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“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 abillionaire.
“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 royalwe.”
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 myDiscoverysalary, which was laughable by New York standards.
