“I… Yes. There is. One year.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be your legal wife for a year.”
I blink at her, stunned. “You’re serious.”
She shrugs, toeing the ground. “It’s not like I have much of anything else going on with my life.”
“What about law school?”
“Not that you can’t be married and in law school, but I took a leave of absence,” she says, still staring at the ground. “I’ve got time on my hands.”
I want to ask why, if it has anything to do with how unlike herself she seems to be, whatever personal stuff that Ryder mentioned in our texts, but it’s none of my business, is it? She’s not mine to be concerned about. “If you did this, I’d give you some of the money. I’m sure there’ll be some left after I pay for the A-frame—”
“No,” she says forcefully, shaking her head. “No money. I don’t want a cent.”
“Then this isn’t an option. I couldn’t let you do this without getting anything in return.”
Did I just say that? Am I really considering this?
What other choice do you have? the voice of reason says.
Rooney glances up at the trees, biting her lip. “I don’t need your money, and I don’t want it either. I just want to help. I just need…”
Somewhere safe.
I’m not very good at intuiting how other people feel. I struggle to know what I’m feeling often enough. But looking at her, I’m so sure I know exactly what she needs, and I know it’s going to be the death of me.
“You can stay here,” I offer. “In my house.”
You jackass, that same voice hisses in my head. You really did it now.
Her head whips my way. “What?”
“Stay,” I tell her. “That’s what you need, right? Somewhere to stay for a while?”
“Yes,” she says carefully. She glances my way, staring at me curiously. “Are you sure?”
I nod.
A faint smile warms her face, and God, am I a fool for it. “I promise I won’t bother you,” she says quickly. “Or kiss you. Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up. Again. I just handle self-consciousness with self-deprecating humor, and you said me mauling your mouth with mine was nothing, but it doesn’t feel like it, and if I’m staying here, I need to feel like it’s okay between us.”
“Rooney.”
Slowly, she peers up at me. But I don’t meet her eyes. I stare at her mouth because it’s impossible not to. It’s so quiet, I can hear the cadence of Bennett and Parker’s conversation across the clearing, Skyler’s bell-like laugh, the playful growl of the dog as they play tug-of-war with a stick.
“Maybe,” I say hoarsely, before clearing my throat, finding my voice. “Maybe we can just agree to…leave the kiss in the past and move on. Maybe then it would feel more comfortable.”
Lowering my gaze to the ground, I see our boots, nearly toe to toe. That’s when I realize how close we’re standing. How I can smell her, soft and peaceful, and see the fuzzy yellow ball adorning her hat. And then her hand enters my field of vision, outstretched, waiting.
“Deal,” she says quietly.
I take her hand in mine, shocked by the raw pleasure of our fingertips brushing, the warmth that spreads up my arm as our palms connect.
That’s when I realize “comfortable,” no matter how much we leave in the past, is the last thing this marriage is going to be.
Over three days’ time, Rooney and I divide and conquer, tackling what’s necessary to get us legally married as soon as possible. Rooney insists on handling the legal side of things since that’s her expertise, and I handle everything else. After seventy-two hours of barely seeing each other, exchanging only necessary information and signatures, we have a valid marriage license, rings, wedding attire, an officiant, and witnesses—everything we need to ensure we have proof for the executor of my uncle’s will.
The morning of the wedding promises one of those bright, crisp days at the gasping end of autumn that makes me want to spend every moment outside, soaking it up. With the sun beaming down on us and no chilling wind, I’m comfortable in my uniform for art shows: charcoal suit, white shirt, no tie—because fuck anything tight around my neck—matching brown belt and chukka boots. I have no idea what Rooney’s wearing, only that she assured me she had what she needed.
Not that it’s important what she wears.
Seeing as this isn’t real.
Well, besides legally.
I just need my nervous system to get the memo.
“Don’t pass out on me,” Parker says. “Take some breaths.”
I roll my neck side to side and take a deep breath, hoping it’ll pop the anxious bands wrapped around my chest. “I’m not going to pass out. Where’s Lloyd?”
The officiant, Lloyd, is Parker’s cousin. I haven’t seen him since we were in high school together but Parker reassured me he’s qualified to do this, free of charge.
“He’s here.” Parker straightens his cuffs and glances over his shoulder toward the woods. “Just had to take a piss. Seriously, relax. You’re giving me contact stress. Breathe or some shit.”
“I’m breathing,” I grumble, scrubbing my face, then raking my hands through my hair.
“You have some pent-up energy, my friend.” Bennett nods in the direction of the A-frame. “We’ll save you a few soggy walls to rip out tomorrow.”
“Too bad you and Rooney don’t plan on working out tension the old-fashioned way,” Parker says.
I roll my eyes.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, “that’s how Bennett and I started. No-strings sex. Friends with benefits. Now look at us.”
In an ideal world, I would have found strangers for witnesses who wouldn’t harass me as I anxiously awaited marrying for money, but they’re the only non-family people I can mildly tolerate, and beggars can’t be choosers. I’m reminded of that last point as I watch our “officiant” jiggling his zipper, clearly returning from a pee in the woods.
“We do have indoor plumbing,” I mutter. “It’s literally the reason we’re doing it here, not the A-frame.”
Bennett chuckles. “That’s just Lloyd. He’s low maintenance. Woods are as good a place as any for him.”
“Remind me not to shake his hand.”
Parker snorts. “You didn’t run this morning, did you?”
“I did.” I roll my neck again side to side, then glance up, watching the sun dart behind a thick cloud. “I just didn’t get enough miles in.”
I was never going to get enough miles in for a day like this.
Before either of them can bust my ass anymore, the dog bounds up to my house’s door, favoring his left leg just a little as always. An old injury healed wrong, according to the vet. That was before she asked if I wanted him to be mine and after I had him screened for a chip that wasn’t there.
The dog looks like a greyhound, but he’s actually a lurcher, a cross-breed that’s much less valuable, which made his lack of a chip also much less surprising. Lurchers are used as hunting dogs and more likely to be discarded by their owners when they get hurt, like this one clearly was when he wandered toward my home last month, whining and shivering, but refusing to come inside and warm up.