18. Pay It Forward

18

PAY IT FORWARD

Maeve

A weathered valet with thinning hair and a pale complexion swings open the car door before I can fully process the last words from my agent, let alone the fact that I got the gig with the Sea Dogs. For a huge commission. The biggest of my career. A mural that will be seen by thousands every time there’s a game. A job I didn’t think I’d land.

But right now, I need to focus on this job. The valet offers me a hand, looking me up and down. “You must be the painter. Come inside. Mr. Vincenzo is eager for your contributions.”

He’s the eccentric fashion designer hosting this party.

That’s when it hits me—the man in front of me isn’t a valet; he’s a butler, and he’s Serious with a capital S.

“Great, um. I have someone with me,” I say, pointing to Asher, still in a daze. From the Sea Dogs job, but also…did An gelina actually call me Mrs. Callahan? That’s…well, I don’t want to think too long on why she would.

The butler offers a thin-lipped smile. “That’s perfectly fine to bring an assistant,” he says.

“Oh, he’s not my assistant,” I say, nodding to Asher, who’s stepping out on the other side, giving me a questioning look.

The butler jerks his gaze to Asher, quickly scanning him with robot eyes and efficiency. “Your partner then? Lovely.”

My stomach drops. “Actually,” I say, but the rest of the sentence dies on my tongue.

There’s only one reason Angelina would call me Mrs. Callahan. Somehow, the news that we got married is already out there on the Internet.

But we weren’t wearing our rings earlier when we left the hotel. Did Mrs. Matrimony leak the photos? That doesn’t seem like her style, but who knows? It couldn’t have been Jen and Hal—they took pictures of us before we got the brilliant idea to honor a marriage pact.

The driver scurries around to pop open the trunk, and I briefly contemplate sliding my ring off, but there’s no real privacy. As I grab my gear, Asher comes up next to me, whispering out of the side of his mouth, “What can I do?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter through clenched teeth because…butlers. They’re terrifying.

I bet part of a butler’s job requirement is to have bionic hearing. I’m sure Mister Pale Butler watches everything like a hawk too. I can’t very well take my band off in front of him now. He might think I was acting single to try and pick someone up. It’d be obvious if Asher slipped his off as well .

But maybe I can get away with claiming I don’t wear it while I paint? If the butler asks? Then Asher can subtly slip his band off, and we can clear up this misunderstanding.

Yes! I am brilliant. Hear me roar!

But just as I turn to the older man, ready to say something like, Oh, I’d better not paint in my wedding band, I notice he’s no longer alone. A woman with light brown skin, a newsboy cap, and a Nikon camera stands beside him.

“Just go about your business. Pretend I’m not even here,” she says with the ease of someone used to giving direction.

Um, how? Also, what if I don’t want photos taken?

I freeze for a second, but Asher steps up with a kind but firm, “We’d prefer no pictures, actually.”

The woman looks up from her camera, offering a bland smile. “That’s nice, but the invite said we’d be taking candids all night and posting on his feed, along with the live painting, so you’ve pre-consented. It’s Mr. Vincenzo’s thing.”

“Documenting his life and times is important for Mr. Vincenzo. For posterity, of course,” the butler adds, still humorless.

“When he publishes his memoirs someday,” the photographer says, then adds proudly, “I’m his personal photographer.”

Oh well, fuck me with a croissant. Not only is the host rich and eccentric, he’s loaded with digital film.

His personal shutterbug keeps snapping away. She takes picture after picture of my husband and me, rings on and everything. What started as a prank on my brother—leaving on the rings—now feels like a very big problem.

Once we’re inside the mansion, I barely register the sleek, minimalist design as the butler leads us down the spacious hallway. The polished concrete floors and stark white walls are a blur. All I can think about is finding a moment of privacy to snag my husband and figure out this newfangled mess.

“I just need to use the ladies’ room for a second,” I tell the butler, pasting on a false smile for Mister Robot.

He nods curtly, gesturing down the hall to the nearest amenities, and I quickly slip in that direction, motioning for Asher to follow me. The butler doesn’t react—he’s no doubt seen it all before.

I set my paints and easel down in the hallway and head inside the room, Asher right behind me. A frameless mirror stretches across the wall above a floating vanity, and the air smells faintly of eucalyptus. But I don’t have time to admire the swank bathroom or these plush hand towels that no doubt cost more than my couch.

As soon as the door snicks shut, I push my hands into my hair, not even caring how messy it will get. “What do we do?” I ask Asher as I pace in the large bathroom. “Everyone thinks we’re married, obviously. And now my fancy-ass fashion designer client is going to post pics from tonight as part of his memoirs, saying I painted here…with my brand-new husband. WHO’S A FAMOUS HOCKEY PLAYER!” I whisper-hiss.

“Semi-famous,” Asher deadpans.

“You and your ass are plenty famous! What are we supposed to do?” I drop my voice even more. My palms are getting sweaty. I rub my hands together, trying to get rid of this clammy feeling. I need to unlock my phone to find out why everyone knows we’re hitched, but I’m terrified of what I’ll see.

“I just landed this huge commission, and I don’t want my new client or any potential clients here to think I waltzed into this party pretending to be married. Or married by mistake. Or drunk married. I don’t know who they are. I don’t know their values. I don’t know how they view any of that. They might not want to hire an artist who’s, gee, even flightier than artists are known for being!”

My heart is racing. I’m breathing too hard. I’m on the cusp of a big break, and I don’t want to lose it for being wild and drunk in Vegas, especially since we were only tipsy.

But…semantics.

I take a big, shaky breath, willing my pulse to settle.

Asher takes out his phone. “I’ll check social in a second,” he says, advancing toward me and setting his free hand on my arm with focused concern. “But are you having a panic attack?”

What? No. Of course not. “I don’t have panic attacks. I’m just panicky right now.” I press my palm to my chest, feeling even more flustered. “Anyone would be panicky right now. You should be panicking.”

But he stays calm because he’s always calm. “Take a breath,” he says, letting go of my arm to reach for my hand.

Oh god. He really thinks I’m having a panic attack, and of course, he’d know what to do. “Asher, I’m fine. I swear. I’m just trying to figure this out,” I say as calmly as I can. I don’t take his hand. “The world thinks we got drunk-married!”

“But let’s remember we didn’t really get drunk- married.” His voice is as level as ever. “Whatever is happening online, whatever people are saying about last night—remember, we don’t have to say anything. We could just take the rings off. If anyone asks, we can say that it was a marriage pact. A dare. We did it just for fun. We are friends. It’s plausible.”

It’s a reasonable point, but sometimes Asher fixates too much on other people and not enough on himself.

“But even if we could pull that off, what about beyond tonight, Ash? You’re launching a charity soon . You’re focused on helping kids with sports and mental health. You don’t want to look like the kind of guy who knocked back some cocktails and got hitched by an Elvis impersonator after midnight for funsies .” A muscle in his jaw ticks as the weight of our actions no doubt registers . “I mean, I bid a hundred grand on you so a beauty influencer wouldn’t smear your reputation. And then I went out and smeared it myself.” I groan. “I am such an idiot. Why didn’t I think about this last night?”

“You’re not an idiot and you didn’t smear it,” he says, his voice quiet but commanding. “I should have considered… this . The ramifications.”

I shoot him a tough look right back. “If I hadn’t been in a funk?—”

He holds up a stop-sign hand. “Enough, Maeve. I have no regrets.”

Do I? Not really, and yet I feel entirely selfish for saying this. “I don’t either, but Asher,” I say, like I’m begging, “I don’t want to draw attention to myself here. I don’t want to tell them hey, it was just a big adventure , and then have Mister Memoirs document that for posterity.” And I really don’t want to be the center of attention right after I’ve landed the biggest break of my career. Only, I haven’t even told Asher about the mural opportunity yet. Guilt washes over me. “The commission I just got? It’s with the Sea Dogs,” I say, bracing myself for the fallout—will he be annoyed I kept it from him?

He tilts his head, confusion flickering across his handsome face. “You’re painting for my team?”

I clutch my stomach as the anxiety knots tighter in me, mingling with excitement. Why do I always have to feel everything all at once? “They commissioned a huge mural project. It’s all sorts of scenes from San Francisco. They’re doing a huge mural inside the arena, and they wanted a local artist.” Emotions swim up inside me. “And they hired me. Until they figure out I’m the kind of unreliable artist who attracts media attention by getting drunk married to one of their star players and it’s clear my appointment was a mistake.”

His smile is double-take worthy. Head-turning. Movie-star quality. “Maeve fucking Hartley,” he says, beaming. “It’s not a mistake. You got the commission because you’re good.” He squeezes my arm, then runs his hand down it. God, that feels good. I wish I could bask in his touch. It…settles the wildness in me. “I’m seriously proud of you.”

I let go of my nerves and allow myself to enjoy this moment with Asher, touch and all. “I’m really excited,” I say quietly. Speaking louder might shatter the reality of what’s happening.

“I knew it. I totally knew it,” he says.

And the thing is, he did know in a way. He’s always believed in me. But that doesn’t solve the problem of our spontaneous Vegas marriage or keep it from biting me in the butt. Or him. He doesn’t need a drunk marriage— since that’s how it’ll be seen—trailing him when he rolls out his charity. “Thank you. But I still don’t know how to handle this.”

It’s a raw confession. Asher closes the distance between us, his gaze steady and reassuring. “Then let me.”

Let me .

Two simple words that soothe my hammering pulse.

“I haven’t checked social since last night,” he says, taking out his phone. “It’s distracting, and I just wanted to have a good time. Now, I want to know how this got out. Our marriage. I’m pretty sure that’s why Everly and everyone were texting earlier.”

As he scrolls, I let hope climb the stairs inside me. Maybe it’s no big deal that everyone thinks we’re hitched. Maybe everyone will have a laugh about our Big Adventure. Maybe the world will understand. We were just having fun.

Then, his jaw comes unhinged.

My pulse spikes. “What happened?”

“Hal and Jen,” he says ominously.

“We weren’t married then!” I exclaim, disbelieving the obvious. “And they were so nice. What happened?”

“They are nice, and they posted a great picture,” he says heavily. He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck with a guilty grimace, and I know I’m not going to like what he has to say. “Shit, Maeve. I told them to tag us. I suggested they post it. And they did.”

Right. He’d thought the team would want that pic, for the fans and all. Plus, Everly encouraged auction winners to post photos online. “How did that lead to someone figuring out we got married hours later?”

Asher spins his phone around and shows me the shot of us in the lobby with the tired but grateful parents. The caption under it says, “Lucky us! Tonight in Vegas, we met this great couple. He’s the face of CheekyBeast, and she’s his good luck charm. And can you believe it? They gave us their extra room…just to be nice! I say we pay it forward! When in Vegas tonight, spread a little kindness and do a favor for a stranger!”

I…I can’t…I can’t believe it. “But the wedding didn’t happen until much later,” I say, even though something tugs at my brain, like a clue I’m starting to decipher.

Asher hesitates, flicking through the images on his phone. “CheekyBeast shared it to their socials. And it became a thing, people talking about how they then paid it forward and spread kindness.” A hint of embarrassment colors his tone as he tells me, “We went viral in Vegas.”

This is more surreal than marrying my best friend for fun. “We spread kindness and didn’t know it?”

Scrolling some more, he says, “And since they posted that we were in The Extravagant, some people took pictures of us, calling us Mister CheekyBeast and The Good Luck Charm. Random shots. Like at the concert, when I held your hand as we walked to our seats.” A shiver runs through me at the memory of his possessive touch. “Then a shot of us walking through the hotel.” He quotes, “‘Spotted Mister CheekyBeast in Vegas and then opened the door for a stranger. When in Vegas, pay it forward.’ Or this—someone shared that pic and then said they gave up their bus seat for a senior. Someone else shared it and said they picked up litter.”

“We went viral for doing something...nice?” This doesn’t compute.

“Evidently,” he says, as surprised as I am.

“That’s... ”

“Cool?”

My heart squeezes with warmth. “Yes. But did Mrs. Matrimony share the wedding pics, then? She’s the only one who had actual proof of us being married. We took our rings off when we left this morning.”

Asher sighs heavily, shaking his head. “It happened when we were playing roulette, Maeve.”

Oh .

Oh shit. I didn’t even think about the rings we wore in public. My focus was solely on betting on a kiss. But I remember Asher draped an arm around me and tugged me close, then stared daggers at a redheaded man next to me. I have no idea who took the shot, nor does it matter.

But when a memory swims to the surface, I decipher the clue. At the table, a woman in a fuchsia jumpsuit shouted, When in Vegas! and tipped her drink toward me. Was she toasting us ? She must have seen the pic. When in Vegas, pay it forward.

It’s all my fault that we went viral. I’m the one who suggested roulette.

“Can I see it? The roulette pic?”

He shows me a photo of us leaning against the roulette table, his arm wrapped around my shoulder, with a claiming vibe. The shutterbug has two more pics, zoomed in on our rings.

My stomach flips with nerves and some seriously lusty chills. I don’t even know what is going on in my life right now, and my body decides to get a little turned on? What the fuck, hormones?

I try to ignore them and zero in on the problem.

This pay-it-forward movement is wonderful, but it’s making my career situation even more complicated.

Or am I just being overly cautious ?

“We could let it blow over, maybe,” I suggest, desperate to fix this mess. I’m the girl who’s too much, too clingy. But I can’t lean on my best friend to fix my roulette mistake. Not right now. He has too much on his plate with hockey and his charity.

“Maybe we could,” he says, and his brain is clearly spinning in search of solutions too.

“So what if everyone thinks we’re married? Who do we have to prove this to? Beyond tonight? Beyond this party? No one, right?” I ask hastily, nearly convincing myself.

He nods. “Maybe it won’t matter. No one has a long attention span these days anyway. The Sea Dogs might not find out. They might not care. It’ll be fine.”

For the first time in fifteen minutes, I almost believe this ridiculous situation will work. I always find trouble, but I always find my way out of it too. “We’ll have a laugh later, I’m sure.”

“Definitely.”

Mister Butler clears his throat from the hallway—there’s no time to linger. We exit the bathroom with the conversation unfinished but with hope we’ll get out of this mess unscathed.

In the hall, the liveried man shoots me a look that says I’m an agent of chaos and I’ve met my match in him.

“Let me show you where you will be painting for the guests,” the butler says, his tone tinged with irritation. I can’t afford for anyone here tonight to be annoyed with me. The fashion designer has connections—he might recommend me. No one wants to hire a painter who becomes the center of attention at the party.

“Thank you for everything,” I say, trying to smooth things over as I pick up my supplies. “I appreciate it.” Asher grabs the easel, and I turn to him, improvising a bathroom scenario. “And thank you for helping me fix the zipper on this dress.”

“Anytime,” my temporary husband says.

“How utterly thoughtful,” the butler deadpans as he leads us down the hallway, polished shoes clicking. “It’s always helpful to have a partner who can assist.”

As we tread the mansion’s sleek halls, Asher drops a few feet back and whispers, “We’ll lie low tonight.” He nods to the front door. “I can leave if you want.”

No. God no. My heart rate gallops. I need him here. “Can you stay?”

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll keep out of the way.”

“And we can talk later?”

“Of course. And listen, if anyone does ask, we can say the marriage pact was part of this act of kindness, somehow. A viral stunt. Like we did it to get attention for this pay-it-forward thing.”

That’s not a bad idea at all.

“Yes! That’s so brilliant I could kiss you,” I say as we reach the giant sunken living room where I’ll set up in the corner. But then I wince. My desire to kiss him is what got us here in the first place—the bet for a kiss and all. “We can sort it out when I get a break. Sorry, and thank you.”

“Don’t think twice about it. I’ll fix it.” He sounds happy to help solve problems—because he always is. That’s what he does.

My throat tightens with emotion. He deserves so much better than someone like me. I’m a soda bottle shook up. A frothy drink spilling over. I reach for his arm and whisper in a choked voice, “You’re the best.”

For a second, he looks like he wants to kiss my forehead. And for a second, I linger on how much I’d like that—a soft, reassuring kiss that I could melt into .

That’s new—this longing.

But maybe not so new, given last night? And the way I rode him like I was test-driving a new vibe that does zero-to- O in thirty seconds.

As Asher disappears into the arriving partygoers, I set up and get to work.