Page 47 of Holding Penalty

I wonder if Nash got that sponsorship he’s looking for yet. If I were the CEO of Wrangler Jeans, I’d ink a contract with him in a second and stick his denim-covered butt on every billboard I could buy.

Then at least I’d get to see my fake husband’s firm butt around town without googling pics of him like a perv.

I let out a sigh, just as Hallie walks into the living room and grouses, “What do you have to sigh about? You’re not the one heading to a shift with Asshole Andy.”

Hallie works at a restaurant in Austin, and a couple weeks ago they got a new manager who she can’t stand. Every day when she gets home, she has a new story to tell me about how he’s micromanaging her, or criticizing everything she does, or a rude comment he made.

“Have you tried poisoning him yet?” I ask.

Hallie holds a sliver of distance between her forefinger and thumb. “This close.”

“Just let me know beforehand so I can plan our getaway.”

“No jury would convict me, don’t worry.”

When Hallie leaves, I scroll through a streaming service trying to find something appealing to watch. I’m home early today because the bakery closes early on Tuesday.

I’ll have some money left over after I buy the business in six months, and I’m hoping to use part of it to hire some extra employees so we can expand our hours. Right now, there’s no way we can stay open any longer than we do with just me and the two cashiers we have on staff. The owner can’t handle working much herself anymore.

My phone rings. It’s the lawyer who’s dealing with my grandmother’s estate.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Yes, hello, Mrs. Miller,” the old attorney says, and there’s a hint of sarcasm in that greeting that doesn’t sit well with me.

“Actually, I kept my last name,” I tell him.

“Interesting,” he replies. That note of sarcasm is still there, and it still rubs me the wrong way. A feeling of tension prickles at the back of my neck. “Your marriage is, in fact, why I called.”

Now that prickle of tension has turned into a stab, and my stomach feels off kilter. “Why?”

“As the executor of your grandmother’s will, I take her wishes seriously. It’s my job to ensure that they are honored.”

“Right …” I reply, not sure what he’s getting at, but not liking the sound of whatever it is.

“As you’re aware, a stipulation of receiving your inheritance is that you be married.”

“Yes, of course.” Trust me, I’m aware.

“That marriage must be legitimate.”

Worry hardens in my stomach.

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes to me. My tongue feels dry.

“If I do not believe that marriage is legitimate,” the lawyer continues, “I would not be acting in good faith to my client if I dispersed the funds.”

Is this even legal? If it isn’t, I’d need to hire my own lawyer to fight it, and without the inheritance money I’d be fighting over, I could never afford to do so.

“Why … why would you think the marriage isn’t legitimate?”

“I’ve heard things, Mrs. Dashwood,” the sarcasm in his voice is sharper, cutting through me, “that cause me to have my doubts.”

“Like what?” I feel totally blindsided.

“Since Mr. Miller is such a public figure, and information about his goings-on is so readily available, I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I didn’t keep tabs on him through simple internet searches from time to time.”

He continues, “Over the past week, there have been abundant comments on social media speculating that the two of you are not living together. That fact, combined with the fact that I recall you were recently engaged to someone else, combined also with the fact that there is no evidence or indication that you and Mr. Miller were involved in a romantic relationship before your marriage, casts, in my mind, doubts as to the legitimacy of said marriage. Grave doubts.”