Page 7 of Method for Matrimony

He was enjoying this. My lack of options. Watching me squirm. What a fucking asshole. Did I really want to be married to this guy? Even in a fake marriage?

“Are you recording me or something?” I asked, suddenly suspicious. “Are you trying to get me arrested? Because this wasyouridea, and that would be entrapment.”

I had no fucking idea whether it would be entrapment or not. I didn’t pay attention to the American legal system beyond watchingSVU. But it sounded right.

Kip chuckled. “That would be a lot of work. Plus, I’m not a narc.”

I rolled my eyes. “Getting married to me and breaking federal laws while doing it,that’snot a lot of work?” I asked, taking another, longer pull of the beer.

It wasn’t really hitting the spot. I needed tequila.

He shrugged. “Like you said, it’s not gonna be a marriage. Basically, a contract.”

I contemplated this. A contract. “If this is a contract, what do you want out of it? I don’t have money.”

I had enough to buy expensive home decor, good wine and cheese, and pay the rent on my cottage. In addition to my drunk online shopping escapades, which were, unfortunately, numerous.

Kip screwed up his nose. “No, baby, I don’t want your money.”

He sounded offended at the insinuation, like he was some honorable prince doing this out of the goodness of his heart. Except I knew that this fucker was the furthest thing from honorable.

I placed my beer on the counter a little harder than necessary, not that it mattered, considering the surface was covered in rings, stains, and crumbs. Gross.

“I’m not fucking you either,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.

Kip’s eyes flickered to where I’d inadvertently pushed my tits upward. My body tensed with his attention, but I refused to change my stance.

His gaze returned to my eyes, a little heat and hunger in it now. It was only because he was a man and I had nice tits. That made sense.

What didn’t make sense was that I felt a little fire. Down there.

Had to be a UTI. No way was Kip’s smoldering look actually doing anything to me.

“As much as you want to, we’re not fucking,” he told me with a tone full of authority.

I wanted to argue with him on instinct.

Except I did not want to fuck him.

“As I said, this is a contract,” Kip continued. “We’re not muddling it up with sex. Much to your disappointment.”

“Eat me.” I scowled at him.

“Nuh-uh.” He waggled his finger at me. “Against the terms of the agreement.”

Okay, fuck this guy.He was having far too much fun.

“So, you don’t wantanythingout of this?” I clarified.

He shook his head.

“You know that this actually has to be a believable marriage,” I informed him. “To our closest friends and family, at least. USCIS could interview them if they found this”—I waved my hands between us—“suspicious.”

I’d done some preliminary research last night about it. Then I’d freaked out about the NSA or whomever tracking my search history and using it against me in my trial for defrauding the government.

I would not look good in orange.

But, from what I had gathered, we actually did have to be convincing as a couple.