Page 1 of Accidentally Marrying the Billionaire

chapter

one

Evelyn

My best friend, Finley Blake, waits until dessert to spring her gift on me.

This is how I know she means business. Otherwise, she’d be more up front. Now, though, she’s lulled me with wine and carbs. She’s literally buttered me up so I’ll have less defenses against her generosity.

We’re sitting in our usual booth at the little Italian place down the street—the one with the too-big portions and the waiter who calls everyone hon. I’m halfway through my tiramisu when she reaches into her bag and slides a sleek black envelope across the table.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A course correction,” she says cheerfully.

I squint at it. “What did you do?”

“Open it.”

Inside is a card. Thick paper. Embossed lettering. Dramatic flair.

WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS: AN IMMERSIVE MURDER MYSTERY EXPERIENCE

I blink.

Then blink again.

“Finley,” I say slowly, “what is this?”

“A gift!” She grins, unapologetic. “I booked you an adventure.”

“I don’t do adventures,” I say. “Remember? I alphabetize my spices. Color-code my lesson plans. Wear the same outfit every Wednesday.”

Her eyes narrow, and she points her fork at me. “His words sound even dumber coming out of your mouth. First of all, everyone alphabetizes their spices. It’s how you’re supposed to do it.”

It’s on my tongue to disagree and argue that plenty of people just have their spices randomly shoved into a cabinet, but I can see she’s not done with her tirade.

“You being organized and structured is not the same as boring. And it’s not like Kurt was Mr. Spontaneity,” she snaps.

“He truly wasn’t.” And I know she’s not talking about the sex, but it’s where my mind goes. Every Tuesday and Sunday afternoon. Always the same position. No orgasms for Evelyn.

“He called you predictable and boring,” she continues, steamrolling ahead. “Which is rich, considering his idea of excitement was switching from beer to IPA.”

“An IPA is a kind of beer.”

She tilts her head, considering, then waves my comment aside. “That only proves my point.”

That makes me smile. “We just… grew apart.”

She shakes her head. “No. You grew smaller,” she says gently. “And I refuse to watch you apologize for taking up space.”

My throat tightens, which is rude because I was having such a nice time not feeling anything.

“This trip,” she says, tapping the envelope, “is to remind you that you are fun. And interesting. And capable of doing something wildly out of character without asking permission or making excuses. To remind you who Evelyn Barlow is without that parasite sucking the life out of you.”

“I didn’t ask his permission for anything,” I argue.

“Maybe not verbally,” she agrees. “You just stayed when he stopped making you happy. If he ever did that. He did not deserve you.”