy. Everything leading up to this moment was crazy. But crazy has a name tonight. And apparently, her name is Maddy Mills.
Anton leans in, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “You don’t seem too excited. If you don’t want her—”
I grab his hand mid-sentence and squeeze. Hard enough to make him wince.
He yelps. “Okay! All yours. Got it.”
Sasha chuckles. “Should we give you the talk about the boys and the bees?”
I roll my eyes. “It’sbirdsand the bees, you idiot. And no—don’t worry. I know exactly what I’m going to do to her. And exactly how I’ll do it.”
It’s not that I’m not excited. I am. I just know better than to let it show. I’m focused—on the way she bites her lip while reading the paperwork like it’s a contract to sell her soul. On how she rises onto her tiptoes to reach certain spots on the page, too short for the counter, and too stubborn to ask for help. She’s a vision—messy, delicate, determined. And if I blink too long, this whole thing might be over before I can do a damn thing about it.
But if by some miracle—some wild, reckless twist of fate—I can convince her to give me the night, then I’ll take the year. Gladly. That’s the deal. That’s the contract. But the contract doesn’t say anything about how far I’ll go to earn it.
I’ll make her laugh. Make her sigh. Make her beg. I’ll learn her body like a language and make her forget every man who ever thought they had a chance. By morning, she won’t just be my wifeon paper. She’ll be mine—completely. No prenup, no fine print. Just…mine.
She turns and walks toward us, and the air leaves my lungs like she’s knocked it out with nothing but a look. She left a lot out of the description of herself. Long, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Big brown eyes that could undo a man. Olive skin kissed by just enough sun.
My American girl.
MyAmericana.
“Are… are you ready? For this?” she asks, trying to sound confident, but her voice betrays her—just slightly.
I take her hand in mine, steady, firm. “You don’t have to be nervous. There are no guns, Americana. You can say no and walk away anytime.”
