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ChapterTwenty-Four
“Movers?”I wait for the punchline of the joke, even if I can’t imagine what it could be.
Art nods. “Don’t you want your stuff at our place?”
“Our place?” I’m not sure if it’s the ungodly hour, but my brain refuses to compute the words coming out of my dear husband’s mouth.
Art sighs. “Married people live together. Right?”
Oh, skunk. That is right. The government people will surely get suspicious if we don’t reside at the same address. So will everyone else.
How have I managed not to realize this basic implication of our fake marriage? I wonder what else I haven’t anticipated?
Ideas flood my brain. Now that we’re official, Art can pull the plug on me if I get into a horrible accident—and he’d own Woofer afterward, along with everything else that’s mine.
I halt the spiraling thoughts when I see everyone looking at me expectantly. “I need to brush my teeth. Can you just pack my books for now?
The movers nod, so I dart into the bathroom and make myself if not presentable, then at least recognizable as human.
When I come out, the books are nearly packed.
These guys are fast.
I lock eyes with Art, who’s standing next to my bed with a plastic bag.
“You’ll need this,” he says, then picks up my pillow and stuffs it into the bag. “And I’m not sure if you want to get a new—”
He stops talking as he notices what lies under my pillow.
Oh, fuck. His dance belt. He’s going to realize I’ve been sniffing it, like a total perv.
If Art is upset, he recovers quickly. Before any of the movers can spot it, he stashes his undies in the same bag as the pillow, then stuffs my sheet in there as well, which hides all the evidence.
He then clears his throat. “Where is your linen closet?”
Face burning, I show him the box that serves that purpose, and he takes it and the bag with my pillow out to a nearby truck.
“No,” I hiss at him. “That’s not going with the movers.”
If the bag rips and Art’s dance belt falls out, I’ll have to murder the movers as witnesses, then probably go to jail and become a bitch to a woman named Karen. But what if Karen doesn’t shower enough? Or uses perfume? Or has bad breath?
Chuckling, Art takes the bag and carries it to a nearby Honda Odyssey.
I gape at the minivan. “Is that what you drive?”
“I just leased it,” he says. “Don’t you think it screams, ‘I’m married?’”
I blow out a breath. “It screams, ‘I’m married with children,’ and that’s not happening.”
A dark smile curves his lips. “Never say never.”
If smiles could impregnate, then I’m in danger of needing that minivan.
“We need to talk,” I say. “About all the fun surprises that come with our marriage.”
“Tell the guys how you want your stuff packed, and then we’ll take a ride to the new place and talk on the way.”
I turn on my heel and go back to my garage.
