LITMIR.BIZ

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He took another sip of beer, leaned back in his chair and hooked one loafer-clad ankle over the opposite knee. “I’d like you to prove that.”

      “What?”

      “A wager, if you like,” he told her. “Come now, Olivia. You’re a small business owner. Small business is a gamble at one time or another. And you strike me as a woman who enjoys a challenge.”

      “So what if I am?” Olivia asked. “How would that change anything?”

      He lifted his finger and pointed at her discerningly. “There’s a lovely bed-and-breakfast next door to the tavern. If my publicist’s sources are correct, it’s your cousin who owns it. I’ll stay on there for three weeks, just long enough for you to prove to me that what we shared in Vegas was indeed nothing.”

      Olivia frowned at him. “If I were to agree, you realize you’re betting on a losing hand, right?”

      “Maybe,” Gerald said with a considering nod. “But my gut is usually right. And it tells me that the place I need to be, at least for the time being, is right here in your charming little hometown.”

      She narrowed her eyes as she considered him. Damn it. She did love a good challenge. Especially one where all the odds were in her favor. “Hmm. What are the stakes?” When Gerald’s brows arched, she added, “What’s a wager without stakes?”

      “Oh, right.” He grinned, lifting a hand to scratch his chin in a pensive manner that made her stare a moment too long at his wide-palmed hand with its narrow, creative fingers. “If you win, I will humbly admit defeat and hand over the divorce papers. And I’ll pay whatever legal costs filing them incurs.”

      “And if you win...?”

      Gerald’s eyes shined anew with the light of promise. “Then what do you say we give this a shot, aye? You and me. I have a feeling it’ll be worth it. And on a hunch I’m rarely wrong.”

      Olivia weighed him and his challenge. When he extended a hand for her to shake in agreement, she sighed and lifted hers to take it. “What the hell? You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Leighton. I hope you’re not a sore loser.”

      Gerald didn’t shake her hand. He squeezed it warmly and leaned forward until his green eyes yawned before hers and that aftershave of his washed over her in a splendid wave she was sure never to forget. “I rarely make wagers, Mrs. Leighton. But when I do, I play to win. And I’ll be damned if I don’t win this one.”

      Olivia swallowed, then released his hand and lifted her pint to take a gulp of Sam Adams. She had a feeling she was going to need it—and perhaps a few more—if Gerald was indeed sticking around.

CHAPTER THREE

      IT WAS CLOSE to midnight, but Olivia got in her old burnt-orange 1980s-model Ford pickup she liked to call Chuck and drove through the rain band currently battering the shoreline. By morning the storm would not only have made landfall but be sweeping its way west toward Texas, hopefully bringing the sun back out to dry this part of the coast.

      However, Olivia didn’t want to wait until then to confront her friend Adrian Carlton. The florist and single mother lived a few blocks south of the tavern in the old fruit and nut section of Fairhope. It was a quiet neighborhood, particularly at this late hour. Olivia pulled the truck into Adrian’s driveway and ran to the small porch underneath the gable that crowned the front of the snug but well-kept cottage.

      Balling her hand into a fist, she pounded on the door, then hugged her arms around herself, huddling as close to the door as she could to keep from getting whipped to death by wind and sideways rain.

      It took several moments, but she heard the small sound of several locks clicking before the door opened and dim light silhouetted the small, redheaded woman who peered out at her in disbelief. “Liv? Is that you?”

      “Yeah,” Olivia said. “Let me in, will you?”

      “Jesus,” Adrian said as she stepped back and let Olivia stride into her tidy, shabby-chic living room. She took a moment to lock all the doors again and then turned to frown at her impromptu guest. “Why the hell are you pounding on my door at midnight? Is something wrong at the tavern? Is water getting into the shops?”

      Olivia waved off the suggestion impatiently. “Never mind that. Remember when we were in Vegas?”

      Adrian rolled her eyes and groaned, crossed to the sofa and had a seat. “Are you kidding? I’m still trying to live it down.”

      Olivia not only remained standing, she chose to pace from one wall to the other, gesturing in jerky, sweeping motions as she spoke. “Do you happen to remember the hot blond British guy who I spent the night with?”

      “Yeah, we talked about him on the flight back,” Adrian reminded her, placid in the face of Olivia’s franticness. “You two met at the club. You danced. We all drank and you two wandered off for a night well spent from what you told us.”

      “It was more than that,” Olivia said. She stopped in the middle of the room and spread her arms. “We’re married.”

      Adrian raised her brows. “Married. As in...”

      “As in white gown, black tie, bouquets and corsages.”

      “Boutonnieres,” Adrian, the florist, corrected her.

      “Whatever,” Olivia said, waving that off, too. “Only it wasn’t any of that. No, for me it was a red clubbing dress. My groom might have been wearing a black tie. Though I’m not quite sure because I was one shot of Cuervo shy of drooling on Elvis’s gold lamé cape. And for all I know you and Roxie, who served as witnesses, by the way, carried shiny silk flowers.”

      Adrian winced. Whether it was from the image of shiny, silk bridesmaids bouquets or from being told she’d served as a witness, Olivia couldn’t be sure. “Wow. That’s...something.”

      “And get this,” Olivia said, lifting a finger. “My hot British stranger of a husband is here, in Fairhope.”

      Adrian shook her head slightly as if dazed. “Wait. Now you’ve got to be jerking me around.”

      “Nope. He popped by the tavern this evening and is at this very moment checking in to one of Briar’s suites at the inn. When she called just a few minutes ago, she said, ‘Um, Liv? Do you know there’s an Englishman here renting a room who says he’s your husband?’ He’s telling people, Adrian.”

      “Get out of town.”

      “And as if that weren’t enough...” Olivia laughed a sour laugh “...he wants to stay married.”

      Adrian frowned. She raised her hands to stop the fast flow of shocking information. “Okay. Now you’ve lost me.”

      “That’s what he said,” Olivia informed her, pacing once again. “He says he wants to give it a go. He wants to see if what he felt that one night in Vegas is enough to sustain a bond everlasting. I didn’t know whether to pat his head and coo over his eight-year-old-worthy idea of married life or call up the deputy and have him hauled out of the bar for lunacy.”

      “Huh.” Adrian fought a smile. “Interesting.”

      “So...” Olivia stopped pacing to face Adrian, and lifted her shoulders helplessly. “What do I do?”

      “You’re asking me?”

      “Do you see anybody else here?”

      “No, but if we don’t keep our voices down, there might be.”

      Olivia glanced toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms where Adrian’s seven-year-old son, Kyle, was down for the night. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

      “I don’t know, Liv,” Adrian said, rubbing her eyes. “I’ve never been in this situation. Or anything quite like it.”

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