Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“But let’s remember we didn’t really get drunk-married.” His voice is as level as ever. “Whatever is happening online, whatever people are saying about last night—remember, we don’t have to say anything. We could just take the rings off. If anyone asks, we can say that it was a marriage pact. A dare. We did it just for fun. We are friends. It’s plausible.”
It’s a reasonable point, but sometimes Asher fixates too much on other people and not enough on himself.
“But even if we could pull that off, what about beyond tonight, Ash? You’re launching a charity soon. You’re focused on helping kids with sports and mental health. You don’t want to look like the kind of guy who knocked back some cocktails and got hitched by an Elvis impersonator after midnight for funsies.” A muscle in his jaw ticks as the weight of our actions no doubt registers. “I mean, I bid a hundred grand on you so a beauty influencer wouldn’t smear your reputation. And then I went out and smeared it myself.” I groan. “I am such an idiot. Why didn’t I think about this last night?”
“You’re not an idiot and you didn’t smear it,” he says, his voice quiet but commanding. “I should have considered…this. The ramifications.”
I shoot him a tough look right back. “If I hadn’t been in a funk—”
He holds up a stop-sign hand. “Enough, Maeve. I have no regrets.”
Do I? Not really, and yet I feel entirely selfish for saying this. “I don’t either, but Asher,” I say, like I’m begging, “I don’t want to draw attention to myself here. I don’t want to tell them hey, it was just a big adventure, and then have Mister Memoirs document that for posterity.” And I really don’t want to be the center of attention right after I’ve landed the biggest break of my career. Only, I haven’t even told Asher about the mural opportunity yet. Guilt washes over me. “The commission I just got? It’s with the Sea Dogs,” I say, bracing myself for the fallout—will he be annoyed I kept it from him?
He tilts his head, confusion flickering across his handsome face. “You’re painting for my team?”
I clutch my stomach as the anxiety knots tighter in me, mingling with excitement. Why do I always have to feel everything all at once? “They commissioned a huge mural project. It’s all sorts of scenes from San Francisco. They’re doing a huge mural inside the arena, and they wanted a local artist.” Emotions swim up inside me. “And they hired me. Until they figure out I’m the kind of unreliable artist who attracts media attention by getting drunk married to one of their star players and it’s clear my appointment was a mistake.”
His smile is double-take worthy. Head-turning. Movie-star quality. “Maeve fucking Hartley,” he says, beaming. “It’s not a mistake. You got the commission because you’re good.” He squeezes my arm, then runs his hand down it. God, that feels good. I wish I could bask in his touch. It…settles the wildness in me. “I’m seriously proud of you.”
I let go of my nerves and allow myself to enjoy this moment with Asher, touch and all. “I’m really excited,” I say quietly. Speaking louder might shatter the reality of what’s happening.
“I knew it. I totally knew it,” he says.
And the thing is, he did know in a way. He’s always believed in me. But that doesn’t solve the problem of our spontaneous Vegas marriage or keep it from biting me in the butt. Or him. He doesn’t need a drunk marriage—since that’s how it’ll be seen—trailing him when he rolls out his charity. “Thank you. But I still don’t know how to handle this.”
It’s a raw confession. Asher closes the distance between us, his gaze steady and reassuring. “Then let me.”
Let me.
Two simple words that soothe my hammering pulse.
“I haven’t checked social since last night,” he says, taking out his phone. “It’s distracting, and I just wanted to have a good time. Now, I want to know how this got out. Our marriage. I’m pretty sure that’s why Everly and everyone were texting earlier.”
As he scrolls, I let hope climb the stairs inside me. Maybe it’s no big deal that everyone thinks we’re hitched. Maybe everyone will have a laugh about our Big Adventure. Maybe the world will understand. We were just having fun.
Then, his jaw comes unhinged.
My pulse spikes. “What happened?”
“Hal and Jen,” he says ominously.
“We weren’t married then!” I exclaim, disbelieving the obvious. “And they were so nice. What happened?”
“They are nice, and they posted a great picture,” he says heavily. He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck with a guilty grimace, and I know I’m not going to like what he has to say. “Shit, Maeve. I told them to tag us. I suggested they post it. And they did.”