The Cowboy's Convenient Wife Read online

  He leapt up from the sofa and ran – completely naked – out into the hallway when I left. "Astrid!" He yelled after me. "Astrid – what are you –"

  "I have to go!" I squeaked as I scurried away. "I just – I have to!"

  I feverishly began stabbing at the elevator button, knowing on some unconscious level that if I didn't get out of there I was done for.

  "WHY!?"

  "I'll call you!" I called back lamely, still unable to look at him. "I'll call you."

  "Wait!" He continued as I stepped into the elevator – something told me he wasn't used to women ditching him after sex. "Wait! Are you going back to the hotel or wh–"

  The elevator doors closed just as he began to run towards them and I slumped against the wall, sighing and trembling with what I thought was relief.

  Chapter 9: Cillian

  I waited for Astrid to come back but she didn't. I called her phone but it went straight to voicemail. I called a few more times and it kept going straight to voicemail.

  Eventually I put some clothes on, grabbed a few slices of cold delivery pizza out of the fridge and ate them while contemplating whether or not I hallucinated the entire previous 24 hours of my life.

  I waited for her to call or text but she didn't do that either. What the hell was that? What happened? She raced out of my condo like a damn bat out of hell.

  Second thoughts. That had to be it. That's why I felt so strangely compelled to act right around her, to impress her – she was out of my league. After we had sex the spell wore off and she came to her senses. That usually happened the other way around in my life – maybe it was time I got a taste of my own medicine?

  ***

  It was late when I woke up covered in pizza crumbs on the sofa. Almost midnight. The only lights on outside my windows were those illuminating the small grid of streets that make up Sweetgrass Ridge. I stood staring down at those streets as I checked my phone and saw no calls and no messages from Astrid. Every block, every intersection held some memory for me.

  There was the Super Mart, where that little gold-digger who got her claws into Jackson used to work. There was Henrietta's, the diner where my mom used to take us for milkshakes even though she knew my dad didn't approve. Henrietta's isn't for people like us! He would yell, if someone spotted us there and told him about it – which they invariably did. And there was the rink that could barely hold 500 spectators, where my brother Connor had spent most of his spare time since he was 7 or 8 years old.

  I shook my head, not sure why I was thinking about Connor or Jackson or my childhood when there was a much more pressing issue at hand.

  Astrid Walker. Where the hell was she and why wasn't it in my bed, naked? My cock twitched to life at the memory of her perched on my lap, her perfect little tits bouncing deliciously every time I pushed myself into her.

  It wasn't just Astrid's tits, though. Believe me, things would have been so much simpler if it was. That girl did something to me. She got her hooks into me. I could say it was the sex but it wasn't, it happened before I even got my hands up her shirt. I think maybe it happened in the few hours between spotting her at the airport and arriving back in Sweetgrass Ridge after the drive from Billings.

  I didn't care what girls thought of me. Until I did. I didn't care if they left after sex – in fact it was a bonus if they did. Until it wasn't a bonus. Until that girl in particular had me pacing my condo like a caged lion, confused and desperate over – what exactly?

  You barely know her! You just need a drink. Have a whiskey and go back to bed.

  Meeting her was a joke. It was supposed to be a joke. It was at least 95% a joke when I drunkenly e-mailed the matchmaker. I mean, I was never really planning to marry some chick I didn't even know. I think maybe I just wanted to try the idea of marriage on. I wanted to try on a new persona without having to sign-up for it officially. That's what Astrid was for.

  And yeah, I realize my total lack of hesitation at using another human being to serve my whims was a shitty thing to do. I did a whole lot of shitty things.

  The best part, though, is how she turned it around on me without even realizing she was doing it. She wasn't supposed to be the one ghosting me after sex. That was my move. That's what I did. She was supposed to be the one checking her phone every few minutes, calling me, trying to figure out my motivations, what I was feeling.

  I look back on that night and I have to laugh at myself. That dumbass still thought he had a chance.

  I turned away from the window, trying mostly unsuccessfully to communicate to my dick that Astrid was no longer on the premises, and picked up my phone again.

  And then I called her. If she told me that was it, that she never wanted to see me again? At least I would know. Then I could head out to the Lone Pine Bar and get a few beers into me. Something to take the edge off the weird pit in my stomach.

  It rang a few times before she picked up. Enough times to have me genuinely worried she wasn't going to.

  "Hello?"

  Her voice was quiet, hesitant. Did I imagine the sex? Did I imagine the way she dug her fingernails into my shoulders when I made her come?

  "Hey," I replied. "Are you OK? You're not sleeping are you? Did I wake –"

  "No, I'm not asleep."

  "Oh. Good."

  A long pause ensued. At least she didn't hang up. That was good – right?

  "Why did you take off like that?" I asked eventually, when I could no longer bear it.

  "I – I don't know. I had to think."

  "You had to think?"

  "Yeah. Also I think I was, uh, a little freaked out."

  God, she was adorable. How was she so adorable? Just the sound of her voice had my insides twisting into knots with how badly I wanted to feel her nestling her sweet face into my neck. What the fuck?

  "You were freaked out?"

  "Yeah..."

  "About what?"

  Another pause. I could feel her holding back. "I don't know. I just felt a little overwhelmed."

  Overwhelmed. Was that good?

  "I mean, didn't you?" She continued. "Didn't you have anything to think about?"

  "I thought about the way you ran outta here like your ass was on fire," I replied quickly, taking a light-hearted tone because I didn't have any practice with real emotional honesty. "What was that about?"

  I looked up and caught my own reflection in the window as I waited for her reply – which didn't come. I wasn't lanky anymore, the way I was when I was younger. It still shocked me sometimes, to realize I was closer to 30 than 20.

  "You want to hear something?" I asked when the silence went on too long to bear.

  "Sure," she replied. "What?"

  "I like you. I mean I really like you. I know it's weird because we only just met, but I honestly don't think I ever liked anyone this much before."

  More silence. My heart began to pound in my chest. My hands suddenly felt clammy.

  "I'm sorry," I said a few seconds later. "Is that too much? Is that why you took off so –"

  "Me too."

  We were both quiet for a moment, letting it sink in – I think – that the feeling was mutual.

  "You too?"

  "Yeah," she replied. "That's, um – that's why I left. Because I could feel how much I liked you already. I was scared – I don't know, I think I was scared you didn't feel the same way. Or that you'd think it was stupid. I was embarrassed. I don't even know why I'm telling you this right now. Do you mean it? Like you really –"

  "Astrid?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Do you want to just do this?"

  I could say I just blurted it out without thinking. It wouldn't be a total lie. But I knew what I was asking. I wasn't drunk or high or brainwashed. I was falling in love, and I didn't have the first clue how to handle it like a mature, rational adult – because I wasn't a mature, rational adult. I was a spoiled, arrogant prick with no idea how thoroughly life was about to kick his ass.

  "Do I want to do what?" S
he replied, even though I think she knew exactly what I was talking about.

  "This," I repeated. "This whole thing, the reason we met."

  "Do you mean –"

  "Get married, yes. Do you want to just do it? Fuck it, let's fly to Vegas and get married tonight – right now! Are you ready? Get dressed and pack your stuff up, I'll leave now and come pick you up."

  Like I said, I meant it. There wasn't a single ounce of hesitation in any part of me. Being with her made me feel things I never felt before. I don't just mean the clichés, I don't just mean how hard she made me come (although she did) or how cute she looked in my sweats. I mean she made me want things I didn't think I wanted. She made me care about things I didn't think I cared about it. She made me want to be a version of myself a girl like her could love. And she did it fast, too.

  So yeah, I had whiplash. But I meant everything I said. I was as onboard as I have ever been about anything in my life. I married Astrid Walker because I wanted to marry her. I wanted her to be my wife. She wanted it, too. I could tell from the barely-contained happiness and excitement in her voice when she told me that, yes, she was ready.

  ***

  We flew private to Las Vegas.

  "Is this your first time?" Astrid asked as I gazed down at the mountains below.

  "My first time marrying someone I just met?"

  "No," she giggled. "I meant is this your first time on a private jet?"

  She was sitting on my lap because we couldn't keep away from each other, and my fingers were laced through hers.

  "No," I replied, brushing her hair out of the way so I could kiss her earlobe, and then her cheek. "I've been on a private jet before. To New York, I think. Or was it LA? I can't remember, but I was with Darcy. She always used to take Jackson with her on shopping trips but when he couldn't go I was the second choice."

  "Who's Jackson? Your brother?"

  Jesus, we really did not know a single thing about each other. And it didn't matter one bit, not to either of us.

  "Yeah," I replied quickly, not eager to discuss Jackson or anything to do with Jackson. "My dad used to pay for the private flights because Darcy would throw a fit otherwise. He put his foot down a few years ago and now she has to fly commercial. First class, obviously."

  "Darcy is your stepmom, right?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Maybe Astrid sensed I didn't want to talk about my family. Or maybe she didn't sense anything, because we were two strangers on our way to do the craziest thing we would ever do?

  "So what's your favorite place in Vegas?"

  She was making me hard, squirming around on my lap like she was. I could have reached down and slid my hand between her legs, but I held back. Part of me still couldn't believe she was actually doing it. I knew I was doing it, but I still wasn't 100% sure of her. She just gave off this air of sophistication – of intelligence and worldliness and being a person who was too smart to do something like marry some dumbass rancher's son she just met. So I held back, telling myself I would fuck her like she had never been fucked before after the ring was on her finger. Not before.

  "I've never been to Las Vegas."

  Astrid looked up at me the way you might look at someone who has just sprouted a second head.

  "What? Really?"

  I shrugged. "Nope. Is that weird?"

  She was still looking at me like she didn't believe it was possible for someone to have avoided Las Vegas for 26 years. "For real, though?"

  I laughed. "Yes, for real. I haven't been to lots of places. I haven't even been outside the United States."

  That got her attention. She sat straight up, an even more disbelieving expression on her face, and stared at me. "You're kidding!"

  "Nope. I don't even have a passport – never have. Am I just confirming all your suspicions about Montana hicks right now?"

  "But you're not a hick. Your father is probably the richest man in the state!"

  "Why does that mean I have to go to other countries?"

  We gazed at each other, Astrid's bafflement at my lack of travel only just surpassing my own bafflement at her bafflement. It was a sign – not the first and certainly not the last – of just how different we were underneath the heady layers of lust and the sweet, drunken joy of just being with her.

  Chapter 10: Astrid

  We landed in Las Vegas as a brilliant pink dawn broke across the desert. An hour later I married Cillian Devlin in a small, neon-lit chapel was located just off the Strip, chosen solely for the fact that it was open before 10. The groom wore jeans, a red plaid button-down shirt, and cowboy boots caked in Montana mud. The bride, whose father was worth several billion dollars, wore a white shirtdress and a polyester veil supplied by the chapel. We paid $70 for the marriage license, $60 for the minister and an extra $25 for a witness. Wagner's Bridal Chorus played over a tinny loudspeaker system as I walked down the 10 foot aisle.

  Cillian and I were too busy gazing into each other's eyes to hear much of what the minister said but the vows were your standard wedding vows. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer (admittedly not likely to apply to either of us) etc. We completely forgot about rings but the officiant was happy to supply us, for an extra fee, with a pair of simple silver rings with the chapel's name and address and 'Happily Ever After!' engraved on the inside.

  After the ceremony we left our e-mail addresses with the receptionist so she could mail us the wedding video. And then we stood outside on the sidewalk, holding hands as the desert sky shone bright with the promise of a happy future.

  "We really just did that," I said, laughing out loud as I gazed up at my brand new husband. "Didn't we?"

  Cillian tried – and failed – to wipe the huge grin off his gorgeous face. "We did."

  "What now?"

  He patted his abs. "Breakfast. Married life is making me hungry. And after breakfast? Baby, let the honeymoon begin!"

  The honeymoon. I hadn't even thought about the honeymoon! A series of locales flitted through my mind: the Maldives, the Amalfi Coast, the Bazaruto Archipelago. Which of those places would be the perfect setting for a few weeks of making love under the sun?

  Then I remembered that Cillian didn't have a passport. It didn't matter. Something told me we weren't going to be paying too much attention to our surroundings, anyway.

  ***

  A few hours later, after a post-wedding pancake breakfast and a nap, I woke up to the sound of Cillian's deep, even breathing as he slept next to me. He was sprawled out across the king size bed in our hotel suite, still fully clothed. I stared at him, disbelieving.

  I'm married? To him?!

  Even fast asleep he was breathtaking, one muscular arm thrown casually back over the pillow and the tiniest of smiles playing at one corner of his mouth. I watched him for a little longer, trying to make the truth sink in. My husband. My husband!

  Slowly, so as not to wake him, I slid out of bed. After a shower and a call to room service to have toothbrushes and various other items sent up, I checked the messages on my phone. Two from my mom, 1 from my dad, 5 from Ava. I texted one-sentence replies to everyone but Ava, saying I was fine but busy and would be in touch soon. To Ava I texted the following:

  "CALL ME. NOW."

  Less than 5 minutes later she did just that and I took it out on the balcony so my chatter wouldn't disturb Cillian.

  "Hey!" My best friend greeted me cheerily. "What's up?"

  "Uh," I replied, unable to keep the smile out of my voice. "Nothing. I mean, not nothing. Something, I guess?"

  I don't know why I suddenly went all coy. I was married when I took that call. There would be no attempts to talk me out of anything because the thing Ava would be trying to talk me out of was already done.

  "Are you at your place? Because if you are we should meet up. My mom said that new brunch place in South Beach has great belli–"

  "Ava!" I exclaimed, unable to contain myself.

  "What? What's going on? You sou
nd weird. Where are you?"

  I leaned against the glass railing and looked out over Las Vegas. The sun was setting and the city lights were beginning to stand out against the darkness of the empty desert beyond. A few stories below me, people were starting to head out to restaurants, bars and casinos.

  I'm not much of a party person, as mentioned. I've stood on other balconies, in other cities, imagining what those people in the cars and on the sidewalks were going to get up to that night, envying them their exciting social lives.

  But I wasn't envious that evening. I didn't want to be laughing and flirting in a nightclub or living it up in the latest trendy restaurant with the cool people. I didn't want to be anywhere other than where I was. On that balcony, in that hotel, with Cillian Devlin sleeping mere feet away and sure to wake up soon and make me his again – and again and again.

  "I'm in Vegas."

  Ava paused and I could just picture the cute little frown she must have had on her face as she tried to figure out what the hell I was doing in Vegas. "Are you? But you hate Vegas!"

  "No I don't. It's not my favorite place on earth but I don't hate it."

  "Who are you with?"

  It was my turn to pause.

  "Astrid?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Who are you with?"

  Ava knew something was up. Like I said, she's very intuitive – and she knows me like she knows the back of her own hand.

  "If I tell you, you have to promise not to get mad – OK?"

  I laugh sometimes, thinking back to that conversation – to that time. Could it have been any more obvious that I was utterly unprepared to handle what I'd done? I was as self-conscious during that call with my best friend as a teenage girl confessing her first kiss. I was happy, too – and I wanted to tell her all about my happiness. But there was no confidence behind my joy, no trust in my own instincts.

  "OK...?" Ava replied slowly.

  "Promise?"

  "Ugh, Astrid. I said OK. Just tell me who you're with before you explode. I can tell you want to."

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "OK. Alright. I'll tell you. I'm with –"