The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(29)

“There’s no tea,” I answer, and he calls my bluff with a furrowed brow.

“Before we went to Vegas, you were the only straight girl in the office who didn’t let her panties fall to the ground for Duncan Jones,” he says and shakes his head on a laugh. “And now, you’re married. Trust me, there’s tea…” He pauses, and then his eyes go wide. “Oh hell, don’t tell me you married Duncan Jones…”

“Oh my God, no,” I answer honestly. “No, no, no.”

“Okay, good.” He breathes out in relief. “We’re chatting later, though. Kisses!”

And then he’s off. Through my office door and back into the hallway as if our conversation didn’t just make me age ten years.

Fackkkk.

Head straight to my desk, I let my forehead hit the hard surface with a bang.

God, I’m an idiot.

You’re also an idiot who doesn’t have time to wallow in misery…

On a deep sigh, I find the will to lift my head back up, run a hand down my face, and pull myself together enough to face my application again. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long before I have it ready to print out and sign and mail off to the scary immigration overlords at USCIS.

But it doesn’t end there. Oh, no. There are more steps. Not only did I have to fill out an application, but my American husband does, too.

Cell phone out, I scroll through my contacts until I come to a stop at the name Flynn Winslow, open a fresh message box, and start to type out a text.

Hey, it’s me. Daisy. Daisy Diaz.

Ugh. That sounds so dumb. Delete.

Hi, there! I hope you’re doing fantastic!

Goodness. No need to shout at the guy. Delete.

Stop overcomplicating this and just be yourself. It’s not like the man married you because he’s in love with you. He married you because he’s trying to help you. No need to put up some fa?ade.

Resigned to just handle shit like I normally do, I proceed to type out a few texts I can actually hit send on.

Me: Hey, American hubby. It’s me, Daisy, your lovely Canadian wife. I’ve downloaded all of the pertinent documentation and applications for my visa. We’re going to have to send everything in via the good-old-fashioned mail. The first application that needs to be mailed in is mine, which I’ve filled out and will be sending out soon. The next is your application, along with the pertinent documentation you need to provide to USCIS.

Me: Just FYI: There’s A LOT of information to read through. Like, over fifty pages of very boring, mundane things. And I know this is all just a hassle for you, but I want to make sure I say thank you for doing this. That is, if you’re still planning on helping me get a visa, which I hope you are, because hell’s bells, I really, really need the help…

Me: So…I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you’re still game, either I send you the forms you need to fill out and a copy of the application I’ll be mailing in tomorrow morning, OR I can try to fill them out for you and forge your signature. Personally, I think the former is the best option because, while I’m pretty good at forging signatures, I’m not that great at forging official documentation.

Suddenly panicked that the NSA is going to read these messages, I type out all the things I need to say to cover my tracks.

Me: I’m kidding. LOL. I’ve never forged anything in my life. And obviously, I’m joking about the visa thing too because ha-ha-ha, we’re in love. Wild, wonderful love.

Uncomfortable with all the lying, even when I’m smack-dab in the middle of the biggest lie in the universe, I blather on.

Me: Okay, fine. Once, I forged something ONE TIME, and it was no big deal. Just a minor date change on a document for a travel refund when I was eighteen. I deserved the refund, btw. That spring break trip was something nightmares are made of, and the date mistake was a legitimate typo. I was just making it right.

Once I hit send on the final message, I set my phone down on my desk and tap my fingers across the surface as I wait for him to respond. I also silently wonder why I always seem to word vomit all over this guy.

When my phone lights up with two incoming text messages from the man of the immigration application hour, I grab my phone so fast I nearly drop it.

The first text? Only four words—Mail them to me.

And the second? A New York address.

Damn, Flynn Winslow is certainly a man of few words, isn’t he?

Yeah, Mrs. Winslow. He sure is.

So…he lives in New York full time? Not Vegas? Obviously, since I was in his swanky Vegas home, this is new information. You mean the home that you had the wildest sex of your life in?

I shake my head, ignore my snarky inner voice, and wait a little longer, thinking that maybe he’ll add to the messages. But when nothing comes, I remember that with all the things I don’t know about my American husband, there’s certainly something I do—he doesn’t converse just for the sake of it. When he speaks, it’s because it’s necessary or it means something, period. If the world would handle food and recycling like Flynn Winslow handles words, there’d never be any food shortages, and all of the oceans would be devoid of garbage.

As I stare down at his New York address, the seed of curiosity that’s planted into my belly starts to grow. Clearly, I’ve seen his Las Vegas house, but there’s something inside me that can’t stop myself from Google searching this new nugget of a peek into Flynn’s life.