Page 12 of Sweet Surrender

If I didn’t hate the idea so much, I’d think it was rather genius. Play a part, act like I’ve done my whole life, and then win whatever reward there is to win—in this case, my freedom to tour overseas.

“But how does me quietly falling in love negate the fact that the gossip sites, that Lori, posted more shit about me just this week?”

“Because when all of a sudden those posts stop, when it’s you holding your wife’s hand as you go out to dinner rather than getting wasted at a club, he’ll think you’ve seen the error of your ways and have grown up.”

“This is absurd.” I move about the room, needing to abate some of my nervous energy. Needing to knock some sense into myself from agreeing to this ridiculous idea.

“Perhaps, but the answer is pretty clear-cut to him. Show you’re settling down over the next few months, and he’ll lift the travel restrictions.”

“That’s some subjective bullshit if I’ve ever heard it.”

“It is. But it’s what he asked to see.”

“He put this in writing somewhere, right? Jase marries and therefore he gets to leave the country for work. Because I gotta tell you, Nate, that doesn’t feel like the most secure legal offer if it’s just a verbal undertone said in a back chamber without anything to back it up.”

It’s Nathaniel’s turn to be offended but my question is valid. “Nothing’s guaranteed, but if precedent prevails, then yes. Judge Watkins and I have been through this before—a little in-chambers negotiation on how I can help my client get the desired result. He hasn’t reneged on one yet. He gave his word. I gave mine.” He clears his throat. “Don’t dishonor my word.”

I nod, but every second with this idea in my head feels like acid dripping into my gut. “Marriage. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I know.” His voice is softer, more compassionate. “In our family that’s like a four-letter word.”

“For who?” My back’s up and the hurt that underrides everything I do is ignited. “For you? Because last I looked I’m the one who got the short end of the stick, brother.”

Nathaniel holds his hands up in front of him. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just stating that I get why you’re hesitating.”

“You don’t know shit about shit.” I roll my shoulders. How could he? I dodge and deflect. Isn’t that par for the course when it comes to me? “Say I agree to this . . . bullshit. Who exactly am I going to marry?” Even the word feels foreign on my tongue.

“Someone who has something to benefit from it like you do. A woman who needs your stardom for her own reasons and someone who seems wholesome to make you appear more grounded.”

“I already don’t like where this is going.”

“It’s called a PR stunt. It happens all the time. Non-disclosure agreements are signed. Public events are planned and staged. Everyone smiles pretty and plays the part for a set amount of time before irreconcilable differences make it too hard to continue.”

“I’m aware. I’ve seen it with my own eyes—it’s Hollywood, after all . . . but you don’t think the judge knows this?”

“Which is why I planted the seed I planted. Now it’s up to you to water it and make it grow.”

I level my brother with a dubious glare. “I’m not a fucking gardener. This is my damn life.”

“Then maybe you should treat it as such.” His words are a stark rebuke that I let roll off my back. “Abigail and I have compiled a list of suitable women we think would be willing to step into the role. Women we think Watkins would find suitable as well.”

I take a seat, prop my elbows on my knees, and hang my head. This is really fucking happening, isn’t it?

“We’d make the breach of confidentiality so damning that they wouldn’t risk telling anyone that they weren’t madly in love with you after a secretive, whirlwind romance.”

“Great. I’m so fucked up that you have to threaten a woman to marry me. And in the same breath, how is it a whirlwind if we’ve been together for months?” I look up and meet his eyes.

“We’d iron out the details obviously, get the story and timeline straight before we went public. I’m just talking hypothetical right now.”

“Fucking perfect.” I lean my head back and chuckle. It sounds like desperation.

But my brother gives me the moment to think. To hate the idea. Then to come to terms with it. And then to realize how much I loathe the fake bullshit in this town—the one that surrounds me on the daily and that I try to avoid.

“Go home. Sleep on it. Abigail will be here tomorrow at eleven. She’s going to bring the three potential business partners with her for you to meet—”

“Christ,” I mutter and put my sunglasses back on as if that’s going to help the matter. “Business partners? That’s the last thing I’d call my fake wife.”

“She’s going to email their profiles to you later for you to check out, but she’s pretty sure she has your type down.”