Married One Night - Amber Williams Leigh

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flirting with a man, can’t even entertain the idea of this one sticking around for three weeks for what seems like a perfectly harmless wager.”

      Olivia pursed her lips but said nothing, just kept her arms locked tight over her chest. When a shape passed the glass windows on her right, her gaze snagged on it and her heart rapped when she saw it was Gerald, talking on the phone and laughing as he paced absently across the inn’s lawn.

      She didn’t owe Briar an explanation. Neither was she going to change her views on marriage and commitment. She’d made her mind up long ago on both. Or it’d been made up for her when the last man who had proposed marriage to her left her with nothing but broken dreams and an even more broken heart.

      Yes, Gerald was a perfectly good man. He might be the perfect man. But that didn’t change the fact that she wouldn’t—couldn’t—let him in. Even if it was just for fun.

      Briar patted her arm, drawing Olivia’s gaze away from the man walking around outside and back to the sunroom and their conversation. “Just promise me you won’t do anything drastic to chase him away. Give him the three weeks, even if you think he can’t change the outcome.”

      “He can’t,” Olivia said firmly. “But a bet’s a bet and I plan on keeping my word and letting him stay here.”

      “Good,” Briar said, relief shining into her honey-brown eyes. “I’ve got to go clean up the kitchen and nurse Harmony before today’s guests arrive.”

      “Let Cole do the cleaning,” Olivia told her. “He’ll make it shine just as much as you would. And then the both of you should try to get some rest and take some time for yourselves. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need a babysitter.”

      “Thanks for that,” Briar said with a smile. Her eyes widened. “Wow. If you’d have told me we’d be trading marital advice a few weeks ago, I would’ve pulled a Rochester and locked you in the attic.”

      Olivia rolled her eyes. “Let’s not get too used to it. Gerald will be gone in three weeks.” And for her, that moment could not come soon enough.

      * * *

      GERALD STUFFED HIS hands in the pockets of his slacks as he roamed the shoreline. Though a stiff breeze blew off the choppy bay, the sun was warm and he lifted his face to it. Where before the water had risen high on crashing, angry waves, the morning after the storm it moved in on lightly whooshing crests that rolled into the sandy shore in front of Olivia’s tavern and the inn. The water sluiced around the thick, wooden pillars underneath the inn’s dock. He was surprised to hear the cry of seagulls and the honk of geese coming from the parks that lined the neighboring bluff.

      Apparently the calm came after a storm here. It was almost like a religion, this kind of serenity. Though the main road wasn’t far behind Hanna’s and Tavern of the Graces and its adjoining shops, the whish and roar of vehicles didn’t penetrate the quiet October morning.

      Gerald’s shoulders relaxed, any lingering tension left over from his journey here sliding away slowly but surely.

      His instincts were right about this place. He was sure of it—as sure as he was about the woman he had married.

      The morning after their alcohol-fueled romp around Las Vegas, Gerald hadn’t been lying when he’d told Olivia that he had been staying there for business. In fact, he had been there for two straight weeks meeting with the motion picture studio that wanted to make his Rex Flynn book series into a film franchise.

      The negotiations had been far more stressful than he’d anticipated. After two weeks of trying to hash things out with screenwriters, movie producers and potential directors, there were still too many decisions to be made, compromises to mete out.... Was it any wonder he’d been having trouble writing lately? All the noise created by the business side of his successful writing career was drowning out the quiet voice of his muse.

      At the end of those two weeks in Nevada, sitting at the bar that fateful night in the club downing his Scotch like water, Gerald had wondered how the idea of making his Rex Flynn books into a movie franchise had ever seemed like a good one. The character belonged on paper where Gerald—or, rather, his muse—called the shots.

      Gerald watched as two pelicans winged lackadaisically overhead, the prehistoric-looking birds in no hurry to be out on the water for their morning catch. They seemed to gaze on the quiet shore and the lone man walking it with jaundiced eyes.

      His irritation with the negotiations had been compounded by the fact that he had a book due soon. Very soon, and he’d barely begun writing it. Plus, he’d scrapped most of what he’d written so far. Fears he hadn’t felt since he first began to write were plaguing him. What if it didn’t come as naturally as it had before? What if everything he put on the page was complete shite? He hadn’t been able to connect with Rex. He’d hardly been able to envision where this next saga of Rex Flynn’s story would take him.

      That was...until he met Olivia. She’d been dancing so joyfully out there on the parquet floor of that frenzied dance club. Gerald had watched her dance, hardly seeing her friends or the crush of other dancers packed shoulder to shoulder with her on the floor. Scotch forgotten, motivated by a driving force that felt a lot like that exhilarating, creative freefall he’d somehow lost touch with over the past six months, Gerald had made a beeline for the blonde siren.

      Though he hadn’t remembered much from that point on the following morning, Gerald’s mind had slowly filled in the blanks after Olivia’s departure. Dancing. Drinking. More dancing. More drinking. Talking. Riding in the limo. Kissing there. Watching the fountain in front of the Bellagio rise into the night. Holding each other there. More talking. More kissing.

      From there they went back to the casino. A bit of gambling. A bit more drinking. Another limo ride to the little white chapel, where he had only vague impressions of gold walls, red carpet, an organ and an Elvis Presley to officiate. He’d meant his vows. It didn’t matter to him that his intoxication level had been as high as it had ever been. More than anything else he remembered about that wild Vegas night was looking into the eyes of his bride and speaking promises meant only for her.

      More dancing from there. Maybe at the club. Maybe there in the chapel, for all he knew. But from the chapel, they had taken a final limo ride back to the casino, apparently rented the honeymoon penthouse suite for the night and then...well, the marriage consummation, of course, which he was fairly certain had started in the casino elevator.

      From the moment he’d woken next to her in the big, plush bed strewn with rose petals and what remained of the clothes they’d in essence torn off each other hours earlier, Gerald had known despite the headache and sore muscles from the eventful evening that he didn’t have any regrets. Speaking to Olivia in the morning had only reaffirmed that conviction. And after the blonde siren left him to find her friends and fly back to her stretch of sandy shore on the coast, he’d hardly finished breakfast before he’d gone back to his business suite to write.

      He’d written for hours, until the light from the window began to lower, harden, then dim. All the while, the face of the woman he could now credit as his unexpected muse had stayed at the forefront of his mind. That night, as he’d made arrangements to travel back to his home in New York, he’d known that the first thing on his agenda when he got there would be tracking down the mysterious Olivia.

      Gerald hadn’t expected the place she called home to be as spectacular as she was. But when he’d checked into the bay view suite of Hanna’s Inn the night before, he had immediately set up his notebook computer on the room’s antique secretary in anticipation. He had a book due in three weeks. When he wasn’t wooing Olivia or grabbing small snatches of inspiration from the Eastern Shore, he’d go back to the desk and see what the muse had to offer him.

      The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. Gerald knew who was calling before he pulled the smartphone out to answer. When he saw it was indeed his editor back in New York, he lifted his thumb and pressed the answer key.

      He had avoided this conversation for weeks. Now, though, he had answers. “Dwight,” Gerald greeted, putting the phone

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