“But why did you two cling to each other for so long? When you don’t enjoy any of the same things? Was she great in bed?”
“No,” I say immediately. “Ouch. Now I just sound like a dick. But we weren’t sexually compatible. That was probably responsible for more than half of our breakups. I think I stayed with her too long because she understands me. She was never after my money. And she wasn’t trying to bang a hockey player, you know? She liked me in spite of it. She loved me for me.”
Charli is silent on her side of the bed. Very silent.
“What? She has her own family fortune.”
“I’m not arguing that point,” she says quietly. “But you shouldn’t constantly try to change the people you love. She was always trying to mold you into her perfect image.”
“You know…” I give her pinky another squeeze. “I had no idea you paid so much attention to my romantic life, Charli Higgins. That’s a lot of analysis for a guy you claim not to like.”
“Don’t forget that I’ve known Iris since the tenth grade. And I notice everyone,” she says primly. “It’s my superpower.”
“You notice me, Charli. And someday soon you can notice me again at very close range.”
She changes the subject again. “Serious question—why don’t you have a nice sofa bed? Or even a comfortable couch?”
“Because I hired a decorator and told her to just do up the place in a style that works with the architecture of this building, which is from the early 1900s. I handed her my credit card and told her I was too busy to weigh in on furniture.”
Charli props herself up on an elbow and stares at me. “So… you ended up with furniture that you don’t actually like?”
“Like it? I hate it. There’s a bronze horse on my coffee table. Do you know how much it hurts to accidentally kick that thing? And there’s no room to put down a pizza.”
Charli cackles. “Why don’t you peel off a few of your millions and fix it? Does your uncle control your decorator, too?”
“No way. I can do whatever I want. But I hate waste. Just because I don’t like that sofa doesn’t mean I have the right to create more landfill. Rich people are the hardest on the environment.”
“Um…” She’s staring at me now. “You could probably give the couch to someone who needs one.”
“Who needs that? Those damn buttons make dents in my ass. I never sit there. I spend all my time in the kitchen or the bedroom.”
“Huh…” she says slowly. “I’m sure you could give away that sofa. That’s what Craigslist is for.”
“I thought Craigslist was for prostitution.”
“That, and getting rid of furniture. I could find you a willing taker in hours. You could start over with a comfy couch, and even watch TV in the living room.”
“There’s no piece of furniture for a TV,” I point out. “The designer hates TVs.”
“Maybe the designer hates you,” Charli says. “She didn’t ask your opinion on anything.”
“Eh. I didn’t let her. I thought I didn’t care what she picked. I thought wrong.”
Charli laughs quietly. “Fine, but if you got a sofa bed, I could sleep out there. Maybe you wouldn’t be tossing and turning like this.”
“I’m not,” I argue, even as I roll over onto my side to see if a different position will make me feel sleepier.
Nope. Still horny. Now my dick is pointing straight at Charli, like one of those divining rods farmers use to locate water. “Besides, I can’t have a sofa bed.”
“Why? I could sleep on it, and you could have your bed back.”
“Not really. If I had a sofa bed, then I’d have to offer to sleep on it whenever I had a guest—like you or my cousin Cyrena. So it’s actually better this way. You can share the bed, and Cyrena always gets a hotel room.”
Charli lets out a whoop of laughter. “You have an interesting view on chivalry. And yet it’s fine to deceive your uncle into thinking we’re going to stay married?”
She makes an excellent point. “I hate lying. I don’t do it often. But this is bigger than a simple lie. This is a decision to finally take control of the situation. To prove that Mom and I aren’t toys my uncle can kick around. It’s time he understood that.”
“Okay.” She props her hands behind her head. “So I guess I’m spending some time on your million-thread-count sheets.”
“And I thank you for it. Now let’s get some sleep.”
“Right on,” she says.
I close my eyes. But it takes me a good long time to fall asleep.
TEN
MY ACCIDENTAL HUSBAND IS SUPER HOT
Charli
The first bars of my alarm music cut through the silence of Neil’s bedroom with a pounding drumbeat.
But I have fast reflexes, and I reach over to silence it immediately.
“No way,” Neil mumbles beside me. It’s all he has to say before beginning to breathe deeply again.
I listen to the sound of his slumber and take stock of my life.
On the one hand, I’ve made a mess of things. My bank account hates me because I took a week off from work for the All-Star event in Vegas. My family is still doing its best to bleed me dry. And this is my second morning waking up next to a man I married by accident.
When I shift my eyes to the left, I see his muscular, colorfully tattooed arm. There’s a tubeless insulin-delivery device stuck right there in the midst of the artwork. It’s all black, about the size of a matchbox but with rounded edges. And somehow it makes him look even more like a badass.
My accidental husband is super hot. At least there’s that.
Even better, I got a great night’s rest in his luxurious bed. Most nights I jolt awake three or four times. My subconscious likes to double check that I’m safe. There have been many nights in my life when I had cause to worry.
But in spite of everything that’s gone down with Neil, I somehow knew he’d stay on his own side of the bed. I fell asleep confident I wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night with a man on top of me trying to start something.
That very thing has happened to me before. I’ve had a rough life, with several unstable living situations. That’s why I lied to Neil and the other guys about my sexuality early on. They were strangers when I arrived in Brooklyn a year and a half ago. It seemed safer to take sex off the table.
Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, though. Neil’s teammates have been surprisingly good to me. And Neil?
I sneak another glance at him. His aristocratic chin points toward the ceiling and long eyelashes graze his cheekbones. Sleep robs him of his cocky attitude. He sleeps with a serious expression on his face. Like there’s something vital written on his eyelids.
Neil is a little more complicated than I’d thought. A billionaire who hates landfill? A private-jet mogul who worries about the environment?
And the man cooks a mean head of cauliflower. It’s a lot to take in.
But I don’t really have the time, so I slip out of the bed and avail myself of the limestone spa known as Neil’s bathroom. The shower feels as luxurious as it looks.