Page 27 of Accidentally Marrying the Billionaire

It’s on my lips to apologize, but then he starts to laugh. “You’re perfect, and I’m going to want to do that again.”

chapter

ten

Mike

I can't sleep.

This isn't unusual. My brain has always been a 24-hour diner—open all night, serving up a rotating menu of ideas, anxieties, and the occasional brilliant breakthrough at 3 AM. Medication helps. Routine helps. But some nights, like tonight, the thoughts just keep coming, and the best I can do is ride them out.

Tonight's special: Did I just ruin everything by being too much too fast?

I'm sprawled on my couch—the same couch where, just hours ago, Evelyn was in my lap, grinding against me, making sounds that are now permanently seared into my memory—and I'm staring at the ceiling like it might have answers.

It doesn't. It never does.

The city murmurs through the glass. Evelyn is asleep down the hall, in the room I gave her, behind the door with the lock I promised she could use. She didn't lock it tonight. I checked.

Not in a creepy way. Just... noticed. When I walked past to get water. Three times.

You're my wife.

If you were mine, this is how I'd treat you.

I'd choose you every day.

Jesus Christ. Who says that to someone they've known for less than a week?

Me, apparently. I say that. Because I have the emotional regulation of a golden retriever and the impulse control of a toddler in a candy store.

The thing is—I meant it. Every word. That's the terrifying part.

I've built a billion-dollar company on calculated risks. On data. On not making decisions until I've analyzed them from every conceivable angle. And then Evelyn Barlow walks into my life wearing an ivory dress and a sweet smile, and suddenly I'm throwing around words like choose you every day and promising bouquets of crayons like that’s even a thing. But do I know what any of that actually means?

Do I?

Do I actually know?

I've never been in love before. Not really. There have been women—smart, beautiful, interesting women—but none of them ever made me want to rearrange my life. None of them made me feel like I was untethered and certain all at once. Like I'm standing on the edge of something massive, and I can't decide if I want to jump or run.

My phone buzzes.

Mitchell.

“You still awake?" he asks when I answer.

“Barely," I lie. “Figured you'd be busy being newly married to your princess."

He snorts. "She's asleep. Turns out princesses get jet lag like the rest of us."

"Tragic. The crown doesn't come with immunity to circadian rhythms?"

"Shockingly, no."

I smile despite myself. It's good to hear his voice. Mitchell has always been my anchor—the steady one, the reliable one, the one who somehow emerged from our chaotic childhood with his shit together while I was busy being labeled difficult and too intense and not living up to his potential. In many ways, despite our birth order, Mitchell has always been the big brother.

"How is she?" I ask. "Evie?"