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)
My heart stops because that is too good to be true.
I don’t know what to say. The world feels like it’s spinning. “But…we’re not really…” I start, before quickly clamping my mouth shut. Angelina doesn’t know that this is a marriage of convenience. She probably believes the story we spun for the Greers—that Asher and I started dating before the auction and eloped in Vegas because we knew it was right. I guess in a way, she’s always seen me as someone who’d make bold moves like that. She’s been telling me to trust my instincts for as long as I’ve known her.
I clear my throat. “We’re not really moved in yet.”
Angelina gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Of course. It’s all happening fast. But don’t worry—you’ll be settled soon. And there are so many exciting opportunities ahead this season.”
This season.
The weight of it lands all at once, heavy and unavoidable. This isn’t just a fake marriage for a day or two, like we first thought. Then for a few weeks, like we figured after that. We have the picnic and the mural, and now the media features are rolling out. California Style wants a photo spread, and the world wants to know more about us as a picture of us kissing, somehow, incomprehensibly, has led to thousands of dollars in charitable donations.
Angelina talks excitedly about my rising profile, but I’m barely hearing her. It’s all surreal. Maeve the caterer, Maeve the broke artist, Maeve the wild one who struggled to get commissions is now suddenly getting attention because she’s Mrs. Callahan. My new profile thanks to a man doesn’t sit entirely well with me, but I’m not stupid enough to turn away from the opportunities.
The problem is, I can’t invite lifestyle editors to my tiny apartment with a couch best known for its broken spring, pigeons fornicating on the windowsill, and a bathroom where the toilet faces the wall.
It’s not that my place is small or humble—that wouldn’t matter. I’m an artist. Almost all of us start like that. But I can’t do it because the world believes I live with my husband. And I don’t. Not really.
And then, a terrifying thought takes hold. If I ask Asher if I can stay a little longer—to keep this going—I’ll be the clingy one. My stomach twists into knots. I hate the idea of asking that.
Since I’m always the one asking for more.
37
DOUBLE OR NOTHING
Asher
I should focus on beating Miles at pool. I’m only a few shots from bragging rights. The trouble is, as I line up the cue, I can’t swat away a persistent thought—how the hell do I convince Maeve to stay? My chest tightens, and my brain keeps replaying the question on a loop as I move around the pool table with my teammate, post-workout.
It won’t leave me alone. I wish it were a simple question I could ask Google. I line up the shot, but the thought nags at me again, and the ball goes screaming past the pocket, just missing.
Miles shakes his head, giving me a sympathetic look from behind the black glasses he often wears off the ice. “I am so, so sorry you suck,” he says, then pushes up the sleeves of his Henley, revealing ink of an arrow on one arm. For focus, he’s said. And focus the fucker does. It’s almost like he’s saying sit down and watch how it’s done as he moves around the pool table, cleaning up the rest of the balls with practiced ease.
When he’s done, he wiggles his fingers. “Now, pay up.”
“In my own home?”
“Even more so. That’s embarrassing, man—for you,” he says with a grin.
“With friends like you...” I say, but I’m not ready to end the game. The last thing I want is to be left alone with my spinning thoughts. “Double or nothing?”
“You are a glutton for punishment, and I can’t resist,” he says, already resetting the balls for another round.
But once he starts racking them up, the question plays in my head again. Shit. I need to deal with this. “Dude,” I start.
He stops, looks up, no doubt hearing the urgency in my tone. “What’s up?”
“I want Maeve to stay.”
His brow knits, then he nods. “This isn’t fake for you.”
That’s all he has to say. He knows the score. They all have, honestly. For longer than I have maybe. But in Boston, I barely admitted I had feelings for her, only saying she was great. I’m getting a little tired of that refrain.
“It’s not,” I admit, sighing heavily. “Not one bit. Not at all.”
He pauses, the cue in hand. “Okay, so ask her to stay. Make it work. Give it a shot.” Miles studies me. “Right?”
“In theory, yes. But it could never work for real.”
He scoffs. “Why?”
I don’t want to get into my faulty heart right now and the way it sputters out, so I just say, “We’re friends and all.”