Kiss Her Once for Me (12)

“What kind of fucked up, patriarchal, Regency-era romance bullshit is that?” I explode. Because I’m clearly drunk. Sober, it would be harder to feel pity for a man who’s been denied two million dollars in generational wealth when you’re sustaining yourself on Top Ramen and El Monterey frozen burritos.

Andrew sighs and takes a solemn drink. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that. I—I haven’t told anyone since the executor called to give me the heads-up. The thing is, my dad’s side of the family is obsessed with legacy. My grandfather believed I was his only shot at continuing the Prescott name with biological children, and now he’s blackmailing me into matrimony from beyond the grave. Like one giant fuck you for all the ways I never lived up to his impossible expectations.”

I do feel the smallest ounce of pity for Andrew now. “Is that even… allowed?”

“It’s his money. He can add whatever strings and stipulations he wants.”

“It’s too bad you’re hideous.” I take my straw to the dregs at the bottom of my glass. “And rich. I don’t know how you’ll ever find someone to marry you.”

“The problem is I don’t want to get married! I’m only twenty-nine!” He slams down his now-empty third—or is it fourth?—drink. “And I definitely don’t want to dupe some unsuspecting person into marrying me so I can inherit two million dollars.”

“Dupe? Dude, just ask politely. You drive a Tesla, and you have the hair and jawline of a young Matthew McConaughey. Any woman in this bar would happily marriage-of-convenience you.”

“I’m not sure that’s true….”

I drunkenly continue, “You don’t need to stay married. You just need someone to marry you until the inheritance hits your bank account, right? Then you can divorce them? It’s not like your dead grandpa is going to take back the money if your marriage falls apart.”

Andrew sits up straighter in the booth, and I briefly worry I’ve offended him. But his eyes go wide beneath his eyelashes. “Wait, you mean, kind of like a green-card marriage?”

Not offended, then. “Exactly. Happy to help.” If only solving my own problems was this easy.

He pinches the bridge of his nose for a second, and the gesture cuts through the Moscow mule fog like a dart to my memory. I see her standing in the snow, pinching the bridge of her nose almost exactly like that.

“You really think I could find someone who would do that for me? Fake-marry me?”

“Sure. It happens in romantic comedies all the time.”

He puts both hands flat on the table and leans in even closer, all eyebrows and that fucking smile. “Would you do it?”

I laugh-belch in his face. “I think you can aim higher in your aspirations for a fake wife.”

“I’m serious. What if we split the inheritance? Well, not split. I could give you… ten percent?”

I attempt drunk math. “You’d pay me twenty thousand dollars to marry you?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” he corrects.

“Fucking Christ.” I can barely fathom that kind of money when sober, but drunk—it’s like Andrew’s eyes have turned to slot machine readouts with money bags on them. Two hundred thousand dollars. I could get an apartment that’s aboveground. I could buy a car. I could afford to eat fresh vegetables.

I could afford a therapist who actually listens to me.

Still, I’m not drunk enough to think that is a good idea. “Sorry, but no. Not me.”

“But you said anyone would happily marry me.”

“Anyone but me.”

“Are you sure? This really seems like a win-win. I can help you with your financial problems. You can help me with my inheritance.” His eyes are lit up and hopeful, and every people-pleasing cell in my body screams at me to agree to this ridiculous plan. But I can barely handle a maybe-date without getting completely shit-faced to numb my anxiety. I can’t imagine how I’d survive… whatever he’s suggesting. Even if that’s a life-altering amount of money.

“Andrew, I just… can’t.”

He chuckles. “Oliver, have you ever done anything spontaneous in your entire life?”

It’s the Moscow mule that answers him before my sober self can stop it. “I once fell in love with a woman over the course of a single snow day.”

That revelation renders him speechless, his mouth hanging open in shock like that of a very attractive idiot.

Actually, Andrew’s mouth is always open about a half an inch. I can’t tell if it’s because he thinks he looks hot that way, or if he’s just a mouth breather.

Either way, I do find it kind of hot.

“Well, not love,” I backpedal, “just very intense like.”

“Talking about someone else on a first date.” He releases a low whistle. “Bold move.”

“Did we officially decide this is a date? I was getting more unload-emotional-baggage-at-each-other vibes.”

Andrew leans back in the booth. “I’m okay with those vibes. Tell me more about your snow girl.”

Snow Girl. That was what I called her when I poured my heartbreak and grief into the panels. I hadn’t planned to draw a ten-episode web series about that day—hadn’t wanted to immortalize those twenty-four hours—but after everything that happened, I needed some way to cope. So I turned to art, as I always had.