Hitched(4)

Small-town life, small-town politics, small-town bullshit.

And sometimes the only way out of the poo pile is to convince someone with influence to put in a good word for you.

“Please, Blake?” Hope begs, and I feel myself starting to actually consider this insanity.

Death by penis yanking does seem like a cruel thing to do to Chewpaca.

And I need my liquor license.

And Hope—just Hope. Shit.

How can I hate her and want to be her hero at the same time?

“If I agree to this,” my mouth says before my brain can object, “you have to say five nice things about me every day.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I don’t like being grumpy or angry, but you make me both, so you’re going to have to say five nice things about me every day. Help me keep my sense of humor intact until the madness is over.”

She presses two fingers to her visibly twitching left eyelid. “Fine.”

“Wait. What about Gordon?” I say, inspiration striking at the eleventh hour, right as the guillotine is about to fall. “Didn’t he break up with his internet girlfriend last week?”

“He also turned me down.” She sighs. “And I think they’re already back together. Gordon doesn’t like to leave his house or put on pants after he gets home from work. An online girlfriend is the best kind of girlfriend for that particular lifestyle.”

Shit.

She asked the resident firebug taxidermist before she asked me too.

Now I’m getting pissed, because I’m not that low in the pecking order in this town.

Am I?

Do I need to work out more? Put on something other than work clothes once in a while? Learn something about hair products and how to apply them?

Or is it because she truly hates me that much?

My blood burns hotter at the thought, and I suddenly realize that I’m going to do this.

I’m going to marry the shit out of her.

Just to torture her with my presence.

Every single day.

“And you have to come to poker night with my family,” I inform her.

“Good. I like your family.”

Just not you.

That was the problem last time.

And it looks like that’s going to be the problem all over again. But this time, I won’t walk away with a broken heart. This time, it’s all business, with a side of vengeful pleasure.

Maybe it’s wrong to look forward to torturing my ex-wife with our second ill-advised marriage.

But if it’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.





Two





Hope St. Claire (aka a desperate woman with too many animals and not enough options)





* * *



As I walk down the short aisle of the windowless green-carpeted courtroom where I’m marrying Blake O’Dell in approximately thirty seconds, I picture my grandma’s alpaca.

Probably not what most brides picture on their wedding day, but Chewpaca is why I’m getting married.

I don’t want my grandmother’s land. I don’t want her house.

I just want to give her animals a good life, because animals are the best part of my family. They’re innocent and simple and they don’t have passive-aggressive psychological battles over who hired the wrong maid or use their kids as go-betweens when they have a fight and aren’t speaking to each other.

Nor do they write wills demanding that their heirs be married.

But hey, if I’m getting married, at least I’m doing it the St. Claire way.

To a man who’s glowering at me like I’m his adversary on the field of battle as I join him in front of Judge Maplethorpe.

With those bright green eyes, thick, unruly hair, and big, strong, perfectly rough hands, Blake’s exactly my type. Right down to the fact that he’s dressed for working in the field instead of for a wedding.

Except that he wants forever, and I don’t believe in it.

Not with the marriages I’ve seen up close and personal.

Oh, and he hates me, mustn’t forget that tiny detail.

I feel guilty about bringing him into my chaos, but I was out of options.

Chewpaca can’t go to Kyle.

Period.

“You have a lovely bride,” Judge Maplethorpe murmurs to Blake as I come to a stop beside him in front of the bench.

Blake grunts dubiously, but covers with a clearly forced smile. “Brides are always beautiful when a man’s in love.”

I snort.

The judge frowns at me. He’s in his sixties, with more hair coming out of his ears and nose than sitting on top of his head. His oldest daughter used to babysit me when my parents had to go to Atlanta for gala fundraisers and black-tie dinners.

She’d always sneak in the ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies, which my mom never kept on hand because empty calories are the devil’s handmaiden, Hope. Judge Maplethorpe is not the kind of man who would understand a marriage of convenience between two old enemies.

We’re going to have to sell this. At least a little.

I grab Blake’s arm, which is just as sinfully sexy as his hands—I am such a sucker for a man who works outside and isn’t afraid to get dirty—and say with a cheerfulness born of desperation, “Hitch us up, Judge.”