Page 43 of Accidentally Marrying the Billionaire

Here we are. Six months and one day since we accidentally got married in Vegas. Six months and one day since the best day of my entire life.

The prenup expired yesterday. Not that either of us mentioned it. We'd stopped counting months ago, right around the time she rearranged my kitchen cabinets "for efficiency,” and I realized I wanted her to rearrange everything in my life. Permanently.

I check my watch. She should be walking through the door any minute.

The condo is ready. Well, as ready as it can be when you've enlisted your brother and a princess to help with logistics, your assistant to coordinate flights, and Finley to keep Evelyn distracted with a fake "urgent brunch" this morning.

There are orchids everywhere. Of course there are. But mixed among them—tucked into the arrangements on the coffee table, the kitchen counter, the entryway—are crayons. Hundreds of them. Every color Crayola has ever made, arranged in little bouquets with ribbon and baby's breath like the world's most colorful, most ridiculous flowers.

The first time I sent a crayon bouquet to her classroom, she called me crying.

"You sent me crayons," she'd sobbed into the phone.

"You said you'd prefer them to flowers," I reminded her.

"I was joking."

"Were you, though?"

She'd laughed then, that watery, wonderful laugh that still makes my chest ache. "No. I wasn't. They're perfect. The kids think I have a secret admirer."

"You do. He's just not very secret."

After that, the crayon bouquets became a thing. One for Valentine's Day. One for her birthday. On the last day of school, when she cried over her students leaving, and I held her on the couch while she told me about each of them by name.

But this—this is the biggest one yet.

And it's just the beginning.

The door opens.

"Mike?" Evelyn's voice carries through the entryway. "Why did Finley keep asking if I'd packed a bag? I told her I wasn't⁠—"

She stops.

I'm standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by flowers and crayons, wearing a suit that costs more than some cars. There's a suitcase by my feet. Two of them, actually. Hers and mine.

"Hi," I say.

She stares. "What is this?"

"This is me, being romantic.”

Her lips twitch. "I can see that. Is that... are those crayons?"

"Six hundred and forty-two of them. The complete Crayola collection, plus some specialty packs." I shrug. "I may have gone overboard."

Her brows raise. “You think?"

I step toward her, taking her hands in mine. "But I figured if I was going to do this, I should do it right."

Her eyes narrow. "Do what, exactly?"

"Do you know what yesterday was?"

She tilts her head. "Thursday?"

"It was also the day our prenup expired."