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I say goodbye, my gut burning with humiliation.
I can’t stop myself from bringing up the website and reading what they’ve written about me. There’s not much for them to go on other than the fact that we got married fast. But a quote from none other than Deputy Dick himself catches my attention near the bottom of the article.
“Thing is, there’s a public record of every legal marriage that’s taken place in the state of Texas. It takes one quick search, and you can find out who’s got a marriage license.”
I press the heel of my palm to my forehead.
I’m an idiot. Iknewthat, but I didn’t consider that he’d be suspicious enough to look it up. I underestimated how much Nate hates Marci. And me.
“Me and my big fucking mouth.”
If I’d kept it together at the department picnic, this wouldn’t be a problem. We could’ve stayed engaged for a while until Davis was thrown off my scent. Then again, he was running for sheriff, and I should have counted on him using this against me.
Which leaves one option.
A fucking crazy one.
Even crazier than getting fake married.
“Fuck.”
I finish making the rest of the breakfast while I turn the idea over in my mind again and again. A half an hour later, Marci appears in the door to my bedroom, still in her cute silk PJs, her hair tousled. She’s fucking adorable.
“Hi,” I say.
“Is that… Did you make waffles?”
“And tea.” I set down a cup in front of her and then bring her plate over. “Syrup if you want it.”
“Thank you,” she says, and starts eating at a ferocious pace that matches mine.
Another thing I like about her.
I eat too, but my appetite isn’t great after what I’ve read, and what we’re going to need to talk about. I want her to finish her meal first because the last thing a woman needs first thing in the morning is a healthy dose of bad news.
We finish the meal, and a meow from the bedroom draws my attention. Mr. Skitters is on the back porch, waiting for food, but he darts into the bushes to wait when I go out there to fill his bowl. It’s major progress. Him sleeping on the recliner felt like a fluke, but he keeps doing it.
Inside, Marci sits at the kitchen counter, mug clasped between her hands, her gaze on the kitchen window. The ocean waves are choppy today, and the wind tousles the shrubbery along the path that leads down to the beach.
“We need to talk,” I say as I return to the kitchen.
She purses those pretty lips.
“About the marriage,” I say. “The deal.”
“Is this a good talk or…?”
“It depends on how you view it,” I say.
“Uh oh. Spit it out, Taylor. What’s going on?”
“So, you remember my ex, Annaleigh?”
“Tits McGee? How could I forget?” Marci asks drily.
“Wow. That was… Wow, Angel.”
“She’s well-endowed,” Marci says. “Not that it’s a bad thing. I?—”
