My approach slanted in the opposite direction.
I had a system. Go in, scan them over, and as soon as I spotted one redeeming feature—a decent laugh, a crooked smile, a shared hatred for pineapple on pizza—I’d unleash my most unfiltered, chaotic self. I was lucky enough that the unvarnished version of me—the one who talked too much, forgot to sugarcoat, and carried herself like a woman who thought she was right more often than she actually was—turned outnotto be a persona at all, but simply the default setting I came factory-installed with, so the performance didn’t take much effort.
It was my litmus test. My pre-emptive strike. Some people called it self-sabotage. I called it safeguarding my most sacred organ.
Because the goal was never tocharmthem. If one of these men was going to end up my husband, it seemed wiser to make sure he didn’t inspire anything as disastrous as feelings first.
But this time was different. I didn’t actually see anything Iliked. There was no glimmer to fan into disaster, no soft edge to ruin. He just triggered the worst, loudest, most inconvenient parts of me into the light, with no invitation, no warning, like he’d found the “Do Not Touch” sign on my soul and decided it was a challenge.
I hesitated, nerves catching and fluttering in my chest. Over his shoulder, I caught my mother’s gaze—still fixed on me, not watching so much as scowling. I typically tried to only acknowledge her at the end when my date was halfway to fleeing the scene and I could finally meet her glare with a smug little smirk, slip on my sunglasses, and make my own dramatic exit. It was all a part of our game. But now this man—someone I’d known for less than five minutes and already sincerely disliked—was suggesting I play by a different set of rules.
I looked away and quickly did the emotional calculus of what saying yes would cost me.
Pros: He was the opposite of anyone I’d ever be attracted to—which, in this case, was a blessing. That meant no messy crushes, no heartbreak, no late-night overanalyzing of texts that ended with a passive aggressivegoodnight. I could move out from under my mother’s hovering disapproval, could finally breathe air not filtered through her huffs of constant critique. I could check themarriedbox once and for all, and maybe the aunties would stop treating me like a ticking time bomb. My dad had already vetted him with his family and half the neighborhood, so I felt reasonably confident he was harmless. Or at least not criminally alarming.
Cons: This was, objectively, the stupidest, wildest, most irreversible thing I could possibly do because the only thing more exhausting than marriage was the paperwork required to undo one.
People did this, right? Married someone they’d just met? Usually it involved tequila, questionable life choices, and a neon chapel in Vegas—or, you know, several decades back, when “no” wasn’t even a word women were allowed to use. But it still counted.Technically. And technically was the only category my current decision-making skills seemed qualified for.
My throat tightened around a laugh I didn’t quite mean. “Are you being for real?” I asked, half hoping he’d grin and tell me it was a joke, that I could safely return to my regularly scheduled, mildly unremarkable life—one that didn’t involve accidentally agreeing to marry a stranger.
He nodded, unfazed, like he was offering to split an appetizer and not a legally binding future.
“You would actually do that? You would get married without the feelings, or the connection—I mean, we couldn’t even get through a single conversation.”
He tilted his head, mouth curving into an aggravating almost-smile. “You know, for adoctordoctor, you’re not very bright.”
A flicker flared through me—irritation, maybe, or that dangerous spark that always lit up when someone told me I couldn’t do something. Especially coming from a man who dressed like a tax accountant on laundry day and held a PhD in the world’s most sleep-inducing subject.
I straightened, my chin tipping in defiance. “Fine. Under one condition.”
His brow arched. “And what’s that?”
“Don’t fall in love with me.”
He blinked, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or call for help. “Sorry,” he said slowly, studying my face. “You’ve spent the last fifteen minutes saying some of the most unhinged things I’ve ever heard, so I genuinely can’t tell if you’re being serious right now.”
I lifted my glass and took a long, deliberate sip of water, eyeing him over the rim like that was a perfectly reasonable declaration to make on a blind date.
His expression shifted as the realization dawned. “Okay,” he said, letting out a breath. “Youarebeing serious.” He ran his fingers through his hair, looking at me with open disbelief. “Um...have you met yourself?”
“Yes,” I said sweetly. “I amextremelylovable.”
“Hm. Maybe to someone with absolutely no standards.” He rubbed a hand over his immaculately trimmed beard, already mentally checking out of the back-and-forth tussle. “But since you seem worried—no, Lillian. Even if you were the last woman on earth, I’d still manage to resist.” He paused, eyes raking me from head to toe, lips quirking. The look alone sent an unwelcome flush racing up my spine. “I have excellent taste.”
My first instinct was to punch him. My second was to remind myself that assault probably wasn’t the best way to begin a professional marriage arrangement, so I leveled him with a death glare instead.
“Then I guess I’m in.”
Chapter One
Three Months Later
“I’M SORRY, SAY THATAGAIN.”
Sarah’s voice was flat, the way it got when she thought I was either lying or losing my mind. Which, to be fair, wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
I hadn’t seen Khalifa since that first day, a whopping three months ago. In that time, we’d somehow built ananti-relationship entirely out of emails. Not sweet, flirty ones either. Just the driest, most soul-sucking correspondence imaginable. “Received.” “Noted.” “Busy.” He had the bizarre habit of treating Outlook like a personality trait—formal sign-offs, full sentences, the occasionalper my last messagewhen he was feeling spicy.
