Page 17 of Accidentally Hitched (Unintentionally Yours #1)

Callum

T he moment I close the car door I feel my phone blowing up with text messages.

Fucking hell.

It’s mostly Noah, which doesn’t bother me. Though there are a few from Avery, which does bother me.

I start with Noah.

Noah: I got to hand it to you, bro. That was fucking smooth as hell!

Callum: I think it went well.

Noah: Well? What dinner were you at? Your girl stole the room. Definitely outshined Miss Pretty in Pink, sequins and all. But speaking of dresses…

Callum: We weren’t.

Noah: She wore the dress again. THE dress. It’s got to be lucky.

Callum: If I had to guess, it’s the only thing in her closet she didn’t buy at a secondhand store.

I sound like a dick.

But also, I’m not in the mood to hear how good she looked.

I know she looked good.

That dress is a straight up felony in my book.

I feel physically assaulted every time I see it. But in a good way. Sore the next morning with a shameless grin on your face good. However, I don’t need anyone else thinking that, even if it is my younger, Johnny Depp looking friend. Especially if it’s my younger, Johnny Depp looking friend

Noah: I think you slam dunked this one. I doubted you and your crazy charade, but you just might pull it off. And if at the end of it all you score again, that’s not so bad either.

Callum: Goodnight.

I am done with this conversation, and I move on to the dreaded message.

Might as well get it all out of the way so when I get home I can shower and go to bed and ignore my life for all of six hours before the sun assaults me through the blinds and I start all over again.

I’m about to open the texts from Avery when he calls and I accidentally accept the call instead.

Fuck.

“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” his voice pours into the car, and I pull away from the curb. I’m not going to sit here and listen to this. I might as well drive fast and listen to it. “I call your bluff.”

“No bluff,” I say calmly. “We really are married.”

“That doesn’t mean shit. And a chapel my ass. You did it at a courthouse didn’t you?”

“Actually, it was a chapel. Insta something, I don’t know. Look it up. It’s legit.”

“But the marriage is clearly a sham. Maybe our old man can’t see through the bullshit because he’s senile. But I do. I know what you’re up to and I’m calling bullshit.”

“First of all,” I raise my voice. “He’s not senile. He’s sick.”

“Irrelevant. Whatever you’re trying to pull here, just know this. You won’t win.”

“I don’t know what you're talking about, Avery. Amanda was a hit. She’s smart, beautiful and a hell of a songwriter. Whether you like it or not, things are ruling in my favor.”

“I still call bullshit.”

I can’t help the grin on my face. It’s petty, I know.

But I have spent my entire life competing with this guy and winning.

He makes a competition out of literally fucking everything but that’s his own downfall.

Because he doesn’t put in the time or work to succeed.

Exhibit A: Zoe. He may bring her to every dinner and red carpet, but their relationship is about as deep as a kiddy pool.

“You can see the certificate if you want. But at the end of the day, Amanda and I are married.”

“Again. Real marriage does not equal real relationship. So, this is very much not over.”

He hangs up abruptly and it’s a wave of relief not hearing his whiney voice in my car anymore.

I set my phone aside, not in the mood to entertain anyone else.

It’s been a hell of a week and it’s not even half over.

From seeing Amanda first thing in the morning with a steaming cup of hazelnut coffee and an even steamier body. To that dress.

Fuck my life, that dress.

The comment I made about her not owning anything else nice was probably a dickish thing to say. But according to the profile that I finally looked over, most of her writing jobs have either been remote or with very small studios and local artists.

Her tapes are what got her in the door, not her resume.

If I had to guess, she wore ripped jeans and faded Aerosmith shirts to most of her other gigs. Honestly, I don’t care what she wears to work. She works in the recording side of things. Style is supposed to be more on trend and less about name brands and buttoned shirts on that side of the room.

But for dinners? Meetings? Dates with me that I know will be heavily watched by paparazzi? She’s going to need a wardrobe update.

For one, I don’t think my dick can handle one more appearance of that dress.

When I get to my apartment, a penthouse on the top floor of a complex just down the street from Hardin, I pour a glass of brandy and stand by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.

Charlotte is beautiful, all trees and lights and architecture.

Most record companies hail from places like LA, New York, Nashville.

But my dad was Ashville, NC born and raised and didn’t want to leave home.

I get that now.

Though I wouldn’t hate having a place where my job wasn’t right out the window.

I turn my back to it and take another sip. I pull my phone out, checking the notifications, and I find myself wondering what Amanda is doing. I wonder what the inside of her apartment is like. It’s not the most high-end neighborhood in Southend but it’s not slummy either.

I wonder if she has pets, if her walls are lined with bookshelves full of records. Does she have recording equipment in her living room? What does she do when she walks in the door? Does she kick off her shoes and slip into something more comfy? Does she curl up on the couch watching movies?

I want to know it all.

And honestly, I don’t think it’s entirely out of the question.

After all, we are married.

And we aren’t getting divorced any time soon.

Especially now.

Avery is right about one thing. Our dad’s eyes are a bit veiled, but Avery knows I am up to something. Not that it scares me. He can’t scare me.

But I do have to up the game.

Things need to be more convincing. More public appearances. More flirting. More touching. Maybe some kissing.

God, I wanted to kiss her tonight.

But I knew I shouldn’t.

Not by her apartment door anyways.

My mind races with scenarios in which I could…when we get to work? On a lunch break together? In the copy room against the machine…

I finally give in and pull my phone out, sending her a text.

Callum: I think we did well tonight.

She answers more quickly than I expect.

Amanda: I think so too. I like Noah. He’s funny. And Cass is really great.

Callum: You were really great…

I wait, wondering if that was too much. Too far. Honestly? I don’t give a fuck. The ellipses pop up and disappear then pop up again. She’s texting and erasing, and I’d give a million dollars to know what she said and decided against.

Amanda: Just doing my job.

I frown at that. If I had to guess, the erased texts were much different.

Callum: I do think we need to work on our public relationship though.

Amanda: How so?

Callum: My family knows, and so do Zoe and Cass. Word is going to travel fast now. People are going to be expecting more from us if we are husband and wife.

There’s a pause. No ellipses. Literally just her either ignoring me or trying to figure out what to say. Finally, she responds.

Amanda: You’re the boss.

I both love and hate that response. On one hand it strokes my ego, making another part of my being need stroking. And on the other hand, I feel like this really is just a contract to her and she’s not thinking about me outside of that at all.