Page 55 of Proposal Play
Maeve parts her lips, then sputters out, “So, we’re definitely not lying low? We’re…what? Stepping out as husband and wife?”
I should feel bad for roping her into this marriage last night, and now again for the next few weeks. But I don’t. “Will you go with me? It would look a lot better if I attended with my wife,” I explain, since it would. A man showing up with a plus-one for a charity focused on kids looks better than a man showing up alone. Especially if that man married his brother’s best friend on a whim in Vegas, then annulled the marriage. That wouldn’t look so good at all.
Which is why I’m hoping we don’t annul it quite yet. Then, I let myself be vulnerable as I add, “I need your help, Maeve.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “I guess we do need to prove this to someone. Beyond tonight.”
She blinks, shakes her head, like she can’t believe what I’m asking. But then her answer is magic when she says, “Of course I’ll do it. Remember, I’m the one who bid on you to save you from that woman, after all.”
“I guess you’re unapologetically possessive too,” I say.
“Maybe I am,” she says.
Then, since there are details to sort out but pillows calling our names, I add, “We can figure it out tomorrow. How long we’re keeping up the act. I’m sure we don’t need to do this for more than a few weeks. Maybe a month at the most.”
She nods a couple times. “You’re right. That’s probably all it will take. A mural can’t take too long. Maybe we can stay married till it’s done? And then we’ll be on our way.”
A month. It feels long and far too short all at once. But I’m not about to say that.
Her phone buzzes. She snags it from the pocket of her dress and glances at the screen, her eyes widening. “It’s Angelina again,” she says, but she doesn’t sound enthused. “The couple who owns the Sea Dogs? They invited me to brunch on Tuesday. And they want me to bring…myhusband.”
I fight off a grin. I should not be so thrilled about brunch with Eleanor and Spencer Greer. But I am.
Even when she looks up at me with a mix of fear and desperation and says, “I wanted to get this on my own merits?—”
“You did.”
“But what if I’m keeping it onyourmerits?”
I step closer, cupping her cheek gently. “Hey,” I say softly, “according to your agent, they decided last night.”
I’m not sure she’s convinced, but she manages a smile. “Well, whatever the reason, it looks like we’ve got two performances to prepare for as Mr. and Mrs. Callahan.”
The weight of her words settles over me, and I realize just how deep we’re in. A spontaneous, tipsy decision has snowballed into something much bigger. But the funny thing is, as quickly as this marriage escalated, I’m not mad about it at all. And I think I know why.
I’m not so sure she wants to be just friends, and I can’t leave that possibility alone.
Not after last night.
Whether it’s a bad idea or not, I mostly want this marriage to last a little longer because these feelings for her aren’t going away. They’re getting more insistent, demanding I face them head-on.
A fake marriage could be a safety net as I workthrough them. I’m no good at making relationships last anyway, but no one will get hurt with a built-in, predetermined expiration date. It’s a relationship we control. It’s like a game of hockey—you give it your all for three periods, then it ends, and you move on to something else.
Our buzzing phones interrupt us. I glance at mine, and a grin tugs at the corner of my mouth when I see who’s messaging.
“Beckett,” I say, holding up the screen to show Maeve his text. “‘Why am I the last to know?’”
We laugh for a few seconds, but when I pocket my phone, something still nags at me. “Stay here,” I say.
Heading to the nearest bathroom, I grab a washcloth and run it under warm water.
Maeve looks at me, puzzled when I return. “What are you doing?”
I step close, gently taking her arm. “Getting that guy off you,” I say, my voice low but resolute. I scrub her shoulder where Nigel’s hand had lingered, wiping away any trace of him.
When I’m done, I press a kiss onto her shoulder.
Marking my wife.
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