Page 23 of Seale the Deal

Ruger groans, dragging a hand down his face, and mutters, Let me get dressed.

He walks out, and I glance at Remi. You always boss him around like that?

She pops a grape into her mouth. It’s not bossing if I’m right.

I lean back in my chair. You know, when we talked about this, I never imagined I would feel like such a burden.

Remi winces. Okay, first of all, don’t say that.

I moved to another country where I can’t legally work yet, I’m broke, and my fiancé is fake, I point out. Objectively, I’m kind of a burden right now.

You’re not a burden, she says firmly. You’re someone whose entire life got blown up by a vindictive asshole.

While I appreciate Remi saying that, it’s hard to ignore the money that went into this and how risky this all is. It’s one thing to spend money on immigration and a marriage, but completely another to do it.

We talked about this, she continues more gently. There were always going to be growing pains at the beginning. But we made a plan, and I’m going to help you through it.

Then her expression shifts suddenly. Wait. You’re not thinking about leaving, are you?

I shake my head. Besides the fact that this makes sense career-wise, I love that we’re finally living in the same geographic location.

Remi smiles at that.

Plus, I’m in way too deep financially.

And you know I’m always happy to help with that, she reminds me softly.

Which makes me feel worse, not better.

Remi reaches across the table and does a very un-Remi thing and squeezes my wrist. Wren. You know you don’t owe me anything for helping you.

That almost breaks me a little.

So instead of emotionally spiralling again, I ask, Why aren’t we getting married again?

Remi snorts. Because this town would be extremely suspicious if I suddenly stopped accidentally falling on dicks.

I choke on a laugh despite myself. You know you can just say you’re straight and everyone knows it.

Where’s the fun in that?

I roll my eyes.

But then her teasing fades slightly.

Trust me, she says. I know this town. We’re doing this the way that gives you the best chance of getting through the process without immigration ever finding out this is fake.

I take a long breath. The less people who know, the better.

Exactly, Remi says. And the lady at the front desk of the municipal is so close to retirement she gives zero fucks at this point and lets people just grab the forms they need and files them without much care.

Ruger walks into the kitchen pulling a faded Alaska Goldpanners of Fairbanks T-shirt over his head, and once again, I’m forced to confront the reality that this man apparently looks good doing literally anything.

Including accidentally flashing those V-shaped lines on his hips that basically act like a giant neon sign pointing toward—

Wren! Remi barks.

I jolt. Hm? What?