Hitched

by Pippa Grant

  I excuse myself, moving out of the barn in time to see my cousin picking his way across the lawn in his three-hundred-dollar loafers, the expression on his face making it obvious that he’s revolted by mud, grass, animals, and the possibility of stepping in something natural an animal might have left behind.

  This might be the first time those shoes have made contact with anything that wasn’t plush carpet, wide-plank wood, or their shrine in Kyle’s closet.

  Instantly, I break out in an even more intense sweat while I cross the short distance to where the dogs have gathered at the fence line. “Shh. It’s okay, Buddy. Good girl, Sunshine. I’ve got him, Rambo. Good dogs.”

  But I’m pretty sure he has me, not the other way around.

  Plus, I have to get Olivia and Cassie out of here before Kyle throws more doubt on my state of wedded bliss. I can’t bear to explain to my friends what a failure I’m going to be in the marriage department. Especially since they’re related by marriage to my fake husband.

  I duck my head back into the goat barn. “Ugh. Kyle’s coming. You guys should dash. Clover doesn’t need to breathe in his bad aura.”

  They both pull faces—even Olivia, who hastily says, “But maybe she could improve the balance of his heart chakra.”

  “No, really—I don’t want to bring you guys down with his grouchy snootiness.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want us to stay for backup?” Cassie asks. “I’m not afraid of jerks, you know.”

  “Neither are we,” Olivia says. “Clover seems to like them, actually. Grouchy people make her giggle.” Clover burbles and flashes a gummy grin my way, as if to assure me that she can handle my craptastic cousin.

  I smile, because she’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen without fur and four legs. “No, you guys make a run for it. He’s probably here on family business we should discuss privately. And the sooner we start, the sooner he’ll leave.”

  “All right, but call me later,” Cassie says, scooting toward the back door. “I’ve got your back, sister. I’ll share all my top-secret tips to a happy marriage with an O’Dell man and you’ll feel ready to rock the newlywed thing in no time.”

  “Me too. And trust the universe. This was written in the stars and the stars don’t lie,” Olivia says, following Cassie out the back with one last wiggle of her fingers.

  “But I apparently lie all the time these days,” I mutter, feeling terrible for misleading my best friends, who are meandering over to the pasture to visit with Chewpaca instead of crossing paths with Kyle, while I try to finish mucking the last stall before he reaches me.

  Unfortunately, the lying can’t be helped. The fewer people who know that my marriage is a sham, the better. At least until Mr. Ashford gets back to us on what the legal precedents are in a case like this.

  And my friends will hopefully understand why I’ve had to be less than truthful. They both love Chewpaca and would be on board with whatever it takes to protect him from falling into the clutches of Kyle the Wretched.

  Although they’d probably prefer I hadn’t picked Blake as a husband, if I had to get married for an alpaca and have no intention of staying that way. Because they both also adore Blake.

  Everyone loves Blake.

  It’s hard not to.

  He’s a total sweetheart to everyone but me.

  “There you are. Figured you’d be up to your elbows in animal feces,” Kyle says, his voice dripping with disdain.

  “Nope, just up to my knees at the moment,” I say with a saccharine grin. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to your senses and realized you’re unfit to be an alpaca parent?”

  He rolls his ice blue eyes. “We own animals, Hope. We parent children. There’s a difference.”

  “Not to me,” I say, stabbing my shovel into the ground and fisting the handle while behind me Biscuit, Mickey, and Dorito bleat in baby-goat distress at having a big ol’ meanie in their home.

  “Right. That’s why you fry up a half pound of human infant in your skillet every Sunday.”

  I recoil. “Jesus, Kyle. What’s wrong with you?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” he says, his cold eyes as emotionless as ever. “I’m making a logical argument.”

  “Well, go make it somewhere else. Until Mr. Ashford gets back to us with more information, I don’t see that we have anything more to discuss.”

  “You’ve always been so short-sighted.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his mouth going soft at the edges in a way I haven’t seen many times before. Not since we were kids, anyway. “But I need to consider the bigger picture, cousin. Cara really wants to go on safari for our honeymoon. She’s got vacation days saved up that she has to use by the end of September, and I’m taking leave from work for the rest of the year until I figure out what I want to do next.”

  I bite my lip, holding in a taunt about seeing how fast he can spend the trust fund money our grandfather left him. Grandpa was a sexist from way back. When he went into the nursing home a few years ago, he gave Kyle unrestricted access to his accounts. And when he died, he left Kyle, the only male cousin, an obscene amount of money to “help him start a family.”

  The three girls each got one of his grandmother’s historically significant quilts. Sabrina and Vivian immediately sold theirs on eBay, and were disinherited from Gram’s will as a result.

  I donated mine to a museum, and moved on.

  I don’t resent Kyle for winning the Our Grandfather Thought Women Were Only Good For Being Barefoot and Pregnant lottery, but I sure as heck resent him fighting to get his greedy hands on Chewpaca too.

  He already has more than his fair share of resources.

  “So you’re ceding that I’d be the better alpaca parent since you’re unemployed.” I smile. “Excellent. I accept.”

  “I’ve already picked a breeding facility, and they’re prepared to take the animal immediately. They’ve got several paying customers lined up and waiting.”

  My throat tightens. “And they’ll keep waiting while I see you in court.”

  He frowns. “A lengthy court battle would cast a pall over our month abroad.”

  My eyes go wide. “A month?”

  “A honeymoon isn’t something that should be rushed.” He sniffs. “It sets the tone for the entire marriage. Grandpa took Gram to Paris for six weeks when they were first married.”

  “And look how great that turned out,” I mutter.

  “They were together for fifty years.”

  “But miserable for at least half of it.”

  “Not everyone needs to be happy all the time, Hope. Your view on marriage is so bourgeoisie,” he says with a sigh. “Blake would probably be a great fit for you. Too bad you’re faking it.”

  “I am not,” I say, lifting my chin. “We’re ridiculously in love.”

  “You are not, and as soon as my attorney proves it, we’ll be taking possession of the stud.” He smirks like it’s his job. And maybe it is—I can’t see that he’s done much else since he quit his investment firm last year. “He tells me that because we were both married on the same day, we can either agree to split the estate, or the courts can decide whose marriage is more valid.”

  “Great. Leave me the animals, and you can have everything else.”

  “Cara and I don’t want everything else. We want the alpaca. And we’re going to get it before we leave for our honeymoon next month.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You really expect me to believe the courts will think you’re madly in love with a woman you met five days ago on Tinder? What about the validity of your marriage? Why isn’t that in question?”

  “Or we could settle this out of court so my bride can have the honeymoon of her dreams,” he counters. “If that doesn’t prove she’s my top priority, I don’t know what will.”

  “All it proves is that you have money to spend and like to travel with female companionship.”

  “You can keep the rest of the animals. Hell, take the house and farm too. Sign
the alpaca over to me, and we all walk away happy.”

  “Chewpaca wouldn’t be happy.”

  “I’m trying to offer you the easy out, Hope. Take my offer, or I’ll have to prove to the courts that you’re faking your marriage. And I will prove it before I leave for my honeymoon.” He sniffs. “Probably sooner. Since we both know it’s a sham.”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. Maybe Kyle and Cara are in love. I thought I was in love once, and it struck me out of the blue.

  If he’s right—if the courts will determine who gets Chewpaca based on whose marriage is most valid, then I’m in trouble.

  But if I can stall him while I find my own attorney who can argue that I have Chewpaca’s best interests at heart—and an established history of quality care—then maybe we have a chance.

  I just have to fake my marriage for a little while longer.

  A month, tops.

  I can do anything for a month.

  I could sleep on a bed of nails for that long.

  Live in a straw hut filled with fire ants.

  Keep my nails nicely painted with no chips in the polish and remember to lift my pinkie every time I take a sip of my morning coffee.

  Okay, maybe not that last one, but surely, I can make being married to Blake look like the real thing for a month.

  As if summoned by my thoughts, I hear Blake’s pickup rumble onto the gravel parking lot by the house. Instantly, the dogs launch into their excited welcome bark, because they love Blake.

  Naturally.

  I decide to take it as a sign that my new husband is riding in to my rescue.

  Or that he’s come to completely destroy my attempts to prove our marriage is legal, but a little optimism never hurt anyone.

  “I don’t have any clue how you think you can judge a marriage to be a sham or not.” I meet Kyle’s gaze and hold it without wavering. “Marriages are all unique.”

  Or so say Cassie and Olivia, and I trust them.

  “It’ll be simple,” Kyle says, clearly unimpressed with my argument. “We’ll ask Ruthie May to be the final judge of any and all evidence procured. She’s a shameless gossip, but she always has her facts straight.”

  That shouldn’t be a terrifying idea, but he’s not wrong. “Fine. But she likes me more than you.”

  “Everyone likes you more,” Kyle says with a disinterested shrug. “This isn’t a popularity contest. It’s the sanctity of small-town gossip at stake. Ruthie May will tell the truth, even if it hurts.”

  Again, he’s not wrong.

  “But she’ll be gossiping about your marriage too,” I point out.

  “I’m unconcerned. Cara and I are deeply in love. But since gossip isn’t always admissible in court—though Ruthie May’s should be—I also have a backup plan.”

  Blake appears in the entrance to the barn, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  “So what’s so special about seven o’clock, St. Claire? And who’s the creep parked across the street?” he asks in a decidedly unromantic voice, before his gaze lands on Kyle and his lips curve into a tight smile. “Hey, there. Didn’t realize you had company, sugar lips.”

  Sugar lips? We really need to work on his pet name choices, but first to undo any damage that grouchy tone might have inflicted.

  “I missed you, baby!” Letting my shovel fall to the ground, I dash across the dirt-streaked concrete to jump into his arms. He catches me as easily as if he’s done it a hundred times before, making my pulse pick up and my voice breathier as I add, “Kyle wants to settle this estate thing before he leaves for his honeymoon in a month, but he thinks he’s going to do it by proving we’re not really in love. Isn’t that the funniest?”

  “Totally.” Blake’s smile widens, but I’m close enough to see the fear flicker in his deep green eyes.

  But this isn’t the time for fear. It’s time to be bold, confident, and commit fully to faking it until we make it. Chewpaca’s future well-being depends on it.

  I press my lips to Blake’s, funneling all the passion I feel for my animals into the kiss, only to have Chewpaca, and just about everything else, banished from my mind by the chemistry that ignites between us every time we touch.

  Way too many seconds later, I finally rip my mouth from his, breathless and buzzing all over, to hear Kyle slow-clapping as he circles around us, heading for the exit.

  “Nice performance, but it’s going to take more than a conveniently timed make-out session to win.” He grins. “See you soon, and remember, I’ve got my eye on you.” Shifting his attention to Blake, he adds, “Oh, and the creep across the street is a private detective I’ve hired to monitor your every move until you screw up. Good luck keeping up the façade twenty-four seven, losers. I give you two days, three tops. Chewpaca will be mine before next Sunday.”

  “Not going to happen,” I call after him.

  But I don’t sound as sure of myself as I’d like, and when I turn back to Blake, his smile has gone rueful at the edges.

  “You realize what this means, right?” he asks.

  “That we can probably get that divorce sooner than we thought?” I whisper, flashing two thumbs up. “As soon as the paperwork is final, and Kyle and Cara leave on their honeymoon safari? We can fake this for a month, right?”

  “It means one of us needs to get busy packing our bags, pumpkin,” he says. “Because if there’s one thing happily married people like to do, it’s live together.”

  I lift startled eyes to him, because did he just say he’s in this all the way? “Live together? As in under the same roof? You and me? Together?”

  “You want to save that alpaca or not?”

  “Shit,” I mutter, making Blake’s grin stretch wider.

  Of course I want to save Chewpaca.

  But shacking up with Blake?

  There’s no way I can live with him and not do something I’ll regret. It’s not a question of if I’ll throw myself at his body, vagina first, but when.

  And then saving Chewpaca might not be the question.

  The question might be saving me.

  Seven

  Blake

  * * *

  We walk back to my truck hand-in-hand after chasing an aggressive peacock out of the dog pen while I try to not panic.

  Move in together?

  This will either be the best or the worst idea I’ve ever had.

  I seem to be full of those today. Or at least surrounded by them.

  Hope is wearing a smile so stiff it wouldn’t fool a blind man in the dark, but hopefully the creep parked in an ancient Ford station wagon by the pasture on the other side of the road will think we’re acting weird because we’re being watched.

  And photographed.

  And waved at like we’re all old friends.

  And now the slim man, dressed in head-to-toe khaki, with an old school camera hanging around his neck and a neatly trimmed moustache straight out of the Roaring Twenties, is limping across the road and the shelter’s gravel parking lot to meet us. “Hey, y’all. Dean Finister. Kind of an odd spot we’re in, but it’s great to meet you.”

  Hope starts to extend her hand, but I circle my fingers lightly around her wrist and draw it to my chest. In testimony to how shell-shocked she is by the day’s events, she doesn’t even try to pull away or order me to quit bossing her around.

  “I’m sure you’ll understand if we’re not prepared to make nice with you, Dean,” I say in a firm but civil tone. He’ll get the mean voice if he doesn’t get off Hope’s property once he’s asked. I hate the mean voice, but it’s necessary sometimes. “We value our privacy and don’t appreciate strangers in our business.”

  “Especially strangers who are trying to prove we don’t love each other.” Hope wraps her arms around my waist and melts against my side. I hug her closer, because we’re trying to fool this nosy bastard and because it feels good.

  Mostly because it feels good.

  “Oh, I hear you,” Dean says, expression sobering.
“It’s an ugly business sometimes, detective work. But there aren’t many jobs that are a good fit for a former cop with a bum knee.” He pats his right leg. “Took a bullet right under my kneecap in a drug bust.”

  Hope makes a soft, dismayed sound. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for your service.”

  “Of course. It was my pleasure. Loved being a cop,” he says, grinning again. “But since I can’t protect and serve anymore, I point and shoot,” he continues with a chuckle, lifting his camera into the air. “But this is the one and only time I’ll step onto your property. I’ll keep my distance and keep this as respectful as I possibly can.” His smile stretches even wider, revealing slightly crooked teeth that emphasize the perfectly groomed lines of his moustache. “As soon as I catch you not being in love, I’ll turn over what I’ve got to your cousin and be out of your hair for good. Congratulations, by the way. On your marriage. You’re a handsome couple.” He holds up his hands, making a rectangle shape with his thumbs and pointer fingers and framing us up. “Like one of those pictures that come with the frame, you know? Almost too pretty to be real.”

  “But we are real,” I insist, beginning to suspect Dean’s folksy friendliness is a weapon in his arsenal, a way to convince his prey to drop their guard and spill their secrets. “And we don’t want to be your friend, Mr. Finister.”

  “At least not right now,” Hope says, pinching my back through my shirt. “Maybe after you’re done investigating us, though? If you’re staying in town? We all do our share of fussing in Happy Cat, but we’re good at forgiving and forgetting and moving on after.”

  Dean’s eyes wrinkle at the edges. “Haven’t decided where I’m settling full-time yet, but thank you, ma’am. I appreciate your kindness.” He turns to me, gaze softening. “And I respect your position too, Mr. O’Dell. Back when my Loretta was still alive, there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t have done to keep her safe and happy.”

  Hope makes another distressed sound and this time even I feel shitty. Dean may be a master manipulator on a mission to catch us with our fake marriage showing, but there’s nothing worse than losing someone you love.