Page 31 of Accidentally Marrying the Billionaire

He exhales. "Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do. But I will say this: if you spend the next six months protecting yourself, hedging your bets, waiting until you're sure—you're going to lose her. Not because she'll leave, but because she'll never know she was actually wanted."

That lands like a punch to the gut.

"She deserves to know," he adds quietly. "Even if it scares you."

I'm silent for a long moment.

"What if I scare her?" I finally ask.

“Then you scared her by being honest. That's better than losing her by staying quiet."

"Since when did you become a relationship expert?"

"Since I drove a princess across three states and realized I'd rather die than let her marry someone else. Even if that someone was my brother.” He pauses. "Love makes you stupid, Mike. Embrace it."

I laugh despite myself. "That's terrible advice." I get up and move to get a glass of water.

"It's the best advice I've got."

We hang up a few minutes later, after he makes me promise to call tomorrow, and I make him promise to stop being so annoyingly wise.

I stand in my kitchen for a long time after, phone heavy in my hand, the city glittering outside the windows.

The thing is—I know he's right. I've always known.

I've spent my whole life analyzing. Planning. Waiting for certainty before making a move. And where has it gotten me? Rich, successful, and alone in a condo that's too big for one person, terrified of becoming my father while simultaneously refusing to become anything at all.

Evelyn is asleep twenty feet away from me.

She's warm and funny and braver than she knows. She teaches five-year-olds for a living, which means she has the patience of a saint and might know a thing or two about handling “difficult” people.

If it feels real, it probably is.

For the first time in my life, I'm not going to wait until I'm certain. I'm not going to analyze this to death. I'm not going to protect myself at her expense.

I'm going to choose her.

And tomorrow, when she wakes up, I'm going to tell her.

Not because I'm sure.

Because she deserves to know.

If I’m too much for her, well, then at least I’ll know I tried, and she’ll know someone wanted her.

chapter

eleven

Evelyn

Finley chooses the café.

It's one of those places with mismatched chairs, chalkboard menus, and a line out the door because someone on TikTok called it "criminally underrated" six months ago. Now you can't get a table without arriving twenty minutes early or knowing someone who knows someone.

Finley, naturally, knows someone who knows someone. She's already seated when I arrive, in a corner booth with good lighting and a clear sightline to the door—the kind of strategic positioning that comes from years of being married to a man who played professional football and can't go anywhere without being recognized.

She spots me immediately and waves with the enthusiasm of someone who's been vibrating out of her skin since I stopped texting her yesterday.