Page 77 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
My eyes widen. The date, June 12th, is permanently inked into his skin.
“Are you kidding me? Declan, it wasn’t real. That night wasn’t real. I have a real life and a real job and a real reputation that I’ve worked my ass off to build!Wecan’t happen. Not right now.”
He looks like I’ve hit him. But he stands tall. Proud. “Then when?”
“When, what?”
“You said not right now. So, I’m asking you when? When can we be together?”
I let out a sigh, saying the hard thing. “We need to have our lawyers speak. Figure out how to get this annulled.”
He turns away and picks up a ball, throws it so hard it bounces off the wall with a loud bang. “Fucking hell, I will! You’re my wife!”
I let out a sigh. Why am I suddenly emotional? “I’m some girl you married in Vegas! It happens all the time!” My voice cracks, a single tear falling. “Fucking Vegas, Declan!”
He stares at me. “It’s Vegas? I don’t know what that means. All I know is that Vegas is where my wife left me.”
Of course he doesn’t get it. No one’s explained to him how Vegas and mistakes work.
“Covered in vomit, by the way!” He adds.
“Oh yeah. I’m really sorry about that. In my defense, I tried to wake you. You were dead to the world.”
He steps closer again, and I swear, my body starts vibrating from the memory of him. I vividly remember what it felt like to have him under me. Over me. Inside me.
I can’t do this.
“The prize money, Maddy.”
I freeze when I become painfully aware that I also never told him my real name.
“What?”
“There’s a million dollars on the line. If we stay married for a year.”
“I remember,” I say carefully, “but Declan, you’re a professional athlete. Surely you don’t need—”
“Don’t pretend to know what I need.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Just say you will? Say you’ll stay married, even in secret, so we can get the money.”
“I’m sorry. No. It’s too risky. If the press finds out—”
“About your mistake, you mean?” he finishes, voice cold now.
He’s hurt. But too proud to beg.
“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “Can I have your phone number, at least? So I can put you in touch with my lawyers?”
I nod. He hands me his phone. I type in my number and email address, hit save.
“It’s under Marlow. Marlow Mills.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Fucking hell. I didn’t even know your real name.”
“I’m sorry, Declan. Really sorry.”
