Liars Like Us

32

I look at the papers spread over my desk, think hard about what I really want, and realize there’s one important thing we haven’t discussed that isn’t in the contract.

“What about kids? Don’t you want a family?”

“Do you?”

“No, I’m asking you. And I want you to be honest with me. This is important.”

The silence that follows is long and loud. It makes me nervous. Finally, his voice strangely hollow, he says, “No.”

“Oh.”

“Your turn.”

A wild mix of emotions rages through me. Thinking, I draw a slow breath and sit back in the chair as I fiddle with the edge of a page of the contract.

When I’ve gathered my thoughts, I say, “The truth is, I just always assumed I’d be a mom. I assumed I’d have time to think about it later. But I’m thirty now, so it’s technically later. And if my own relationship history is any indicator, finding a father who’d stick around to raise his kids would be a miracle. I’d be better off going to a sperm bank. But I know how difficult being a single mother is, especially when finances are tight.”

When I pause, I hear him breathing shallowly. I think I can feel his tension, too, the way he’s hanging on every word, but I know that’s only my imagination.

“Both my parents are gone. I’m an only child. The only real family I have is Dani and the people who work with me here at Lit Happens. They’re what matters to me most, not some possible future baby who doesn’t even exist.”

As I speak those words, something crystallizes inside me.

These people I love, this family I’ve created and cherish above everything…I can help them. I can help them all.

But only if I marry Callum.

And let’s be real. He can’t force me to stay married to him. If it turns out to be a nightmare, I’ll call one of those celebrity divorce attorneys. This town is so full of them, they’re hanging from the palm trees.

I take a deep breath, then release it along with the last of my hesitation.

“Okay, billionaire. You’ve got yourself a wife.”

Twelve

O

n the other end of the line, there’s total silence.

I’m not sure what kind of response I was expecting, but dead air is definitely not it.

I say uncertainly, “Hello? Callum, are you listening?”

Nothing. I move the phone from my ear, look at the screen, see the call ended symbol, and am baffled. I look up at the Outlander poster on the wall. “What the f**k, Jamie? Did that smug asshole just hang up on me?”

My Scottish Highlander smolders unhelpfully.

Then an icy wave of horror washes over my body. I inhale sharply. “Wait. Oh God. Was this all some…some kind of…test?”

I sit with the phone gripped in my hand and my mind going a million miles per hour with all the awful possibilities of why Callum might have ended the call at the exact moment I agreed to marry him.

Was he only trying to get me to say yes all this time, but he never intended to actually go through with it? Did he make some sort of malicious bet with another rich person to see if he could convince the broke bookworm that he was swooping in like Superman to whisk me away? Was this whole thing just a game, a bit of entertainment, a way for a bored billionaire to pass the hours?

Could he do something like that?

Is he capable of such cruelty?

I recall all the times he smirked at me, how smug and self-satisfied he always seemed, and feel the phone grow hot in my hand.

I drop it onto my desk, then sit and stare at it with wide eyes, willing it to ring.

It refuses.

After twenty minutes of no callback, where I sit frozen at my desk with clammy hands and a pounding heart, I have to admit to myself that as much as I hate the thought of spending the rest of my life in prison, I better get used to the idea.

Because I’m going to kill Callum McCord.

I’m going to kill that arrogant, ruthless, game-playing son of a b***h in some grisly, agonizing manner that will headline the news cycle for months.

“Hello?” a man calls out from the front of the store. “Where are you, darling?”

I’d know that deep voice anywhere. The voice and that sarcastic nickname he insists on calling me. My blood heats instantly from simmering to a rolling boil.

My face hot, I leap to my feet and look wildly around the office for a murder weapon. Then I grab the stapler off my desk and march into the main room…

Where I find Callum standing near the front counter, flanked by two men.

“There’s my bride,” he says, smiling like a shark. “Why is your face so red?”

I brandish the stapler at him and demand, “Who are they?”

Without looking away from me, he gestures to the man on his left. He’s middle-aged, tall and balding, wearing a navy pinstripe double-breasted suit and carrying a leather briefcase. “This is my attorney, William.”

He gestures to the other man, a young, preppy-looking guy who’s dressed in beige slacks and a short-sleeved black polo shirt. “And this is Andrew.”

Andrew beams at me. “I’m thrilled to meet you, Emery. Callum has told me so much about you.”

The way he’s smiling at me is disturbing. I suspect he’s about to ask me if I have a personal relationship with Jesus.

I snap at him, “Who are you?”

“The McCord family chaplain.”

Chaplain? Startled, I look at Callum. His sharky grin grows wider.

“Could you lower the stapler, darling? You look a little unhinged.”