Page 28 of Accidentally Marrying the Billionaire

“Amazing," he says without hesitation.

“And you?”

“So goddamn happy. And certain."

That last word lands heavier than the rest.

Certain.

What does that even feel like?

"Yeah," I murmur. "That tracks."

There's a pause. The comfortable kind that only exists between people who grew up in the same house and survived it together. Who shared a bathroom and covered for each other and learned early that the only person you could really count on was each other.

"So," Mitchell says. "Tell me about yours."

"My what?"

"Your Evelyn. The accidental one." I can hear the grin in his voice. "I spent three days with the princess. You spent a couple of days with her. Y’all still married?”

“Yes. I had already drawn up a prenup for the other arrangement and had my Evelyn sign it. So she’s stuck with me for the next six months.”

“She’s stuck with you? You’re not stuck with each other?” he asks.

“You know I can be difficult. So yeah, the burden is on her, unfortunately.”

“Bullshit, but whatever. Give me some details.”

My mind goes back to the make-out session on the couch. Those are not details to share with my brother. I laugh despite myself. "What kind of details?"

"Whatever kind you've got. I need to know who my new sister-in-law is."

Sister-in-law. The word hits differently than I expect—warm instead of alarming.

"She's..." I trail off, trying to find words that don't sound completely unhinged. "She's not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. When I realized what had happened, I guess I expected her to panic. To demand answers or threaten legal action, or at least Google me obsessively. " I scrub a hand through my hair. "Instead, she just... rolled with it. All of it. The hotel mix-up, the ceremony, and finding out it was real. She signed a prenup she thought was a prop, Mitchell. A legally binding document. And when she found out it wasn't fake, that we were legally married and had to cohabitate for six months, she didn't run. She made a joke about corporate espionage."

He chuckles. "Sounds like she can handle chaos."

"She teaches kindergartners," I say. "Apparently, that's basically the same skill set as hostage negotiation. Her words, not mine."

“I’ve known actual hostage negotiators,” he says. “I believe it."

I'm quiet for a moment, thinking about how to explain her. It feels impossible—like trying to describe a color to someone who's never seen it.

"She hums," I finally say. "When she's happy or distracted or just existing in a space. Little melodies under her breath, like she doesn't even know she's doing it."

"Yeah?"

"And she's funny. Not performative-funny—she's not trying to impress anyone. She just... sees things sideways. Makes these observations that catch me off guard." I smile at the memory. "When we got to my place, she asked if my floors would be offended by her old shoes.”

Mitchell laughs. "I like her already."

I tell him all about the spice cabinet thing because I still think it’s hilarious.