Hitched(2)

“You know my sanctuary was designated as the official guardian of Gram’s pets and livestock when she went into nursing care last year, right?” she asks.

“I’ve heard about it a time or two.” More like seven times a day, with how often she needs handyman assistance and how many of those animals need special care.

“Now that she’s gone, I’ve learned that her will dictates that the entirety of her estate—her farm, her house, everything, including her animals—goes to whichever of her grandchildren gets married first. That means my cousin Kyle could get custody of my animals if I don’t get married fast.”

This is where I should have a snappy comeback, because I know for a fact that Hope got married first.

But we don’t talk about that.

Ever.

I try to concentrate on the part where she wants to take care of her grandmother’s animals, but all I can see are neon lights, Elvis, and cameras flashing inside the Little Chicken All You Can Eat Snack Chapel.

Then annulment papers less than 24 hours later.

Yeah. There’s a solid reason Hope and I don’t get along, and it has nothing to do with how I feel about her, and everything to do with her not feeling the same way about me.

So chatting about her getting married? This is worse than having my nuts stuck in a vise. I’d rather be in a cage with a hundred feral monkeys who want to use my cock as a rope swing than talk about Hope getting married.

She taps her dandelion bouquet against her dress. “I went to a website—no, don’t say it, because yes, I can occasionally use electronics without them exploding, if I hold my breath and try really hard—and I found a guy who was willing to marry me for a few grand—”

I make a noise—this story is getting worse with every passing second—but she shushes me by shaking the bouquet again, sending a wilted yellow flower flying my way.

“But,” she continues, “he brought his father with him to be the witness, and it turns out his dad has a pacemaker. So when we met and shook hands…”

Oh, shit.

My brother Jace’s wife, Olivia, who is deep into crystals and auras and spiritual woo-woo, keeps telling us that Hope is something called a wiper, which supposedly means she has extra-magnetic blood that gives off computer-and electronics-killing vibes.

I’ve never bought into hocus-pocus, but I’ve also never met anyone who could short-circuit a microwave from halfway across the room when it wasn’t running either.

“Did you kill the guy?” I ask, my throat tight.

“Can you just listen for two minutes without interrupting?”

“Hope. Jesus. That’s not a no.”

“The EMTs think he’s going to be fine,” she grumbles. “But now Frederick doesn’t want to get married, because he’s scared of me, even though I promised I’d never touch his father again upon penalty of being eaten alive by wild hogs. But I need to get married now, Blake, before Kyle gets smart enough to think of the same plan.”

And I need to quit staring and pick my jaw up off the floor.

But the one thing Hope St. Claire has never failed to do is leave me speechless.

“So, basically, I’m out of options,” she finishes. “Which is why I called you. I’m throwing myself at your mercy, but I promise to make it worth your while. I know you’re fighting the county for a liquor license for your tasting room, and I do have a very good relationship with the Department of Revenue staff. After everything I had to go through to get the farm licensed as a shelter, Gary and I are tight. And I’m willing to use my connection for your benefit.”

“Whoa, wait a minute—”

“We don’t have to stay married forever,” she rushes on. “Just for long enough for me to get legal possession of the animals and ensure they’ll live long, healthy, happy lives. And then we can tell everyone we made a big mistake and move on. Easy peasy.”

“Like you did last time?” I ask, hating the hint of pain in my voice. It’s been four years. It shouldn’t still sting, but it does.

Her brown eyes snap to mine again, and her cheeks flush pink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Right.

Because last time didn’t happen. That’s what we agreed on.

But it did happen, and it left scars behind, and I can’t fathom how Hope convinced herself asking me, of all fucking people, to marry her was a good idea.

Dammit. Now I’m getting hot in the face.

“I just want to make sure all the animals have a good forever home,” she says, pressing her hands together as a pleading furrow forms between her brows. “You know the only thing Kyle cares about is money. He’d stud out Chewpaca twenty-four seven to make gourmet alpaca babies, while the rest of the livestock and the dogs and the peacock and the ferret end up eating each other to survive and Chewpaca eventually gets so exhausted his penis falls off.”

I snort, but I’m not in the headspace to laugh, even if the thought of poor Chewpaca banging his dong off is kind of funny.

I’m still stuck on the we should get married part.

The first time she proposed to me, she was holding hands with Jack Daniels and Captain Morgan as she cooed, You’re the best guy, Blake. The nicest and funniest and the best. I bet you’d kick ass at marriage. And you have the prettiest elbows. Is it weird that I love your elbows? ’Cause I really do…