Page 89 of The Rancher's Wedding Deception

“We’re just joking,” Devon said, the bastard actually laughing. “Relax.”

“If she ends up disappearing on me,” Paul heard himself say, his voice low and dangerous, “I’ll kill you both.”

“Strong words,” Wynd observed mildly, “coming from someone who supposedly doesn’t believe in love.”

Paul’s lip curled.

Did they really think he’d fall for that?

Ha!

A whirlwind marriage was out of character for him, he’d give them that.

But it didn’t mean he had completely lost his fucking mind.

Because he hadn’t.

And yes, he did spend the entire night cashing in every favor he’d accumulated over fifteen years of business dealings—all to ensure they’d have an airtight prenup by the time she woke up and could get married right after breakfast.

But it still didn’t mean anything.

He was just...efficient, that was all.

Paul gritted his teeth when he saw his friends exchanging looks.

The kind that only married men seemed to understand even without a word.

And so it was also the kind that he absolutely despised.

“What?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” Devon answered in a tone that clearly meant everything.

The judge’s chambers were elegantly appointed—dark wood paneling, leather chairs, oil paintings of stern-faced men in robes lining the walls. December light streamed through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air like restlessthoughts. A small Christmas tree had been placed in the corner, its lights blinking in a pattern that was starting to give Paul a headache.

Or maybe that was the waiting.

The waiting was definitely giving him a headache.

He tugged at his collar, then caught himself and stopped.

He wasnotnervous, dammit.

Because there wasnothingto be nervous about.

He was Paul Mitropoulos, and he had faced down hostile boards, ruthless competitors, and markets that crashed without warning.

He could handle a wedding.

His own wedding.

To a woman who had somehow managed to upend his entire existence in seventy-two hours.

“So,” Devon said, breaking the silence with the air of someone settling in for entertainment. “You’re sure you’re not in love—”

“Will you quit asking me that?” Paul growled.

“Surely you can see why we find it difficult to believe you,” Wynd drawled. “You’ve only met her three days ago—”