Page 12 of Accidentally Marrying the Billionaire

Did I fall into some kind of weird trap? Corporate espionage or a revenge plan gone awry?

I’m especially glad that we signed that prenup. Which is 100% legally binding, provided her name is actually Evelyn Barlow.

I sneak a glance over at her pretty profile, and she’s watching the ceremony, a wistful look on her face.

As soon as my brother and the actual princess are married, I need to get my “wife” back to the hotel room. Until I know who she is and what game she’s playing, I can’t let her out of my sight.

After congratulating Mitchell and Evie, as he calls her, Evelyn and I head back to our hotel.

It occurs to me that I could just ambush her and demand answers. But that feels like the wrong tactic. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last decade of building my company, it’s to trust my gut.

I can't think of anyone who knew enough about my wedding plans to infiltrate my ceremony.

Harrison and Birdie Crawford knew since they set things in motion. My brother knew since he picked her up from the airport and drove her to Las Vegas for me. My assistant knew, but didn't have all the details.

I try to think of what info she could be after. It’s not like my company has a lot of secrets. We're pretty above board with what we do.

We ride in relative silence back to the hotel. The only sound is Evelyn humming along with the radio.

“We can order room service,” I say.

“Sure. I haven’t eaten since this morning, so I could definitely use some food.”

Once we're enclosed in our suite, she pauses and considers me.

“Do you know when the next event is?”

I frown, not understanding her question.

“I was just wondering if I could change out of this dress into something more comfortable.”

It sounds like a line intended for seduction, but I just don't know. My gut tells me she's sincere, but if that’s the case, how did we end up married?

“Go ahead,” I tell her.

While she disappears into the bedroom, I quickly change out of my tux. I pull on some jeans and a t-shirt and opt not to put on shoes. When she comes back out wearing a baggy pair of sweatpants and a Reading Rainbow shirt, I second-guess my theory about seduction.

But the thought does give me an idea about how I might discover the truth about my mysterious bride. When she pads barefoot over to the sofa, I give her a slow once-over and grin. I swear her cheeks pinken with a blush.

“Have anything in particular you want to eat?” I ask.

“Something cheesy,” she says.

“Uh... like fondue?”

She laughs, and fuck me if the sound doesn't make me smile wider.

“I was thinking more along the lines of pizza,” she clarifies.

“Oh, thank fuck. I have no doubt I could get fondue delivered, but I don’t think it would be quick, and I’m starving.” I grab my phone and text the concierge to place our order.

“Any toppings you hate?” I ask.

“Mushrooms,” she shudders.

“No fungi, got it. Beer okay?”

“Beer sounds great.”