Page 63

"The ones who do are never calm."

Everly makes a delighted little sound. "Oh, that's good."

Trinity nods. "They're irritated. Off-balance. Too aware of each other. One of them usually insists it's temporary, inconvenient, badly timed, or a complete disaster—"

Everly points at me. "That's her."

Trinity smiles. "Good. Laugh and breathe and go ride off into the sunset and marry your impossible billionaire. And for the love of God, stop hunching your shoulders like you're headed to a deposition."

The irony is, that if this marriage doesn’t go well, and the trust suspects anything, a deposition is exactly where I will go.

But Trinity doesn’t need to know the gory details.

Chapter Twelve

ARIA

Everett turns the car off the main road and onto a long paved drive bordered by towering evergreens and low stone walls that look like they were quarried specifically to intimidate people.

He gave the driver the night off since we're staying at the compound before the wedding tomorrow, which means Everett is driving. One hand rests easy on the wheel. The other is near the center console like this is normal. Like billionaires regularly drive their fake fiancées into family compounds the night before contract weddings and nobody should feel weird about it.

I feel weird about it.

Not panicked exactly. Not yet, anyway. But there's something about marrying Everett Kauffman tomorrow—even temporarily, even on paper—that feels irreversible. Like we won't get out of this the same people we went in. Maybe that's just me. Maybe Everett is too practiced at distance to believe a temporary marriage could change anything real.

I glance out the window, expecting maybe one ridiculous waterfront mansion.

Instead, the driveway keeps going.

And going.

Then the property opens up, and I forget how to breathe for a second.

The estate is massive. Eight custom-built homes stretch across the waterfront, each one on its own piece of manicured land. Slate paths curve between them. Trees and sculpted hedges divide the houses without making them feel separate. The whole thing looks less like a neighborhood and more like a billionaire family decided modesty was for other people.

And in the broad park-like center of it all, rows of white chairs have already been set up beneath the open sky. An aisle runs between them toward a flower-drenched arch facing the water.

My throat tightens.

That's where we'll get married tomorrow.

"You built all of this?" I ask.

"We each built our own," Everett says.

His tone is matter-of-fact, like he's explaining a parking arrangement instead of eight houses on twenty acres of waterfront property north of Seattle.

He gestures loosely through the windshield. "Colston's is closest to the water. Archer's is the one you can barely see."

I peer through the glass. He's right. One of the houses is almost hidden back in the Douglas fir, dark and private and easy to miss unless someone told you where to look.

"Somehow, I'm not surprised the ex-Navy SEAL built himself a fortress in the woods," I say. "And Colston's looks like it should be in Architectural Digest."

His mouth does that almost-smile again. The one that never fully commits.

"You're well-versed on my family."

I glance at him. "Isn't everyone in Seattle well-versed on your family? You're basically local royalty."