“Also, no dating while we’re married. Don’t try to hide it. If anyone figures out this is fake, it’s over for both of us.” My gaze slides to him, flat and dismissive. “Though, I guess that’s not much of a sacrifice for you. Who wants someone as weak as you anyway?”
His eyes drop to his lap, his body tensing.
Looks like I hit a nerve.
Too bad.
Then he looks back up, jaw set. “If I'm so pathetic, then why me? Why don't you just marry your girlfriend?”
“That’s what I’m trying to avoid.”
He huffs, resting his head against the window and closing his eyes. “Coward.”
So, my soon-to-be husband might actually have a spine.
Quick not to read into that thought, I focus up ahead as the town hall comes into view—white clapboard, brick path, blooming hydrangeas—New England charm weaponized for legal business. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I pull into the lot and park.
I turn to face Henneman. His color's better now, less gray around the edges. “We’re going inside to get the license. The Justice of the Peace will meet us here in half an hour. You smile, nod, and say ‘I do’ when told. Think you can manage that without fucking it up?”
He glares. “How long’s this nightmare going to last?”
My hand moves before I think, grabbing his throat, not squeezing, just holding. His pulse hammers against my thumb, but he doesn't pull away, only stares at me with those amber eyes.
“Until I don't need you. Could be weeks, could be months. Depends how quickly my father and the Callahansback off.”
I let go, his skin too warm against my palm. Time to turn this nobody into my husband. “Let's go.”
I grab the folder of documents from the backseat. Henneman’s birth certificate was easy to obtain since he's a scholarship student and an NCAA athlete. “And Henneman. Make a scene, try to tell anyone what's really happening, and I'll make sure you disappear.”
His body goes rigid, and he looks at me as if searching my face for something. Mercy, maybe, or a sign that I'm bluffing. He won't find either. “I won't run. I can't afford to.”
We get out of the car and walk toward the building together. Henneman moves carefully, as if he's not entirely sure his legs will hold him, his gait unsteady. He glances around, head on a swivel, shoulders tense.
“Relax.”
He doesn’t. If anything, his breathing grows ragged, sweat breaking along his brow. His hands shake, subtle, but not invisible.
“Stop.” I grip his bicep. My fingers barely wrap halfway around the solid muscle. “Breathe. Now.”
His eyes meet mine, wide, wild, and lost. There’s something haunted there too—a look I’ve only ever seen on Jackson, after the shit with Coach Buckland. I swallow hard, my thumb brushing his arm without my permission, and I jerk it back.
Fuck.
I clear my throat and straighten to my full height. “Calm down. Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
He obeys.
We stand outside for a bit until he’s steady enough, then head inside. The clerk at the counter is a middle-aged woman with graying hair and a kind smile that falters slightly when she sees us.
“We'd like to apply for a marriage license.” I slide the paperwork forward, not bothering with small talk.
She looks over everything, then glances at us again. “You boys sure about this? Big step.”
“We're sure.” My voice stays level, but there’s a low buzz under my skin as I take Henneman's hand in mine. His palm is clammy, but he doesn't pull away. “Aren't we, babe?”
He nods, a fake smile plastered on his face. “Yeah, we’re sure.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re holding our license.
