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He laughed brusquely. “Now that I’ve pissed you off, could you please do the world a favor and just throw up in my bag already?”
Well, hediddeserve it.
That was when I keeled over and vomited into Riggs’s bag while he held my hair in his fist. I didn’t stop until it was completely full. My forehead collapsed on his chest. He stroked my head the entire time, his pecs shaking with laughter.
All in all, it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
RIGGS
Emmett: Alaska looks mighty nice this time of year. Perfect temperature.
Riggs: I’ll buy you a one-way ticket.
Emmett: Are you ever going to tell me what your problem with the place is?
Riggs: No.
Emmett: Am I getting a wedding invite?
Riggs: Also no.
Emmett: I still don’t buy that you decided to settle down and give up the variety.
Riggs: Good, because my relationship is not for sale. Get your utensils out, buddy. You’re about to get a big piece of humble pie.
“Talk me through the logic of buying yourfakefiancée arealdiamond again.” Arsène snapped his fingers when we were at a jewelry store. It had been a week since Poppins and I had the ring conversation. My best friend waltzed around the white marbled space, squinting at diamond bracelets and emerald necklaces.
“She’s so uptight she might get a heart attack if someone notices she’s wearing a fake.” I drummed on the glass counter irritably, waiting for the salesman to return with some samples.
“And you care about her getting a heart attack because ...?” Christian cocked his head sideways, wrinkling his forehead.
“She’s unemployed and uninsured. Her hospitalization alone would cost more than an entire wedding.” I scanned my phone, scrolling through messages.
“Look at you, you hopeless romantic,” Christian tutted sardonically. “Is it possible that you like her just a teeny-tiny bit?”
“You’vemether.” I shot him a bewildered look. “Does she seem like my type?”
“Your type is anyone with a pulse—no matter how faint and shallow—so the answer is yes,” Arsène deadpanned.
Putting aside the fact that she vomited into my bag, blackmailed me into marriage, and referred to me as thevillage idiotat least twice a day, Duffy also had a quasi boyfriend. I didn’tdislike her, but I sure wasn’t her number one fan. More than anything, she possessed the one trait I despised about people the most—she was money hungry.
“She’s gorgeous,” I admitted gruffly. “But would also marry a convicted child murderer if he had his own yacht. She’s the definition of a gold digger.”
“And you play the poor Oliver Twist,” Arsène finished, fingering an expensive pair of earrings for consideration for his wife. “Which means there’s no risk of her falling for you. Not that there would beif she knew you were a billionaire. You have fewer boyfriend qualities than a bottle of Flonase.”
Ever since Arsène fell in love and decided to marry the widow of his girlfriend’s side piece, he’d fancied himself the twenty-first century’s answer to Romeo.
“Thanks for the unasked-for opinion. I’ll be sure to ignore it.” I parked my elbows on the counter. The salesman came back with an array of engagement rings arranged on a white satin pillow.
“There you are, sir. Please let me know if you have any questions.”
I did have a question—What the fuck am I doing?
I still couldn’t believe I was getting married.
“Looks like you’re a little overwhelmed.” Christian eyed me. “You sure you’ve thought this whole thing through? Marriage is baggage. Real or not.”
