Page 63 of Pretty Mess

He grimaces. “Please, no endearments.” He takes my hand and slides something onto my finger.

I look down and see the gold band. “What thehell?” I breathe.

“There. We’re married.”

“You do know it doesn’t work like that, don’t you? I should know. I’ve proposed marriage twice in my life so far.”

“What?” He grips the side of the boat tightly, his body going rigid.

I startle, surprised by his loud tone. Sam’s head jerks towards us, but then he determinedly faces forward when Mac catches his eye.

“Yes.” I wink at Mac. “I proposed very sincerely and gratefully when someone gave me something nice to eat. I can’t remember the man or the meal, so it’s probably a good job he never said yes. And I’d hate to think my careless words made me a bigamist, because I also proposed to a man when he stopped to fix a puncture on my bike’s tire.”

Mac’s mouth twists as he shakes his head. And I notice that his clench on the boat railing eases. What the hell is the matter with him today?

Sam slows the boat and eases next to a big house.

Mac leans close, speaking quietly so Sam won’t hear. “You will be my husband, and your job is to admire the house. In fact, I give you free rein to fall in love with it. You can and will talk at length and very loudly about every single subject on the earth. That shouldn’t tax you at all.” My eyes narrow, and he continues blithely, “All you need to do is throw a lot of compliments at him.”

“What if he’s homophobic?”

“Eh? Oh, he’s not. His cousin is gay, and they’re very close. I’m betting that element will be fine.”

“How do you know that about his cousin?” I ask curiously.

“I know everything,” he says smoothly. “It makes my business endeavours run much more seamlessly.”

“Just so you know, that isexceptionallycreepy. And what if it’s not okay with him? Just in case he didn’t get the memo that you run the world.”

“We’ll pivot,” he says carelessly.

“Pivot? Just like that?” I say in disbelief.

“Of course. Just follow my lead.”

The boat bumps to a stop, and we jump onto a little wooden dock. An overgrown lawn leads up to the house. Nearby, an old summerhouse stands. Its windows are filthy and seem to stare blindly at us.

“We’re likely going to pivot out of the door with a foot up our arses,” I mutter as I follow him up the garden. I look at the house ahead of us. It’s painted white and black with a gable and a wide veranda.

I slow to a stop. It feels so serene here, and the house is beautiful. It’s not a big, fancy mansion that would make me feel uncomfortable. Instead, it looks like it’s always been part of the island, like it’s sat here through the wars and the changes that England has seen in the past hundred years but hasn’t changed much itself. That’s mind-boggling.

Mac stops and turns to me. “Is there a problem?” he snaps.

I scuff my foot in the grass. “This doesn’t feel right.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“I don’t like lying.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you this is not a nice man?” There’s a note of utter certainty in his quiet voice that I immediately find interesting.

“You know this for a fact?”

“I do.”

He climbs the steps that lead onto the veranda. This close, I notice signs of disrepair. The wood is warped and stained in places, and huge cobwebs hang from the eaves. Two old chairs sit facing the spectacular view of the river, but it doesn’t look likeanyone has sat in them for years. The frames are rotten, and the cushions have mould on them.

Mac hesitates. “Am I doing this on my own?”