24. Give This Girl a Badge

24

GIVE THIS GIRL A BADGE

Maeve

“So, please say we get to go ring shopping with you. Like really soon?” Leighton’s sea-blue eyes sparkle mischievously as she grabs her tea from the counter at Doctor Insomnia’s on Tuesday morning.

Everly, Josie, and Fable are already sitting at a table in the back, waiting for us. As I snag my chai latte, I glance at the clock on the wall—I’m meeting Asher in thirty minutes, but I have to see my girls first.

“So we’re all going ring shopping together?” I ask it while meeting Leighton’s gaze since I know she prefers being able to see someone’s face when they’re talking to her.

“Yes. Because we need to make sure he gets you a proper, big, gaudy diamond. You’re married to an athlete, after all. Even though it’s a”—she stops to lower her voice—“ you know what marriage, you can’t be seen with small bling. ”

We reach the group and sit down, and Fable gives a long, emphatic nod. “She’s right. You need the biggest.”

I gesture toward the billionaire’s girlfriend, rolling my eyes playfully. “Says the woman who will probably have a fifty-carat diamond when her man proposes.”

“I should hope so,” Josie chimes in, taking a sip of her coffee.

“If Wilder Blaine doesn’t give you the biggest rock in the history of the world, I’ll eat my Louboutins,” Everly adds, then looks at me over the top of her mug. “But seriously, emerald cut? Princess cut? Solitaire? Or maybe a sapphire or ruby?” She tosses her head back. “Gah! I can see them now—sparkling before my eyes.”

“And are you taking me with you?” Leighton asks again, far more into this ring-shopping idea than I’d expected. She always seemed a little more, I don’t know, badass with her black clothes, multiple ear piercings – including a pair of flower studs she wears every day—as well as flower tattoos on her arms. “ You actually want to go ring shopping?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Leighton waggles her fingers. Her nails are a bright shade of copper. Silver bracelets jangle on her wrists. “I like shiny things. I’m a boudoir photographer—of course I’m into all things romance, especially jewels. Oh, you two could even do a couples session. Married couples are doing those more. Dating couples. It keeps the spark alive, they say.”

“But this isn’t a real romance,” I remind them.

Turns out they knew before I even did. Everly first heard news of our wedding on social like the rest of the world. But that makes sense since she’d be tracking team news. Before I went to my catering gig the other night, I told them everything over FaceTime—the marriage pact, the wedding, and why we’re staying married.

“Not a real romance?” Fable stares at me, doubt in her eyes. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Now, now,” Josie says, cutting in and giving our redheaded friend a knowing glance, “just because one person in our friend group wound up in a fake-romance-turned-real doesn’t mean that’ll happen again.” Josie coughs for effect. It’s a pointed reminder—Fable ended up falling for her fake romance with her boss over the holidays.

“It’s not going to be like that with Asher. The ring is for show. Because we’re friends. Just friends,” I insist, but then why do I want to shop alone with him? Maybe because it is fake? Maybe because if they go along, it’d feel too real? I’m not sure. “This is just...”

I’m not even sure how to label the unexpected marriage of convenience to my best friend. In Vegas, saying I do was fun. Now we’re stuck together for at least a few weeks as…what exactly? A cover-up? A solution to both our problems? A viral hitching? My thoughts whirl with all the ways our temporary arrangement feels like it doesn’t belong to us but to the world.

“It’s just…what?” Fable presses gently, seeming to sense my hesitation. “I mean, you did have that kiss after the auction.”

And many more kisses in Vegas. The hottest kisses of my life that ended with a surprise O .

I part my lips, tempted to tell them everything that happened in the hotel room on the couch. But I stop myself. What’s the point? It won’t happen again. It can’t happen again. But also, that detail—the way I felt falling apart with Asher—feels too private. Too personal .

“It’s just a performance for a few weeks,” I say, speaking only of our fake marriage now. “It’s a rom com without the rom. A make-believe match.”

“That’s a good name for a book,” Josie says, a gleam in her eye.

“I bet it already is a book,” Leighton adds, setting down her mug. “Or a movie.”

“Why don’t you sell your life rights, Maeve?” Josie teases. “You always live your life in full color, and it ought to be on screen.”

I pause for a moment, letting her observation sink in, like a coda to the words my mother shared in her final days. Follow your dreams . It was as if she was speaking to the deepest part of me that she alone understood—the part that has bold, wild, too big dreams. The truest part of me ever since I was little. I’ve never been the shy one. I’ve never been the wallflower. I’m the one who climbs the highest trees, who swings from branches, who jumps into rivers. I’m the one who tries the zip lines too, rides the upside-down roller coaster, dives headfirst into the crashing ocean waves. But that’s not always the healthiest way to adult, is it? Maybe I need to turn down the volume on me from time to time. Like my exes have always told me.

“Look, you know I want to go shopping with all of you. But,” I say, stopping to meet all of their gazes, these women I love deeply, “maybe it’s best I don’t make too big a deal of the ring shopping. I don’t want to get caught up in things. You know me. I get invested. I get too interested. I can’t let that happen with a fake relationship.”

My heart sinks a little saying that, but my friends nod and murmur in understanding.

“I get that,” Leighton says, practically, but then seems to drift off into a memory for a beat, adding, “We can’t always have what we want.”

I give her a curious look. “Something going on?”

Leighton quickly shakes her head, but her fingers drift to one of those flower earrings. “No. Sorry. I didn’t mean to steal focus. I’m just saying I understand and no worries on the ring shopping. Do it your way.”

“Just send us pics after you get it, okay?” Josie asks.

“Obviously,” I say, and I love that they accept my answer. I’m glad, too, that I finally understand why I want to go alone with Asher. So I don’t get too caught up.

I glance at the time then shift gears, my stomach swooping as I think about the brunch looming closer. “We have to meet with the team owners soon. Any tips for that? That’s where I could really use the help.”

Before anyone can answer, footsteps grow louder, then I feel a presence behind me. I turn just as Asher reaches us, and my breath catches. My eyes roam up his tall, rugged frame. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since Saturday night at the party. Have his shirts always hugged his muscles just so? Has his grin always been that lopsidedly sexy? Has his thick hair always looked so invitingly tousled? My fingers tingle with the desire to touch him.

“Hi,” I say, too breathy. Too excited.

“Hey,” Asher responds, scanning the table. Five women, one man. “Hey, Fable, Josie, Everly, Leighton. Everly, good to see you again. Leighton, how’s everything going with your photography? Maeve said your business is growing a lot? The studio work and the sports photography?”

“I did. And I’m keeping busy. Thanks for asking,” Leighton replies brightly, twirling her cup of tea. She’s doing more than keeping busy—business is booming for her, especially in boudoir, but she’s also shot a few promo events for the Sea Dogs.

He shifts his gaze to Fable. “Fable, fantasy baseball season coming up?”

“You know it, and I might even let you into my league,” she shoots back with a grin.

“Hold a spot for me. I can’t wait. And Josie,” Asher adds, turning to my librarian friend. “Your love of lists is rubbing off on Bryant.”

Josie pumps a fist. “It’s all part of my master plan.”

Holy shit. Asher just acknowledged each of them individually. That’s not new—he’s always been thoughtful and considerate. But now, it feels different. Like I’m seeing him in a new light. Most men admire women, want them, date them, but many don’t always see them as people. And here’s Asher, taking time to genuinely connect with my friends about their interests, and warmth spreads through my chest, like that honey-hazy feeling I get when I start a new painting, that glow of inspiration that lights me up.

Asher turns to me, his gaze softening. “Did you have a good time catering on Sunday?”

Catering? I can barely remember catering. My chest is tingly, and my head swims with new ideas and possibilities. With images of him and me, all over again. Him and me, not stopping. I’m at a loss for words, and Josie jumps in.

“We were just helping Maeve with some tips,” she says playfully. “She asked us for some.”

Asher arches a brow, intrigued. “What kind of tips?”

“Marriage tips.” Josie pats the empty chair.

“I asked for tips on the brunch with the owners,” I point out, finally managing to snap out of my thoughts, then gesture to my outfit. I’m normally all about cute skirts—either short denim or long and flowy, but today I went a little fancier, just in case. Slacks. Gasp. I paired them with an orange and white polka dot blouse, so at least I’ve got a little splash of color.

“And we just decided we’ll give you marriage tips,” Josie says.

I sigh.

Asher slides onto the chair, playing along. “Lay it on me.”

Fable’s grin turns wicked. “We have a lot to teach you, Asher.”

Where are they going with this? No place good. “And I’m officially terrified.”

Leighton leans forward, locking eyes with my fake husband. “First rule: Maeve gets super grumpy when she’s hungry. So, you’ll want to keep snacks handy at all times.”

I scoff. “That’s not true.”

Fable gives me a deadpan look. “I’ve seen how you look at a bag of chips, Maeve. Don’t lie.”

“I feel attacked,” I mutter.

Asher laughs. “I’ve noticed she does have a thing for…warm nuts.”

“Oh, she’s into the whole package,” Leighton adds. I want to strangle her but she’s too fast with her sass. “You’re not denying it,” she points out before glancing back at Asher. “Maeve loves surprises, so take her on dates—just don’t tell her beforehand.”

“That’s not what this arrangement is about,” I say, but my heart lurches as I glance at Asher, checking in. Did I hurt his feelings with that comment about dates? I hope not, but his expression is amused, so I quickly push the worry away. He hasn’t given me any indication he wants to go on dates. He needs me as his wife for his new charity, and that’s it. That’s also fine with me.

Fable jumps in next. “Oh, and remember, Maeve loves her independence, so don’t crowd her. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t cook for her.”

“I never said I wanted anyone to cook for me,” I protest.

But the thought lingers. That sounds really nice. I do like food. Except, wait—why would he be cooking for me?

Everly, who’s been mostly quiet, adds, “And she might act like she’s not up to speed on hockey, but she knows all your stats, Asher. Every single one. Do with that what you will.”

Asher turns to me, his minty green eyes lighting up. “So you’re a closet fan, Maeve?”

My cheeks burn. “It’s not a secret!”

“Feel free to quiz her later,” Everly whispers with a sly smile.

Before I can protest, Josie jumps in again. “And don’t forget, Asher, you’ll have to make some changes too.”

He rubs his palms, bring it on style. “I’m up for it. What have you got in mind?”

“Marriage is all about compromise,” Josie says with a teasing smile. “That means one reality show for every two football games.” Then she pauses, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “But you should probably establish a chore list too. No one likes fighting over who’s doing the dishes.”

Asher turns to me, his eyes glinting with curiosity. “You watch reality shows?”

I lift my chin high. “They’re my guilty pleasure.”

Asher leans back, clearly delighted in a whole new way. “I had no idea. ”

Before I can respond, Leighton chimes in, “Oh, you’ll learn all about her guilty pleasures soon enough.”

He will?

Fable smirks. “So, you might want to swap out the lotion on your nightstand for coconut oil.”

My face flames. “I’m going to kill you guys. We’re not moving in together.”

Asher’s smile freezes, but his eyes flicker with…excitement as he takes in this detail. “But if we were, I should stock up on lube?”

Red. I am all the red in every crayon box in the universe. “You’re all dead to me,” I hiss at the traitors known as my former best friends.

Leighton stands, grabbing her bag and tossing a look over her shoulder. “It goes both ways. You should probably lock the bathroom door when you’re enjoying yourself in the shower.”

The devils. The absolute devils. “We’re not living together. And you all need to go!” I groan.

“Unless you want Maeve to walk in on you,” Fable adds with the sauciest of winks as she pops up, along with Everly and Josie.

Groaning, I drag a hand down my face. “Don’t you all have somewhere to be right now?”

“Other than divulging the details of your vibrator collection?” Josie calls over her shoulder as she grabs her bag, and an elderly woman at a nearby table shoots me a look and then a wink.

I hold out my hands at my friends, like how could you. “You’re all the worst.”

“Did you mean we’re all equal opportunity here?” Josie says, with an oh-so-innocent look behind her glasses. “Since we’re concerned about his needs too. ”

“Yes, concern. Exactly. You’re sooo concerned,” I say dryly.

Leighton’s jaw drops as she stares at my face. My cheeks to be exact. “Maeve. I didn’t know you could get embarrassed.”

“It happens once in a blue moon for our chief troublemaker,” Everly chimes in, setting a hand on my shoulder.

“Why are you all still here?” I ask with a groan.

“We can stay and give you more tips,” Fable offers.

“By all means,” Asher says, sweeping out a hand, and now he’s in trouble too.

I flick my eyes to him and raise a finger. “Do not feed the animals at the zoo,” I warn.

“That’s good advice too. It kind of applies to you as well. Asher, if you leave out the coconut oil, Maeve might never go to work,” Josie calls over her shoulder as she heads out, “since she likes a lot of private time.”

I bury my face in my hands as the clicks of their shoes finally, mercifully, fade. And when I manage to peel my palms off my cheeks a millennia later, Asher slowly turns to me, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “That was interesting.”

How do I even begin to explain what just happened? I did not expect that ambush. “My friends are dicks. What can you do? I’m sorry.”

I’m especially annoyed that they mentioned that he’d want to engage in some self-care since the images flashing through my head right now are obscene. Deliciously, delightfully obscene, and I’m probably going to need to block out a whole lot of time tonight with my battery-operated friends.

But the images aren’t going away as I look at him mere inches from me. I stare a little shamelessly, cataloging my best friend, from that tousled hair to his smirk to the way he fills out that Henley. His chest muscles call out for my hands. His abs demand my attention. His arms need to be explored. “Why Henleys?” I blurt.

He furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Why do they look so good?” I say, then instantly regret it. I need to shut up. Like I wanted my friends to do.

He plucks at the forest green material, then looks back at me, holding my gaze. “Oh, this? You like it?” It’s asked as a challenge. In a rasp. Like the way I imagined he’d said, you have a lovely mouth.

“It’s nice,” I say, like I’m simply conceding when really, the way the shirt fits him is too hot for my own good.

“Nice? Did you mean it’s having a flamingo effect on you?” he asks, and great. Now I’m thinking about what he’s wearing under those clothes. Then he leans closer and says in a husky voice, “Or really, I should say peacocks today.”

It takes my brain a few seconds to catch up, but when it does, I clamp my legs shut, then suck in a breath. I should leave this alone. Really, I should. But I’ve never been good at resisting a cookie. “Fitting.”

“Is it?” he asks, with a curve of his lips. He loves toying with me.

And I think…I love being toyed with by him. That heady feeling spreads through my soul again, flooding me with warmth.

I flash back to the promise we made in Vegas—that nothing physical can happen again. There’s too much at stake, especially now with this marriage for appearance’s sake. “But none of that can happen,” I add quickly, shifting the conversation back to safer territory .

Asher’s voice lowers, teasing, “Self-care, Maeve? Is that what can’t happen?”

I swallow. Is he daring me to admit it?

“Nothing physical between us,” I blurt out, a little too loud.

Asher holds my gaze, unblinking. “I know. You told me that in Vegas.”

Right. I did. No need to keep repeating it. There’s a reason we’re here, and it’s not to get lost in the heat between us. “Our story,” I say, trying to string words together, but it’s hard because my mind is absolutely elsewhere—it’s in bedrooms, in showers, on the couch in our hotel room, on the street with that first kiss, at the party the other night when he claimed me before a crowd. “People are asking about our story,” I continue, forcing myself to concentrate. “My aunt did on Sunday night. Oh, she also wants to have dinner with us. But instead, I invited her to a hockey game. I figured we can grab something after?”

“Brilliant.”

“And my friends asked, too, though they know the truth about…this marriage.” It still sounds weird to say— this marriage . It’s still strange to be married to my best friend.

His brow furrows. “They do?”

“Well, yeah,” I say. “I couldn’t not tell them.” I feel awkward and unsure around him for maybe the first time. Is it because we were intimate? Because we’re flirting? Or because my friends basically looked inside my skull and bared my thoughts for Asher? “Is that a problem?”

He scratches his jaw, looking like his mind is spinning in a million different directions. “No, it’s fine. It’s just…the guys were giving me hell the other day, and I wasn’t sure wh at to say. What you’d want me to say. I didn’t want to tell the whole team, so I just went along with whatever they said.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought about that—what he would have to juggle. “You can tell the guys if you want. That’s what I did with my friends.” I pause though, mulling this over. “You’re not mad that I told them, are you?” I ask, worried.

He shakes his head, looking at me with a soft, thoughtful expression. “It’s kind of hard for me to be mad at you.”

I blink, a little taken aback. “Why?”

He shrugs, then gives a small smile. “The fact that you wanted to tell your friends? That’s not really something to get mad about.”

It feels like he’s saying something else, or maybe not saying something. Maybe he’s holding back in some way. Sometimes it seems like he is. Sometimes he’s easy to read. Sometimes impossible to figure out.

But I want him to understand where I’m coming from. “I just told them how it all came together, how you wanted me to have a good night in Vegas, and how it sort of spiraled.” I roll my lips together, debating how much more to say. “I didn’t tell them what happened in the room if that’s what you’re asking.”

A smile shifts the corner of his lips. “I wasn’t. Asking.”

Oh. Maybe he doesn’t mind them knowing we were intimate? I feel a little silly now, but then again, this whole thing between us is so complicated when before it was the easiest thing in my life. I almost want to go back to the way we were, even though a part of me likes how we are now. “It just seemed personal. Quick-Draw Maeve and all,” I explain because I keep putting my foot in my mouth. Maybe it can go farther down my throat. Hard to say since it’s past my esophagus right now.

“And, as you said, Quick-Draw Maeve isn’t going to happen again. And hey, we’re not living together either. Or so I hear,” he adds with a smirk. He’s clearly amused with me, or maybe at me. Honestly, I probably deserve it. I feel a little all over the place today. It’s hard to get my bearings with him being so damn handsome.

“Well, it’s just that there’s no reason to do it. We don’t need to live together to pull this off,” I say. Do I sound like I’m making excuses? Am I making excuses?

“Exactly. We don’t. And I promise we can pull this off,” he says, a little bossy, and I like the command in his tone.

Time to focus then on why we’re here this morning. To get our story straight. “On Sunday night, my aunt asked me how we got together, and I mostly avoided it. But she’ll ask again when we see her,” I tell him, matter-of-factly. “And I feel like the owners are definitely going to ask, and I want to be better prepared. The board members probably will too. We should plan what to say. So we’re on the same page.”

“You’re right. We should.” His gaze turns serious as he leans back in the chair, his hand scrubbing across the back of his neck, his Henley stretching deliciously across his strong chest. “Especially since the media asked me that question Sunday night after the game.”

“They did?” My voice pitches up. My head spins with this new information, but of course, it makes sense they would ask him. Still, I’m dying to know how he handled it. “What did you tell them?”

His eyes are thoughtful as his gaze stays on me. “I went with what seemed like the easiest solution.” He pauses, but not like he’s hesitating—more like he’s giving this the weight it deserves. “I said it’s been going on for a while.”

Oh.

Oh wow.

My heart feels a little fluttery. I press a hand to my chest, unsure of what to do with that piece of information. Or perhaps unsure of what to do with this hummingbird beating in my heart.

“For me, at least, it seemed like the easiest way to explain everything,” he continues and there’s an intensity in his voice that feels new. “So why don’t we say that we always planned to get married eventually? That we started dating before the auction. That we planned to go away to Vegas for fun, but once we were there, we just knew it was what we wanted—getting married. And we couldn’t wait.”

Flames spread inside me from the way he’s guiding me through this speed bump. From the way he’s telling our story and making it feel…so incredibly real. Like that could actually be how it happened. How we happened.

“Does that work for you, Maeve?” he asks.

It works too well, especially the way he says my name, like it tastes delicious in his mouth. “It does,” I say, trying not to sound too…aroused. Too breathy.

“Good,” he says, then leans closer. “And listen, the guys reminded me of something else. We need to announce this on social, and we need to do it soon. Or people will suspect it’s not real.”

My mind is in overdrive. There’s so much to do. So much to get right. “Right. Sure. Of course. But where do we start?”

He must sense how jittery I am, since he covers my hand with his, soothing my nervous energy. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this. We’ll get you a big ring, and then we’ll get a picture for social. After brunch.”

I exhale, long, a little calmer as he takes charge so completely, like he’s wrapping an arm around me and guiding me safely across a rocky shore. “Good plan,” I say, but then my brow furrows as I snag on one little thing. Something that didn’t even occur to me when my friends mentioned rings. “Buuuut.” This is awkward. We haven’t talked about money, but it’s sort of obvious I don’t make athlete bank. “I can’t afford a big ring. We’ll get costume jewelry, right? Or cubic zirconia. Oooh! Here’s an idea—why don’t we go to a consignment shop and find a vintage ring? I’m an artist. I can totally pull off the look.” I do the bling show-off move. “Oh, this art deco ring? We hunted all over Paris for it.”

He laughs. “Maeve, when did we go to Paris?”

“Let me have my fantasy.”

“Fine, but someone is going to spot the lie in that. We weren’t in Paris.”

“Okay, okay.” I sit up taller, reboot my routine. “We hunted up and down San Francisco for this ring. It’s from the 1920s. Rumor has it, it was once worn by Zelda Fitzgerald during a lavish gilded age party. Isn’t it divine?”

Asher dips his face, smiling. Then he raises it, and his smile disappears. His eyes hold mine. “Maeve, I’m buying you a big, beautiful, gorgeous ring. And that’s that.”

Oh. Well. Bossy Asher is in the house. “Asher, you can’t?—”

He sets his finger on my lips. “I can. But more so, I want to.”

I swallow and try to protest, but I can’t find it in me when he’s so…determined to get what he wants. For me . “If you insist. ”

“I do.” Asher checks his watch. “Actually, that story part didn’t take long at all. We’ve got an hour. Let’s get you a ring now. There’s a jewelry shop up the street.”

My pulse speeds once again. Everything is happening so fast, but when he rises and reaches for my hand, I don’t hesitate to take his in mine. I like the way he sets the pace. I like that he’s bossy. Most of all, I really like that it’s only us going ring shopping, and that he never lets go of my hand the whole time as we walk to the shop.

Twenty minutes later, I’m inside a glittery store, picking out an absolutely blinding ruby. It’s set low in a thick platinum band, the rich red stone gleaming with a deep, fiery intensity. The ruby is perfectly oval, framed by a halo of tiny, sparkling diamonds that catch the light with every movement. It’s both elegant and bold—timeless but with just the right amount of flair. It’s bold, just like everything in my life seems to be right now.

When I’m with Asher, that is.

“You like this one?” he asks, as I gaze at the beauty in my palm a little longer.

“I do,” I say, low and reverent. I’m so tempted to tell him I’ve checked it out before. That I’ve walked past this shop and stupidly gazed at it. Of course I have. I’m the dreamer. But what are the chances it’ll fit? Slim to nil.

“Let me see it,” he says. A demand.

I hand it over to him.

And in no time at all, he’s down on one knee.

My chest seizes up.

“Will you be my wife? ”

“Yes,” I say, without thinking because I don’t need to think at all. It’s the only answer.

Remember, you’re faking this marriage .

But that voice quiets down when he slides the ring on my finger easily. A surprised breath escapes my lips. “It fits,” I whisper.

“Meant to be,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my skin in a way that sends a shiver up my arm. Maybe those words do too. Our eyes meet, and for a second, something shifts between us once more. For a long beat, I can’t look away. I can only feel—this new thing between us, charged and unspoken as I look at my best friend, then at the stunning ring on my finger. It’s only for show. And yet my heart is beating too fast. My skin is warming too much. The words meant to be echo. They’re so romantic, but I don’t want to get caught up in dreams of romance when really and truly, our friendship is what’s meant to be. Our friendship feels written in the stars.

But his eyes are heated, vulnerable too. Like how I feel. “Is that your proposal play?” I ask finally.

“Yes,” he replies, his voice full of certainty, then he presses a soft, tender kiss to the top of my hand.

My knees wobble.

How is that so sexy?

Why am I shivery everywhere from a kiss on my hand?

But I am—my cells are vibrating with longing. A pulse beats between my thighs. And I ache.

He rises, standing to his full height, several inches taller than I am. I look up. I swear the walls in the store feel smaller. I lean in closer, like I want to kiss him. No, it’s not like I want to. I do want to kiss him. This man made me swoon with his kisses. And for several not-so-fleeting seconds I want all the swoons again .

But we agreed to stay chaste. It’s too risky to kiss him. There are lines we shouldn’t cross again or we could lose this precious friendship.

As he pays for the ring, I shove the thoughts aside, and whisper playfully. “You didn’t have to propose, you know. I’m already your wife.”

Asher’s expression says he needs zero reminders of our status. “I wanted to propose to my wife,” he declares. There’s something outrageously pleased in his voice, and the glint in his eyes, as if he’s in on a secret only the two of us share.

And I know at last why I wanted to be alone with him. Because I like being alone with Asher. The warmth in my chest swells again, but I resist the pull to close the distance between us.

Actually, I deserve a badge for resistance. Maybe I should make one for myself for each milestone I reach during this fake real marriage.

Resisted Kiss Badge.

No Hands on Abs Award.

Didn’t Indulge in Self-Care Yet Medal.

Yet being the operative word.

Before we leave, I reach into my purse and take out something I’ve been carrying all morning, waiting for the right moment. I hand the gift to him—a black silicone ring. “And now yours,” I say.

He blinks. Several times. “You got me a ring?” He makes it sound like it’s a Ferrari.

“I did.”

“How?”

“There’s this thing called Amazon. You can order from it any time of the day. ”

He drags a hand through his hair in disbelief. “The guys were saying I needed one. And you got one for me.”

It’s like no one has gotten him a gift before but that’s not true. I’ve gotten him gifts. A hot sauce set. A Lego plant when I learned he wanted to try making one, since he used to love building Lego sets as a kid. A hand-painted hockey puck with the words Puck Off on it. And our photo albums, though we share custody of those.

“I thought you’d need it for when you play. It’s better for athletes,” I explain.

“Put it on me,” he demands in a gravelly, commanding voice.

He tugs off the gold one and tucks it into his pocket then offers me his hand. I slide the black band on, wiggling it over his knuckle. And it happens again. The sparks, the shivers, and the chills erupting down my spine.

I meet his eyes. They’re glimmering with flames. I bet mine are too. I feel like I’m shimmering. I swallow roughly, then look at his big hand, adorned now with my ring. “It looks good,” I say, and I feel a little possessive, a little territorial. A little like him.

“No. It looks perfect, Maeve,” he says, his voice raw, piercing even. My throat aches from the sound of it.

Then he takes my hand, and together, we leave, telling the story now with our new rings.