later we’ll divorce, quietly and amicably.”
“No kids!” I blurt out.
His dark brows pinch together. “Of course not.” Distaste curls his lips. “That would be a disaster.”
“Right. A complete disaster.” Then I stop. Why am I even talking to him like he’s being rational? None of this is normal. “Why do you want to marry me anyway? You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t have to know you to marry you. History’s full of brides and grooms who didn’t even know what each other looked like until the ceremony. Hell, I bet it’s still happening somewhere in the world.”
“But not in America.”
“I’ve never been one to worry about precedent.” He smiles. “It’s only for a year. And in addition to the severance pay, there’ll be other perks.”
“I don’t think sleeping with you counts as a perk,” I rasp out through my dry throat.
He chuckles softly. The sound of amusement ripples like a gentle river, surprisingly calming. “More like a privilege.”
Oh my god
. “How does your neck support a head that big?”
“With a great deal of difficulty.” He places his empty glass on the small table next to him and gets up.
My spine straightens, and I watch him with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. I’m quite certain whatever he’s going to try will end up disappointing. Sex is by default sort of bland for me, the mind-bending orgasms you always hear about myths as far as I’m concerned. Not that I don’t climax. I do. But it’s more like “ah, that was nice” not “ohmygod I can’t even remember my own name.” I actually think a lot of women talk about the crazy orgasms they experience so their boyfriends’ feelings won’t be hurt. Telling a man, “That wasn’t too bad,” isn’t really proper post-coitus etiquette.
Still, there is a suspicious heat starting up between my legs. It isn’t something I’ve often experienced, at least not until a guy starts kissing and touching me. A small alarm in the back of my head beeps, “Danger, danger, danger.” But I can’t do anything except sit here and let the rest of this surreal insanity play itself out.
Instead of coming toward me to try something, he goes to his bar and brings out a bottle of scotch. “Now, about the
perks
of being my wife…” Back in his seat, he pours himself another glass. “Since you’ll need to look the part”—his gaze sweeps over my old Walmart clothes—“I’ll give you an allowance for clothes and whatever else women need. Transportation will be provided—I’m sure you don’t have an appropriate ride. And of course some jewelry, which you can keep after we’re through. I can’t regift old stuff.”
“If you just want to get laid, why go to all the trouble of marrying? Why not just go out and pick up some girl?”
“I already told you I need a wife for a year.”
“But why?”
“That doesn’t concern you.” He looks at me over the rim of his glass. “The only thing you should be thinking here is whether or not it’s a good deal for you, and how you can squeeze more out of me.”
“So you’re going to pay for everything, plus give me a million bucks when we divorce, in return for being my husband for a year.”
“Yes. ‘Husband’, of course, includes sex.”
His purring voice sends a frisson of heat to my core. “Right.” I swallow. “Sex.”
“There is one other requirement.” His eyes are hooded so I can’t read anything in them. “You will answer to Gigi.”
“That’s not my name.”
“So? I’m offering a lot of money.”
“Along with the ‘privilege’ of sleeping with you.”
“Exactly.”
I get to my feet. I’ve heard enough of this nonsense. There’s no way I’m going to waste more of my life, even if the man is so hot he could melt all the ice in Antarctica. “Go to hell.”
He’s on his feet now as well. “If you don’t like Gigi, you can choose another name. I thought it suited you.”
“My name is Annabelle, and
“No kids!” I blurt out.
His dark brows pinch together. “Of course not.” Distaste curls his lips. “That would be a disaster.”
“Right. A complete disaster.” Then I stop. Why am I even talking to him like he’s being rational? None of this is normal. “Why do you want to marry me anyway? You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t have to know you to marry you. History’s full of brides and grooms who didn’t even know what each other looked like until the ceremony. Hell, I bet it’s still happening somewhere in the world.”
“But not in America.”
“I’ve never been one to worry about precedent.” He smiles. “It’s only for a year. And in addition to the severance pay, there’ll be other perks.”
“I don’t think sleeping with you counts as a perk,” I rasp out through my dry throat.
He chuckles softly. The sound of amusement ripples like a gentle river, surprisingly calming. “More like a privilege.”
Oh my god
. “How does your neck support a head that big?”
“With a great deal of difficulty.” He places his empty glass on the small table next to him and gets up.
My spine straightens, and I watch him with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. I’m quite certain whatever he’s going to try will end up disappointing. Sex is by default sort of bland for me, the mind-bending orgasms you always hear about myths as far as I’m concerned. Not that I don’t climax. I do. But it’s more like “ah, that was nice” not “ohmygod I can’t even remember my own name.” I actually think a lot of women talk about the crazy orgasms they experience so their boyfriends’ feelings won’t be hurt. Telling a man, “That wasn’t too bad,” isn’t really proper post-coitus etiquette.
Still, there is a suspicious heat starting up between my legs. It isn’t something I’ve often experienced, at least not until a guy starts kissing and touching me. A small alarm in the back of my head beeps, “Danger, danger, danger.” But I can’t do anything except sit here and let the rest of this surreal insanity play itself out.
Instead of coming toward me to try something, he goes to his bar and brings out a bottle of scotch. “Now, about the
perks
of being my wife…” Back in his seat, he pours himself another glass. “Since you’ll need to look the part”—his gaze sweeps over my old Walmart clothes—“I’ll give you an allowance for clothes and whatever else women need. Transportation will be provided—I’m sure you don’t have an appropriate ride. And of course some jewelry, which you can keep after we’re through. I can’t regift old stuff.”
“If you just want to get laid, why go to all the trouble of marrying? Why not just go out and pick up some girl?”
“I already told you I need a wife for a year.”
“But why?”
“That doesn’t concern you.” He looks at me over the rim of his glass. “The only thing you should be thinking here is whether or not it’s a good deal for you, and how you can squeeze more out of me.”
“So you’re going to pay for everything, plus give me a million bucks when we divorce, in return for being my husband for a year.”
“Yes. ‘Husband’, of course, includes sex.”
His purring voice sends a frisson of heat to my core. “Right.” I swallow. “Sex.”
“There is one other requirement.” His eyes are hooded so I can’t read anything in them. “You will answer to Gigi.”
“That’s not my name.”
“So? I’m offering a lot of money.”
“Along with the ‘privilege’ of sleeping with you.”
“Exactly.”
I get to my feet. I’ve heard enough of this nonsense. There’s no way I’m going to waste more of my life, even if the man is so hot he could melt all the ice in Antarctica. “Go to hell.”
He’s on his feet now as well. “If you don’t like Gigi, you can choose another name. I thought it suited you.”
“My name is Annabelle, and
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