CHAPTER SIX RIGGS

CHAPTER SIX

RIGGS

My next stop was Duffy’s apartment. I got her address from Gretchen’s assistant number five, Trudy. I got Trudy’s number earlier today, when she gave me a grand tour of WNT and offered to let me fuck her mouth in the break room. I wasn’t going to take Trudy up on her offer—she couldn’t have been older than twenty-two—but after being treated like a walking, talking used condom by my future bride, it was a nice balm on my wounded ego.

Like a lot of young professionals, Duffy opted to live in a trendy neighborhood, in conditions you could find in a sewer. In New York, unless you were very wealthy, you had to choose between location and comfort. Judging by Duffy’s graffitied, smoke-stained building, she’d chosen the former. The place wouldn’t have been palatable to a Ninja Turtle, let alone a prissy Brit.

I showed myself up to her apartment on the second floor, slipping through the building’s entrance door when an older, dashing neighbor of hers walked in. His apartment was on the same floor, and when I stopped by her door, he frowned at me curiously. I knocked. It was already pretty late. I hoped she wasn’t entertaining Prince Charming. I didn’t mind stepping into some action, but it was probably going to suck for him to hear the news while he was inside that human ice cube.

Her door swung open, and in front of me stood my future wife, dressed like a medieval prostitute.

I’m talking burgundy bodice dress paired with golden, elbow-length gloves and an elaborate, crown-like braid. And she had a belt with a sword. An honest-to-God belted sword.

What in the Game of Thrones shit did I get myself into?

“Riggs?” Her mouth fell open. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Specifically, of someone she’d murdered with that sword who then came back to haunt her.

“Is this a bad time? Are you on your way to slay a Lannister?”

“What .?.?. how did you find my address?” Her delicate brows furrowed. I could tell I was an unwelcome surprise. Too damn bad. We had a lot to unpack, including my backpack and, with it, all my worldly belongings.

I strolled past her, inviting myself in. Her place was the size of a porta-potty. This was going to be an issue. For her, not for me. I was used to sleeping in inhumane conditions.

“Before I answer anything, please confirm the sword attached to your belt is fake.” I pointed at her waist.

“What, this?” She yielded the plastic weapon, waving it between us. “Faker than Hilaria Baldwin’s accent.”

“I don’t know who that person is.” But I was sure she hadn’t invented any important medicine or made a breakthrough with the battle against global warming.

“Of course you don’t.” She held the sword like you would a baby, not a weapon. Very good news to my limbs, as I seemed to have a knack for getting on her nerves. “I wouldn’t be so lucky that you’d be well versed in pop culture. Now tell me how you found my address?”

“Trudy gave it to me.”

“How presumptuous of her. Why didn’t you ask me?”

“Because the thought never occurred to me while we were at the WNT offices. I asked her an hour ago.”

“You exchanged numbers with your future wife’s colleague?” She blinked rapidly. “Are you barking mad?”

I opened my arms wide. “Every second marriage in the Western world ends with divorce, Poppins. We’re definitely going to fall into the wrong side of that statistic. Never put all your eggs in one basket. Going anywhere fun?”

I threw her fridge open. She had salads organized in containers with dated Post-it Notes on them on one side, and homemade dressings in small sealed cups on the other. Bottled water. Fresh fruit. And were these .?.?. pickled eggs? Or her enemies’ eyeballs?

“Just got back.” She crossed her arms, watching me hawkishly. “From a Renaissance fair.”

“Fan of the time period?” I took a bottled water, closed the fridge with my boot, and plopped on her couch.

“Oh, I couldn’t give a toss about the period.” She stomped around the tiny space, then stopped in front of me, tugged at a shawl I was sitting on, and wrapped it around her shoulders to hide her cleavage. “I went with my boyf .?.?. ex-boyfriend. He’s rather fond of lager.”

Can’t blame him, considering who he dates.

“Ex-boyfriend, huh?” I arched an eyebrow. “That’s one hell of a thing to tell your fiancé.”

“My fiancé hit on my colleague,” she said in a deadpan.

“Technically, she hit on me. What made you go then?” I sat back. “I’m sure even you aren’t so masochistic as to willingly hang out with your former boyfriend.”

She stopped tramping about and shot me an unsure glance. “If I tell you, you’d laugh.”

Putting a hand on my chest, I said, “Sorry to break it to you, but I’ll be making fun of you no matter what. It’s carved into my genetic alphabet. Better start getting used to it.”

She sighed. “Well, a big part of it was to show him I was unbothered by the sudden breakup. We’d discussed going weeks ago.”

“And the small part?” I tilted my chin down, scanning her face.

“I’m always on the lookout for the perfect American waffle, and the Renaissance fair seemed like a good destination.”

“‘Perfect American waffle’?” Was that a euphemism? A dirty one? Maybe we could get along after all.

She made her way to a recliner and sat down, spine stiff, hands perched in her lap. “Growing up, I’d heard so much about Americans having the best waffles in the world. I hadn’t actually tasted a waffle until I was about thirteen. I grew up watching others eat them on TV. They always looked fluffy and airy and just .?.?.” She trailed off, staring at the ceiling dreamily. “Perfect. Something about the symmetry of a waffle just called out to me. So when I moved here, I decided to find it. The perfect American waffle. The best this country has to offer. I take every chance I get to taste new waffles. I always order them whenever I’m at a new diner. I’ve tried maybe a hundred waffles since I moved to the States.”

This was both impressive and peculiar. I liked people with a mission. Even if that mission was to get type 2 diabetes.

“Please tell me you keep a list of places on your hard drive and rank them.” I knocked back the rest of the water. “That’s such a Daphne Bates thing to do.”

“Daphne Markham,” she corrected sternly. “And don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Her cheeks pinked, and she tossed her hair snootily. “Actually, the list is in a journal.”

I pressed my knuckles to my lips, stifling a laugh. “The pages are laminated, aren’t they?”

“And if they are? Accidents happen all the time. Better be safe than sorry.”

Now I was full blown laughing. I couldn’t believe this person was real. I thought women like her only existed in Colin Firth movies, where it takes him two agonizing hours to win her over, even though she has no redeeming qualities other than quirkiness.

“So how were the Renaissance fair waffles?” I leaned forward, oddly invested.

“Dreadful!” She tossed her hands in the air. “I reckon they were frozen.”

“Sacrilege.” I pretended to gag.

She grinned before seemingly remembering I was the enemy and pinching her eyebrows together. “So what brought you here?”

“Business.” I plucked my phone out of my front pocket and popped the USCIS website on. “Just had drinks with a lawyer friend, and he pointed out we need to jump through several hoops to make sure we’re eligible for your visa thingy. Did you know it was a pain in the ass?”

By the way her cheeks ripened into a bright-red blush, I figured the answer was both Yes and Bugger, he found out. I was 110 percent sure she loved the word bugger.

“I’m sorry.” She winced. “I was at a point of disadvantage. I thought you wouldn’t want to do it—”

“I didn’t want to do it,” I confirmed.

“Well, yes. Precisely.”

There was a pause, in which I briefly contemplated drinking my own weight in bleach in order to remove myself from the situation.

“We’ll have to move in together for real. They could come here and check,” I said, repeating what Christian had said to me at the bar.

“That’s not an issue. You may live here rent-free. Provided you do your chores, of course.”

My gaze traveled around the tiny, run-down place. “I can hardly contain my joy.”

“Oi.” She wagged a finger at me. “A roof is a roof. Neither of us is a millionaire.”

Right. I was a billionaire.

“But one of us is dressed like one.” I eyeballed her Louboutins by the door.

She ducked her head, clearly embarrassed to be called out. “Secondhand stores and hand-me-downs are my best mates,” she explained.

“I’ll need to have my name on the utility bills,” I continued.

“I’ll add you. I’ll still pay for everything. Hey! This could help you build your credit score. I reckon yours must be quite underwhelming, what with your lack of possessions.”

I was almost tempted to tell her all billionaires had embarrassing credit scores. We paid for everything in cash.

I put a hand on my chest. “Your generosity knows no bounds.”

We went onto the government site on her laptop and scrolled through the entire supermarket list applicants had to check, printed it out, then proceeded to book an appointment at City Hall to get married. It was the nearest appointment they had available, and it was still a few weeks away.

“Overwhelming, isn’t it?” Duffy tucked her feet under her ass next to me on the couch, her laptop balancing on her knees after we were done.

“You’re not gonna get cold feet on me, are you?” I shot her a glare. “That would be really bad form, considering you extorted me into this mess.”

“Don’t be thick.” She gave me an aghast look, and damn, she had a knack for looking at me with disapproval. “Of course not. I’m just a bit .?.?. I don’t know, shocked, I suppose.”

There was a beat of silence. I wasn’t going to console her for strong-arming me into this plan. Besides, I was now fully devoted to the task of screwing up my life and marrying this stranger. First, because of Emmett, for daring to question the authenticity of my fake engagement, and second, because of Christian and Arsène.

“Oh, one more thing,” I said casually. “We’re hiring an immigration lawyer. Felicity Zimmerman. She’s the best in the business and apparently knows some of the people at the local USCIS. It’s gonna cost ya, though.”

“You mean us.” She tilted her head.

“Sure, if you use the royal we.”

Her shoulder slacked, her mouth flattening into a thin line.

“Better start going through that list.” I jerked my chin toward the paper between us.

She picked it up but froze midway, frowning. “You wouldn’t mind if I opened a bottle of wine, would you?”

“Mind? I would volunteer my teeth as a bottle opener.” I could kiss her at that moment. I didn’t even mind the frostbite. “Do you have anything stronger? Whiskey? Tequila? Cyanide?”

She stood up, swaggering to her kitchenette cabinets. “The cyanide I keep for election week. That’s when I pull eighteen-hour shifts. I do have tequila, though. Forty-three percent alcohol, I believe?”

Maybe she wasn’t such a bad idea.

A printed (and laminated) sheet of our to-do list and six shots later, Duffy and I opened a joint bank account online.

“It asks for your annual salary here,” Duffy said apologetically, turning her laptop toward me. “I understand if you don’t want me to see. Just put the number in and click the ‘next’ button. I won’t look.”

I took the laptop from her, then downed another shot of tequila and put in my Discovery salary, which was laughable by New York standards.

“Er, I almost forgot .?.?.” Duffy pretzeled like she was made out of Play-Doh. “If you’re making less than twenty-three K a year, it could pose some issues with your sponsorship. Something about the government wanting you to pay your fair share in taxes to be eligible. You’ll have to load your last few tax returns.”

Considering I paid more taxes last year than the state of North Dakota, I didn’t think we had a problem. As a matter of principle, I didn’t tell anyone about my wealth. Least of all someone who’d soon be entitled to half my fortune.

“Twenty-three, you say? I’ll make it work. Might take me a second or two to find my tax returns, though, so let’s leave it blank for now.” I returned the laptop to her. She nodded, tucking flyaways from her braid behind her ear. She had nice, small ears. And she smelled good. Not fruity and seductive like the women I stumbled into bed with. More like .?.?. drywall. I could understand how some men found her attractive. Or maybe it was the tequila that could understand it. I did drink on an empty stomach. And by empty stomach, I mean we shared one of her salads and a tofu steak earlier.

The woman ate like a rabbit.

She was still talking as I reared my head back, squinting to try to get her face back into focus.

“Well, that’s the bank account sorted! Next, we should go to a restaurant or something, somewhere with friends, and take pictures together. We should aim for casual yet affectionate. Perhaps I’ll wear my hair differently so they’d think it was taken a long time ago? There must be a tutorial online on how to fake a fringe—”

“I’m crashing here tonight.” The words tumbled out of my mouth with a slur.

“Oh.” She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Jolly good. I have clean sheets in my room. I’ll sort you out a spot on the settee. It’s quite comfy, or so Kieran says.”

“You let your boyfriend sleep on the couch?” Sadly, I could believe that.

“What? No! Kieran is my twin brother.”

“There are two of you?”

“Bugger off.” She pouted, but I could tell she was amused more than annoyed. “Or I’ll make you sleep on the floor.”

“Is this a degradation kink? Because I might be into that.”

“Oh, dear.” She ignored my quip. “You’re going to stink up my sofa with your weed smell, aren’t you?”

“We could share a bed, you know.” Now I was just riling her up, watching as her eyes flared and her skin tone turned into that of a Solo cup.

“A bed?” Her purple eyes widened comically. “I don’t think so.” She stood up, hurrying toward her kitchenette. “Clearly we’ve both had a bit too much to drink. I reckon a strong black tea is just what the doctor ordered. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Worried you’d be tempted?” I spread my limbs, intentionally dwarfing the couch. She knew damn well I couldn’t fit horizontally on that thing. I could barely squeeze into her entire apartment. “There’ll be no hanky-panky. I’ll keep my hands to myself. All the other important organs too. Even though you smell like drywall.”

“Like drywa .?.?.” She was about to finish the sentence, then thought better of it, instead producing two beige mugs from a drawer and dropping teabags inside them. “Never mind. The answer is no. As I mentioned before, I am still involved with my ex-boyfriend.”

“Does your ex-boyfriend know you’re getting married to a stranger?” I asked, watching as she spun around the place listlessly.

“Uhm, not quite.”

“It’s a yes-or-no question. No gray area here, I’m afraid.”

She twisted around like she was trying to worm her way out of her skin. “In that case, no, he doesn’t know. It’s complicated, though. We’re going through .?.?. something.”

“Some-what?”

“His faculties taking a leave of absence. He is sort of searching for himself. We aren’t together currently, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” I slanted my head. “I’ve never been in a serious relationship, but I’ve always known I wasn’t in one.”

“I’m sure we’ll get back together!” she said defensively. “He’s just going through some things right now. He is .?.?.”

“A wishy-washy asshole?” I offered charitably.

“A complicated man.” She shot me a scolding glare. “Anyway, it’s just for six months. He’s going away to clear his head for a bit.”

“Where to?” Not that it mattered. There was only one kind of man who was happy to leave everything behind him for six months and travel—a man who didn’t have any pressing issues back home. He wasn’t serious about her.

“Kathmandu.”

“Aha.”

“What do you mean, aha?” She prickled.

“Nothing.” I raised my palms in mock innocence.

She squinted at me with suspicion. “You’ve clearly got something to say. Go ahead, you won’t offend my delicate senses.”

“I bet he watched Everest and decided it’d be cool to see the mountain up close.”

Mount Everest was by far the most gorgeous sight I’d ever laid eyes on. I planned on climbing it again before I hit fifty.

“I’ll have you know he’ll be teaching English to monks,” she said protectively.

I threw my head back and laughed, while Duffy stood there and stared at me, lava-tipped arrows shooting from her eyes straight to my face.

“What’s so bloody hilarious?” she demanded.

“Those programs are semiscams. They’re for patronizing Westerners who want to feel good about themselves. You know he needs to actually pay to stay there, right? Like, a couple hundred bucks a week. About twenty-five thousand Nepali rupees. I survived on that kind of money for an entire month, in semiluxurious conditions last time I was there.” I slapped my thigh, cackling. “Only white rich dudes from New England go around thinking they can teach monks shit and not vice versa.”

Duffy’s lips were now pressed into a disapproving line. “He’s not from New England. He’s from Westchester.”

That only made me laugh harder. “You’re killing me, kid.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Yes, you are, and a very sweet one, under those ridiculous high-end clothes and fake posh accent.”

That last comment made her flinch, which confirmed my suspicion she was putting on a show. She poured water and milk into our teas and brought them over to the coffee table, shaking with anger. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s about self-growth. He doesn’t care about the money.”

“You mean he’s rich, unlike me?” I grinned, pleased. “Well, that explains why you’re only semibroken up and not completely finished.”

“He’s doing well for himself, yes. There’s no shame in that.”

“You still think he’ll have a change of heart and you’ll get to be Mrs. Moneybags.”

She gave me a blank stare. “Believe it or not, I love him.”

The only thing that helped me calm down from my fit of laughter was the knowledge she was extremely tempted to toss hot tea in my face. To my surprise, she handed me two Tylenols.

“For your head tomorrow,” she mumbled.

“I’m not that drunk,” I pointed out.

“God, I was hoping you were. The things that come out of your mouth are outrageous.”

I accepted the tea and acetaminophen gratefully.

“At any rate, I should let you know up front.” Duffy tipped her chin up. “Once he comes back and realizes the error of his ways, this arrangement is over.”

I covered my mouth with my fist to stifle another laugh. This woman was marrying a whole-ass stranger, and she was talking to me about being in love with her ex-boyfriend. I wondered at what point in recent history logic had filed a restraining order against her.

“I understand.” I nodded solemnly. “Thanks for clarifying.”

“Look, I gathered you’re quite the lothario.” She took a sip of her tea. “Props to you, I’m not one to judge. But BJ and I—”

“Hold the press.” I held up a hand. “His name is BJ?”

“Brendan Jr.”

“Please tell me everyone calls him Cocksucker.”

“Riggs!” She stood up, wanting to be horrified by my words, but—I noticed—biting down on a smile. She liked that I was making fun of him. Why shouldn’t she? Asshole probably fucked up her plans of marriage, babies, and all the other boring stuff and made a run for it.

“So, I guess you met in college? How long ago was that?” It would be nice to know my future wife’s age. “Three, four years?”

“Almost eight years,” she corrected. “I’m twenty-six; he is twenty-seven.”

Riggs Jr. sighed in relief in my Dickies. She was young, but not so young that it was terrible for me to beat one off to her mental image. Touching her, however, was firmly out of the question.

“Wait, you were with Cocksucker for seven years and you didn’t even live together?” I spluttered my milk tea. More because it was terrible than because of shock.

“First of all, stop calling him that. Second, his family is quite conservative.”

“Were you two having sex?”

“How is that any of your business?” She was tiny and furious, like Tinker Bell. Just like with Tinker Bell, I’d have loved to smack her ass and watch her fairy dust fall.

“So you did. Nice setup, Cocksucker. Guess he’s happy to please his family by delegitimizing your relationship and keeping you out of his apartment, just as long as he doesn’t need to keep his dick in his pants.”

“This conversation is over,” she declared. “I’m going to fetch your linen and a towel in case you’d like to shower. Which, by the way, is advisable. You smell like a subway urinal.”

I laughed so hard I thought I was going to explode, then tripped over the couch while sitting down.

This was going to be fun.