Page 35 of Accidentally Marrying the Billionaire

I think about the way he looked at me on the couch. The way his hands felt on my waist. The way he kissed me like I was something precious. The words he said with so much certainty in his voice.

"I think," I say slowly, "I'm going to trust myself. Or at least try to."

Finley beams. "That's my girl. And maybe trust Mike too. He’s an adult, he likely knows what he wants.”

"And if it all falls apart?"

"Then you call me, and we drink wine, and I tell you I told you so, and then we find someone even hotter to rebound with." She shrugs. "But it's not going to fall apart."

"You sound very confident."

"I am. I have excellent instincts. I was right about you when I told you the first day we met that we were going to be BFF’s.” She pauses. “Thank you, by the way, for not running and screaming in the other direction.”

I laugh, something loosening in my chest.

"Thank you," I say quietly. "For always knowing what I need to hear."

"That's what best friends are for." She raises her coffee mug. "To accidental marriages and intentional happiness."

I clink my mug against hers. "To terrifyingly fast feelings and trusting ourselves anyway."

"Now you're getting it."

We sit there for a while longer, talking about easier things—her kids, my students, the absolute disaster of reality TV we're both addicted to. But underneath it all, something has shifted.

I walked in here scared.

I'm leaving here brave.

Or at least brave-adjacent. Brave-curious.

It's a start.

chapter

twelve

Evelyn

I don't mean to fall asleep on the couch. It just... happens.

We're watching something on TV—some documentary about street food that Mike insisted was "critically acclaimed,” and I insisted looked like "fancy people pretending they discovered dumplings"—and at some point, my eyes get heavy. The couch is comfortable. He's warm beside me. The narrator's voice is soothing in that British documentary way.

The next thing I know, I'm blinking awake in darkness, and I'm not on the couch anymore.

I'm in his bed. Under his covers. Wearing yesterday's clothes.

Mike is beside me—on top of the covers, fully dressed, a respectful foot of space between us. He's asleep, one arm thrown over his face, breathing slow and deep.

He carried me here. And then he stayed.

Something warm blooms in my chest.

I should get up. Go to my room. Maintain the boundaries we haven't officially defined. Instead, I close my eyes and let myself have this—the quiet intimacy of sharing a bed with someone who doesn't expect anything from me.

When I wake again, it's morning, and Mike is gone.

But there's coffee on the nightstand. Still warm.