Page 19 of Marrying My Moth Lady

“Oh, my boy! What a joyous day!” He lifts off his chair enough to grab my shoulders and shake me. His claps on my back lift a bubble of acid from my stomach. He must stop before he burps me like a baby.

“I can’t make the call if I’m not the mineral rights owner,” I reiterate. I have no idea what calls I can and can’t make. I cross my fingers and sit on them, nails digging into the pad of my middle finger.Please let Eli be one of those billionaires who relies on his attorneys too much.

“Then let’s amend this contract! My son needs the legal okey-dokey to do his part to grow this company!”

“Thank you, sir,” I say with my teeth rattling. Damn, the guy’s arms are strong.

“Swing by tomorrow morning and I’ll have more papers to sign. You know how them-lawyers love paper. Sometimes I reckon they nestle in the piles like rats in the night,” he says with a chuckle. “Awe, there’s Daddy’s angel. I was fixin’ to know your fine, young man.”

A string of curses that would have Millie reaching for the soap consume my brain. Amber’s cloud of expensive perfume fills the office like grease fumes from a fast-food joint. If there’s one person who could ruin this deal, it’s Amber. Her arms wrap around my shoulders, and I fight the urge to shrug her off. The bulges in her biceps are enough to quiet the impulse. I bet she could snap my neck without a thought.

Why did I pick her up? Even drunk as a skunk, I have a definite type. I need more cushion for the pushin’. Soft. Squishy. Comforting, like the best things in life—slow dancing, freshly baked bread, candlelight, flower petals, and butterfly wings.

Looking up at my future wife, I’m flummoxed. Her chin and nose battle for which point is the sharpest. Her long, iron-flat hair accentuate the razor-blade cheekbones, accentuating a permanent duck pout. I guess collarbones must be sexy in the fashion arenas because Amber cakes makeup on hers. Are theysupposed to stick out that far or is she a master at shading and contouring?

“Nothing makes me happier than my Daddykins and my Poopykins getting along,” she says over my head.

If only my gas-factory intestines worked on command. Poopykins would clear this room in a heartbeat.

“One happy family,” I say through a pained smile. I’d breathe through my nose to calm my temper, but Amber’s fumes would suffocate me.

“Not tonight,” Amber whispers seductively against my neck. “You’re taking me out to dinner where we’ll go over themes for our wedding. I thought maybe green with forest nymphs or Thumbelina, since you love bugs and nature-shit.”

Nature-shit, nice.

“I can’t. We are—”

“Go paint the town red. I insist,” Eli says with a darkening of his features that sends a shiver up my spine.

“Of course,” I say with an awkward pat on her arm. “Why don’t we try the new burger joint?”

This wouldn’t be the first time I induced intestinal distress to get out of a date, but how long can I avoid my wedding? Which will shred first—my GI tract or my heart and soul?

Chapter 10

Horus

“We’re eating in Ohio because I can’t let anyone find out I left before I get a head start,” Amber says, shredding her napkin. “I’m not marrying you.”

“The hell you aren’t,” flies out of my mouth. “You said married parents are what’s best for our child. I bonded with your dad. I’ve done everything you asked—even kept your ghosting me on the down-low so the local reports don’t find out we’re having a shotgun wedding. What do you want from me?”

Nothing like a torpedo through your altruistic plans from a spoiled bitch. Even if our marriage is just on paper and we live separately, she must walk down the aisle. If she’s a runaway bride, Eli will blame me—not attentive enough, too difficult to be around, too sick to pass down good genes. I huff through my nose like a bull to keep from jumping over the table to strangle her. Amber rejects me and I can’t save Millie.

“I want you to lie low and not go to the wedding—”

She pauses when the cheery server, Silvia, places a large chocolate shake in front of her and my hot water for tea on my side of the table. Ingesting dairy at this meeting would be likepulling the pin on my intestinal grenade, so I made one good choice today. I give Silvia a polite nod before glaring daggers at Amber.

“You need sugar or more water, just holler darlin’.”

“Thank you,” I say through clenched teeth. I pretend the ceramic caddy of packets labeled ‘tea,’ ‘decaf,’ and ‘berry’ is as exciting as a classic pirate novel. Deciphering which berry is on the berry tea wrapper keeps me from having to look at Amber. If she’s wearing a smirk or smug expression, I’ll snap.

“I get it. I lie low at your request and don’t attend the wedding. You tell me you aren’t going buuuut,” I say once Silvia’s out of earshot. “The joke’s on me. You play the jilted bride and Eli sues my ass into one of his quarry holes…in a cement block. No, thank you.”

“I won’t go—”

“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,” I say, waving my teaspoon at her. “I don’t believe a word out of your mouth when you orchestrated this. If you hadn’t blabbed all over social media and announced the baby was mine before telling me—”

“So my father wouldn’t force me to abort!” She reaches across the table, and I flinch. Instead of striking me, she grabs my silverware and shakes out the utensils. My jaw drops as she dries real tears and blows actual snot into my napkin. “I want my baby!”

---