Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“This is not a marriage,” I spat, hating that I was here, second-guessing myself even now. I took a long pull of the beer and put my palm to my forehead. “Oh my god, what am I doing?” I cried, circling the room. “I mean, if I am going to get married for a Green Card, it needs to be someone else. Anyone else.”
Kip leaned against the kitchen island, smirking at me. “I don’t see anyone else lining up to be your husband, sweetheart.”
I scowled at him. “There are plenty of men who would marry me like that.” I snapped my fingers together.
Kip raised a brow, as if he were inviting me to list them.
I racked my brain. In no way had I been a nun since I moved to Jupiter. I enjoyed sex. There was a good number of single men in this town and surrounding areas for me to engage in sex with. Plus, in the summer, the population almost tripled with tourists and people who owned vacation homes. I was never short of suitors.
Suitors who were more than willing to fuck me. Marry me? No. I couldn’t even recall the last man I let stay over.
“Frank,” I blurted. “Frank would marry me in, like, a moment.”
Kip looked at me with a placid expression. “Frank is eighty years old.”
I pursed my lips. “He looks like a young seventy,” I countered.
He really did. Frank was my landlord. And he was former Army, a gruff widower who read mystery books and ate muffins in the window of the café every morning at nine. And he was a shameless flirt, plus a born protector.
“By all means, go marry Frank, then,” Kip invited with twinkling eyes.
Fuck.
He was enjoying this. My lack of options. Watching me squirm. What a fucking asshole. Did I really want to be married to this guy? Even in a fake marriage?
“Are you recording me or something?” I asked, suddenly suspicious. “Are you trying to get me arrested? Because this was your idea, and that would be entrapment.”
I had no fucking idea whether it would be entrapment or not. I didn’t pay attention to the American legal system beyond watching SVU. But it sounded right.
Kip chuckled. “That would be a lot of work. Plus, I’m not a narc.”
I rolled my eyes. “Getting married to me and breaking federal laws while doing it, that’s not a lot of work?” I asked, taking another, longer pull of the beer.
It wasn’t really hitting the spot. I needed tequila.
He shrugged. “Like you said, it’s not gonna be a marriage. Basically, a contract.”
I contemplated this. A contract. “If this is a contract, what do you want out of it? I don’t have money.”
I had enough to buy expensive home decor, good wine and cheese, and pay the rent on my cottage. In addition to my drunk online shopping escapades, which were, unfortunately, numerous.
Kip screwed up his nose. “No, baby, I don’t want your money.”
He sounded offended at the insinuation, like he was some honorable prince doing this out of the goodness of his heart. Except I knew that this fucker was the furthest thing from honorable.
I placed my beer on the counter a little harder than necessary, not that it mattered, considering the surface was covered in rings, stains, and crumbs. Gross.
“I’m not fucking you either,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.
Kip’s eyes flickered to where I’d inadvertently pushed my tits upward. My body tensed with his attention, but I refused to change my stance.
His gaze returned to my eyes, a little heat and hunger in it now. It was only because he was a man and I had nice tits. That made sense.
What didn’t make sense was that I felt a little fire. Down there.
Had to be a UTI. No way was Kip’s smoldering look actually doing anything to me.
“As much as you want to, we’re not fucking,” he told me with a tone full of authority.
I wanted to argue with him on instinct.
Except I did not want to fuck him.
“As I said, this is a contract,” Kip continued. “We’re not muddling it up with sex. Much to your disappointment.”
“Eat me.” I scowled at him.
“Nuh-uh.” He waggled his finger at me. “Against the terms of the agreement.”
Okay, fuck this guy. He was having far too much fun.
“So, you don’t want anything out of this?” I clarified.
He shook his head.
“You know that this actually has to be a believable marriage,” I informed him. “To our closest friends and family, at least. USCIS could interview them if they found this”—I waved my hands between us—“suspicious.”
I’d done some preliminary research last night about it. Then I’d freaked out about the NSA or whomever tracking my search history and using it against me in my trial for defrauding the government.
I would not look good in orange.