Chapter Five

Chelle

Her thick thighs were saving lives. Literally.

Okay, maybe not literally, but it was Chelle’s strong legs that were helping to get a wobbly kneed, but thankfully not as ghostly white, passed out anymore, know-it-all down the second-floor hall to her apartment.

Her dogs barked their encouragement from a few steps ahead while her cat watched the entire process from the welcome mat in front of the door, with a look of total contempt. If it had been anyone else, she would be laughing—how could a person not in this ridiculous situation? Here she was, with her arm around a guy who was a solid foot taller than her and wider than her size-sixteen self, slow-walking down her hallway because her cat had tried to slice and dice him while her dogs had gone for a little light bondage in public.

Did her brain go to bondage while holding onto a guy so solid he seemed like he’d tell a tree how to tree? Yeah.

What could she say, she was a woman who wrote erotic fantasy stories based very loosely on Greek myths with bisexual double-dicked satyrs and nymph assassins working together to save the world, so “going there” was kind of in her wheelhouse. Never mind the fact that she never actually submitted her stories to a publisher and that all of them had ended up printed out, bound, and in a box in her front closet. She was a woman with a vivid imagination, and she liked using it.

Plus, she was a sucker for whatever cologne Nash was wearing. It was just woodsy and manly enough that she was having way too many mental images of a guy who looked a lot like him with the perfect level of Viking-rugged-lumberjack bod sitting half naked in front of a fireplace and reading The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin out loud to her. Yes, he’d totally do all the voices.

That fantasy was enough to block out the shakes in her thighs—from overwork and not because she kept taking extra sniffs of him, even though she had (a fact she’d spend the rest of her life not telling anyone) as they got closer to her apartment.

“It’s the next door on the left,” she said.

“The yellow one?” He shook his head and made the same disappointed clucking sound his mom had made at the park yesterday. “You should consider matching your neighbors’ doors. The yellow makes it stand out and could make you an easier target for someone unsavory.”

She laughed, a harsh blast of sound that sounded about as joyful as burned popcorn tasted. “I’m a round woman in her forties who is forever single. I stand out no matter what.” She fished her keys out of her pocket on her non-Nash side and unlocked her door. “Besides, I like this goldenrod shade of yellow.”

That seemed to shut him up, but only until they got inside. He stood in the middle of her living room, weight all on his right foot, as she cleared the stack of books on the closest chair so he could sit down, and took a look around her pre-war apartment.

She’d inherited the place from her great-aunt Katherine, the only other female Finch to rebel against the confining familial bonds of being a Finch. Her great-aunt had started the process of taking the neutral color palette beloved by their taupe-is-color-enough family and injecting the hand-finished plaster walls with bright, glorious color—and Chelle had continued the tradition.

She’d spent the fall sanding down the built-in bookcases in the living room and then staining them a peacock blue that looked gorgeous with the sun coming in from the oversized leaded-glass window that overlooked the park. Next on her list was to strip all of the white paint from the fireplace surround and bring it back to its original red brick. There were a pair of matching leopard-print dog beds on either side of the hearth, a custom-built catwalk for Sir Hiss that went across the top third of the window, and parquet-patterned hardwood floors that had enough coats of industrial-strength polyurethane to protect it when Groucho Barks and Mary Puppins got the zoomies.

“Is that a sword?” Nash asked, looking at the Claymores hanging above her fireplace that had been the inspiration for the hero’s weapon of choice in her second book.

“Yes.” She unhooked the dogs’ leashes from their collars, and they took off running to the water bowl in the kitchen. “Here, you sit down, and I’ll get a bandage for your head. Then we can take a look at your ankle.”

After he settled into the chair and put his foot up on the deep merlot–colored storage ottoman also filled with books, she hurried into the kitchen. She grabbed the bandages and hydrogen peroxide from the cupboard by the fridge, filled a plastic baggie with ice, and then snagged a clean washcloth from under the bathroom sink and got it wet enough to clean up the one-inch slice Sir Hiss had made to the guy’s forehead.

Arms full of Florence Nightingale supplies, Chelle walked through the arched opening from the hall back into the living room and came to a dead stop.

Nash sat there in the chair, with Sir Hiss making biscuits on his thigh.

Seeing her cat do that was weird enough to make her pause, considering his fuck-you attitude toward almost everyone.

But what really had her frozen to the spot was the fact that Nash had taken off his camel-colored topcoat and was sitting there in a cream sweater with its sleeves pulled up to almost his elbows and a pair of navy trousers, the inseam of which were doing the Lord’s work to keep it together around his solid-oak thighs. Blond hair, with dimples that never quite went away even when he wasn’t smiling, and a square jaw, Nash Beckett was very much not her type. There wasn’t a tattoo, a piercing, or even a smidge of the kind of trouble that acted like honey for nearly any woman who’d broken free from a claustrophobically set-in-the-fifties patriarchal family.

And yet…

Damn, she really needed to re-download the dating apps she had deleted for the fiftieth time. Her fingers and her vibrator were good, but sometimes the only thing that took the edge off was the D.

And did her gaze drop down to his lap?

Yes, it did.

Fuck. She really needed to pull it together.

“You know,” Nash said, ruining the delightfully dirty direction of her thoughts by opening his mouth and letting rip with the one-way conversation starter preferred by mansplainers everywhere, “if that sword fell from the wall, it could damage the wood floor or even hurt your pets.”

God, why did hot men have to ruin everything by talking? “Good thing I have it well secured, then.”

“Are you sure?” He started to get up, annoying the cat, who jumped off his lap and stalked off. “I can double check it.”

“They’re fine,” she said as she crossed over to where he was before he could put any weight on his sore ankle. “Now sit back down.”

He looked like he was going to argue for a second but to her relief settled back down into the chair and put his foot on the ottoman again. After making sure the plastic baggie was closed all the way, she pushed the leg of his pants up, rolled down his tan-and-brown argyle sock, and checked his ankle. She wasn’t a doctor, but she’d played in enough field hockey games growing up to know what to do with a banged-up ankle. Nash’s was swollen but not ballooning up. That was a good sign.

“Are your toes tingling or numb?” she asked.

He shook his head as he wiggled his toes and then rolled his ankle, only grimacing a little.

“Good. It looks like it’s only a mild sprain.” She let out a relieved breath—not just because she didn’t want to see anyone get hurt but because she also didn’t want to get sued, something she knew from her own family that rich people loved to do, and there was no way with that fine of a bespoke topcoat that Nash Beckett didn’t have money. And unlike the rest of her family, her bank account was nowhere near healthy enough for her to get sued by someone with too much money and time on their hands. “You just need some ice, rest, and elevation, but if the pain gets worse, you’ll need to go see a doctor.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but he just grinned back at her, the dimples in both cheeks giving him a charming vibe instead of a smarmy one. Now that was a good trick. She made a mental note to give her satyr hero a dimple—only one, though, because two was a little overwhelming.

“Now to that cut,” she said as she picked up the damp washcloth.

Standing close and leaning over him a bit, she dabbed at the laceration, glad to see it wasn’t bleeding much anymore, which was amazing because she was late on trimming Sir Hiss’s nails and those babies were little knives right now.

“That’s a lot of books,” he said, referring to her stuffed bookshelves.

“All the better to read away the long, cold nights.”

Fine. Maybe three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves was a bit much, but she was a woman with an indie bookstore within walking distance and they welcomed well-behaved pets—which meant they made an exception for hers.

“You know,” Nash started in with that icepick of a know-it-all tone, “if you rearranged the books into alphabetical order, it would be easier to manage your collection.”

“Actually, I like them organized by color.” The bright rainbow of printed friends made her smile whenever she walked into the living room.

“But if you alphabetized them, it would be so much easier to find what book you’re looking for.” He winced a bit when she dabbed hydrogen peroxide on his cut. “And what about moving the couch so it’s not in front of the window but nearer the fireplace?”

Oh my God. Did the man not stop? She at least was starting to see why his mother felt so confident her son would know exactly how to help her fix her problem with her father’s will. Was there anything this guy didn’t think he knew the answer for?

“The dogs spend most of the day watching the neighborhood goings on from the back of the couch,” she said between clenched teeth as she used the washcloth again to clean up the hydrogen peroxide where it had run a bit down his forehead.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked, obviously not taking the hint. “I know they’re small, but their weight is enough to pull the seams of the cushions. That would be a real headache to fix and—”

Chelle held up the damp washcloth, putting the corner that had turned a very light pink from the cut on his forehead right in front of his eyes.

All of the color drained from his face, and he gulped. “That’s not fair.”

“No.” She folded up the cloth so he couldn’t see the stained side. “But it got you to stop mansplaining my own apartment decor to me.”

He opened up his mouth as if he was going to make another run at the topic, closed it for a second, and then said, “Mom said you need help.”

“I do, but I don’t think you’ll be able to do anything,” Chelle said as she put a bandage over his cut with hands that shook just enough to remind her to take a deep breath before all the anger at the injustice of it all swirling around in her belly took over. “I have to break a condition of my father’s will, and every lawyer I’ve talked to said it can’t be done.” She stood up and gathered the cloth, the brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and the bandage wrapper. “If I can’t, then control of the charity foundation I’ve dedicated my life to running goes to my uncle, who would love nothing more than to shut it down or turn it into a paper charity. I mean, the foundation has a board, but they’ll fall in step behind my uncle. He has all the right connections to press his point. I can’t let that happen.”

Her heart was going a million miles an hour, and if she clamped her teeth together any tighter she was going to crack a molar, but she held onto her control. Giving in to the fury never helped when it came to her family.

“What’s the will require?”

“That I get married,” she said.

Did it come out like she’d said bury herself in a hole so deep she’d disappear completely? Well, that tracked, because that’s the type of marriage her father had no doubt envisioned for her.

“There is no way that’s legal,” Nash said.

“Well, according to the lawyers I’ve talked with, the wording in my father’s will skirts that line just enough to make it work.” Dread and a sense of powerlessness ate away at her stomach lining. “And after they fire me as the Finch Foundation’s executive director, Uncle Buckley will install some figurehead to keep the foundation functioning enough to be a tax write-off, but that’ll be it. It’ll be a shadow of its former self.”

The dogs scurried closer, rubbing their hard little heads against her calves in an obvious effort to comfort her, but Chelle couldn’t stop. The words just poured out, frustration thick with each syllable coming out of her mouth. “I’ve talked to the lawyers, they’re willing to go to court, but at most, it’ll just be a delay of the inevitable. Either I get married and get a judge to agree it’s a valid marriage or Uncle Buckley gets control of the foundation.”

By the time she finished, her lungs tight with fury at how unfair and just plain wrong it all was, the pugs were wiggling and prancing in place at her feet, yapping and howling in solidarity—obviously not knowing who they were mad at, but if Chelle was mad, so were they. And people wondered why having pets was so amazing. They didn’t worry about what other people thought or needed to adhere to some outdated ideas about gender roles. They loved, they were loyal, and when it looked like the shit was about to hit the fan, they were there. If only she could find human beings who were like that—who didn’t only live between the covers of a book.

“I’m sorry, babies, Mommy just got fired up about Uncle Fuckley,” Chelle said in a soothing tone as she pat the now-quiet pugs on their heads before looking over at Nash, nailing him to his chair with a glare. “And no, I don’t need you to explain to me about training my dogs to calm down. I do not need a man to tell me my own business. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never again.”

If he understood that her last statement was to put him in his place, Nash Beckett didn’t show it. Instead, he looked up at her with a confidence bordering on cocky.

“But I know exactly what needs to happen,” he said, sitting forward in his chair, a huge smile on his face. “We have to get married.”

That was the most asinine thing she’d ever heard. Chelle stared at him for a moment in shock before the absolute, undeniable ridiculousness of the idea hit her and all she could do was laugh. It wasn’t a little giggle or a hearty chuckle. It was a big, throw-your-head-back, evaporate-all-of-your-worries-for-a-moment belly laugh that left her breathless with a goofy grin on her face by the time she finally stopped.

“Oh my God. I needed that,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Getting married to anyone—let alone getting married to a total stranger—is what I’m trying to avoid.”

“Marriage will fix it all,” he said, looking as if he was already putting together a mental plan to share the news with their families. “We only have to stay together long enough to get a judge to declare you married and, therefore, having met the terms of your father’s will—which doesn’t mention anything about a quick divorce afterward, I’m hoping.”

He grinned bigger when Chelle shook her head no. “Perfect. And for me to win a little bet I’ve got going with my cousins, I just have to date a woman and not fall in love. There’s nothing in the rules saying I can’t date my wife.” He clapped his large hands together and looked up at her. “We can start the divorce proceedings on New Year’s Eve, both of us with everything we wanted. There is no downside to this.”

Nash Beckett was a puppy of a man, the kind who’d always had everything go his way.

Okay, fine. He didn’t look like a puppy.

When he was standing upright, he towered over Chelle’s five feet six inches. He had a jaw that was square enough to make Superman weep with jealousy. Then there was the fact that he had sandy blond hair that waved just enough to make a woman who hadn’t settled into permanent singledom want to run her fingers through it. Add to that, he had these ice-blue eyes that Chelle could easily imagine staring into over gin and tonics at night and mugs of hot tea the next morning. All of it added up to Nash Beckett being not a puppy but a very big dog—perfect for a young, cute, thirty-something woman with a high tolerance for mansplaining and the patience for rearranging her life to make room for another person.

Chelle was not that woman.

Not even close.

She was a no-fucks-left-to-give forty-two-year-old who was not going to adjust her life to fit with another person. She had her pets, her books she wrote and never shared with another soul, and her determination to somehow—anyhow—keep Uncle Buckley’s boney little fingers off of the trigger of the gun he aimed at the foundation. It was almost enough to fill all of her time.

Fine.

She could use another project or five beyond all of that and learning to stilt-walk to fill up the hours, but that didn’t mean she wanted a man. She had batteries, a vivid imagination, and the internet in all of its porny glory. The last thing she wanted was a husband—especially one who liked to tell her her own business.

Ha!

Not in this lifetime, and probably not in the one after it, either.

Still, her interest was piqued, and she hadn’t been able to think of another solution since her dad’s will was read almost a year ago. That was never a good combination. Plus, her writer brain really wanted to know about what was in it for him.

“What’s your bet with your cousins?”

He let out a resigned sigh. “It’s to go out on six dates with the same woman who responds to the Bramble bio by Christmas and not fall in love with her.”

Too bad for the young pup sitting across from her, the years when that would have made her stop everything to pitch in and help were gone. She was a grown-ass woman. She didn’t play anymore.

“Yeah, no. I’m gonna have to turn down your unusual proposal. I’ll figure out another way. I have to.” She let out a weary sigh, because she really was too old for the kind of bullshittery that went with having a man in her life. “Sorry again for Sir Hiss and the dogs. Do you need me to call someone to give you a ride home?”

Chelle was turning toward the kitchen to put away her nursing supplies when Nash reached out, his hand stopping millimeters from hers and setting off every one of her oh-hey-there-we-liked-that-a-lot nerves that went straight to her clit.

Whatever.

So it had been all batteries all the time for too long. That didn’t mean she needed to change anything about how she was living her life. She was more than fine.

He pulled his hand back without actually touching her, flexing his fingers as he did so. “It really could work.”

She was about to tell him to forget it—again—when that little nugget of a question popped in her head. It was a “what if” that usually meant the perfect idea for a book, but this time it was all about real life and having an opportunity that very few women who’ve had to deal with a mansplainer ever get. A giddy thrill zoomed through her and had her clasping her hands together so she didn’t clap with excitement.

“Only if I can give you a mansplainer makeover,” she said, turning the very bad—and yet very, very good—idea around in her head.

It was the kind of idea that probably wouldn’t work out, but if it did…oh! If it did. It was as enticing as that late-night declaration from a friend that one more shot of tequila wouldn’t do any harm. So salut and cheers to the universe, because she was going to go for it even if this idea would leave her with a massive hangover and all the regrets.

“Agreed.” He nodded. “Just tell me what to do.”

One of her eyebrows shot upward, almost of its own free will, because there was no way he wasn’t full of shit. “That was a quick yes.”

He grinned, showing off just how big both of his dimples were, and any hope she had of resisting this delicious idea began to disintegrate.

Tempting? Oh my God was this tempting.

“And you’ll do whatever I say?” That seemed like fun. How many times had she wanted to set a man who thought he knew everything right back into his own lane? And now she could actually do it? And he was asking for it?

“Actually, that’s not exactly how a makeover works. You see—” He shut his mouth and pursed his lips together. “Fuck. Sorry.”

Her laugh exploded out of her, loud and full of amused joy.

Well, she had been thinking about starting another project. This could be Operation Nash Doolittle. Really, she’d be doing the women of Harbor City a favor.

Still, she couldn’t shake the last little crumbs of hesitation.

“I’m nearly ten years older than you are, at a guess. I could have been your babysitter,” she said, even as she began to mentally crush those crumbs. “No one would believe we would get married for real. Uncle Buckley would see it for the farce it is and convince the judge we’re trying to defraud the court.”

“Trust me, I sell people on ideas for a living. They’ll believe us,” Nash said, his gaze dipping down to her mouth before snapping back up. “It would only be for a month—long enough for me to win the bet and for you to satisfy the rules of the will. All you have to do is respond to my Bramble dating bio and then we get married. It’s easy and will fix everything. You know it will. Anyway, do you have a better plan?”

The answer to that was a firm no.

The whole idea of getting married was awful. There was a reason why married men lived longer on average than married women. Marriage was work—a lot of it done mostly by the wife—made bearable because the people involved loved each other. Chelle didn’t even know Nash Beckett, let alone love him.

But she also didn’t know of another way to keep her uncle from defunding the charitable foundation if he got his hands on it. Marrying Nash would satisfy the requirement of her dad’s will.

It was her only option. She had to bite the veil and get married.