Married To My Gay Best Friend

Eve’s POV

Scratch what I said about not being desperate. I was desperate enough but not shameless enough to ask Devin to marry me.

I spent the rest of the day doing what any reasonable woman in my position would do. I walked into every boutique between the judge's office and the river, tried on seven dresses I did not need, bought a pair of shoes that cost more than my first car, and pretended I was not circling the inevitable conclusion that had been waiting for me since the moment I walked out of that cottage.

Devin was the only man I trusted and the only man who had never let me down. My gay best friend who would rather eat glass than complicate our friendship with anything as messy as romantic feelings.

He was the perfect solution to my problems but it was impossible ask this of him.

He called twice in the afternoon. The first time I let it ring until voicemail. The second time I picked up just long enough to tell him I needed time alone to clear my head. He said okay without hesitation. He never pushed or demanded explanations. It was one of the thousand things I loved about him.

By seven o'clock I had exhausted every distraction the city had to offer and found myself in a dimly lit bar on the wrong side of midtown, the kind of place where the wine came by the glass and nobody blinked if you ordered three in a row. The bartender was a tired looking man in his fifties who had seen enough drunk women on barstools to know when to pretend he was not watching. I appreciated his discretion.

I was halfway through my second glass of something red and unpretentious when a man slid onto the stool beside me. He was handsome in a generic way, dark hair, decent jawline, a smile that suggested he had used it successfully before. "You look like someone who's had a rough week," he said.

"It's Tuesday."

"Rough month then."

I swirled my wine and considered him. He was tall and well dressed and entirely forgettable. Under different circumstances I might have been flattered. Tonight I was just exhausted. "I'm not interested," I said. "But thank you for the effort."

He did not move. "You haven't even heard my pitch."

"I don't need to hear your pitch."

"It's a good pitch. Very convincing."

I turned on my stool and looked at him properly. The wine had loosened something in my brain, a filter I usually kept firmly in place. "What's your name?"

"Eric."

"Eric, do you want to get married?"

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

“ Do you want to marry me I n the next thirty days. It's a business arrangement. You'd get a generous allowance and a quick divorce once the terms are met. No strings or expectations, just a signature on a piece of paper and a year or two of pretending." I tilted my head. "Still interested?"

Eric stared at me for a long moment. Then he laughed, a little nervously, and stood up. "You're insane," he said.

"Probably, but the offer stands."

He walked away without looking back. I could not blame him. I had just proposed a marriage of convenience to a complete stranger in a dive bar, and the only reason I was not more embarrassed was that the wine had reached the part of my brain responsible for shame and gently turned it off.

Two glasses later, Marguerite's warning came floating back to me. Not all poison comes labeled. Eric the stranger could have been anyone: A con man, a mole sent by Martin or another Ambrose with a better poker face.

I could not afford another mistake. The only person I could trust was already in my apartment, probably pacing the living room and pretending he was not worried about me.

I pulled out my phone and stared at Devin's contact photo. He was smiling in it, one of those rare unguarded moments I had captured last summer when we were on the roof of his building and the sun was setting and he had not noticed me pointing the camera at him. He looked happy. He always looked happy when he was with me.

I could not ask him. I could not take the one good friendship in my life and turn it into a transaction. And yet I had no other options. Ambrose was gone, Eric the stranger was gone and T he deadline was not going anywhere.

I ordered another glass of wine and stared at the ruby liquid like it might offer up a solution. It did not. But it did give me an idea, which was that if I was going to ask Devin Cresswell to marry me, I needed to be drunk enough that the words could actually leave my mouth.

By the time I finished my fourth glass, the bar had gotten blurry around the edges. The bartender was wiping down the counter with a rag that had seen better days, and he glanced at my phone when I set it down beside my glass. "Do you have someone who can pick you up?" he asked.

“Yes, my friend Devin. He always picks me up."

"Want me to call him?"

I nodded and pushed the phone toward him. "Tell him I have a question for him. A very important question."

The bartender scrolled through my contacts with the patience of a man who had done this exact thing for hundreds of drunk patrons before me. I watched him step aside and speak quietly into the receiver. A few minutes later he returned the phone. "He's on his way."

"He's always there for me. That's the thing about Devin." I rested my chin on my hand and felt the room tilt pleasantly. "He's the only reliable man in the world. Did you know that? The only one."

The bartender made a noncommittal sound and went back to wiping the counter.

Devin arrived faster than should have been possible in city traffic. One moment I was contemplating the dregs of my wine, and the next he was standing beside my stool, his hand gentle on my back, his voice low and steady as he thanked the bartender and settled my tab. He looked perfect in that rumpled way he always looked when he had been pulled away from something important, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly disheveled and his eyes full of concern.

"Eve." He crouched beside me so we were at eye level. "What are you doing?"

"Drinking. Strategically."

"Strategically."

"For courage." I turned to face him and the world swayed, but he was solid, always solid. "Devin, I need to ask you something. It's insane and you're going to think I've lost my mind."

"I already think that. What is it?"

I took a deep breath. The bar was spinning gently around us. The bartender had retreated to the far end of the counter. "Marry me."

He went very still. His hand was still on my arm, his thumb resting against the inside of my wrist. "What?"

"Marry me, not for real. Well, legally real, but not romantically real and you're the only person I trust. The only one who never wanted anything from me and I have thirty days to find a husband or I lose everything. I know it's insane but you're gay so it's not like things would get complicated between us. We could just sign the papers and pretend for a while and then when the inheritance is safe we can go back to normal. Please…"

He said yes before I finished the sentence.

He said it so fast I almost missed it. Just one quiet syllable while I was still rambling, and then I stopped and stared at him and a laugh bubbled up out of my chest before I could stop it.

"Really?"

"Really."

"You'll marry me? Just like that?"

"Just like that."

I threw my arms around his neck and almost fell off the stool. He caught me, as he always did, and I laughed into his shoulder with the giddy relief of a woman who had just been handed a lifeline. "You're perfect," I said. "You're the perfect solution. My safe, perfect, uncomplicated solution."

"Uncomplicated," he repeated quietly.

"Exactly." I pulled back and beamed at him, drunk on cheap wine and sheer exhausted relief. "You're never going to fall in love with me. That's what makes it perfect. No drama, no heartbreak and no messy feelings. Just us, the way we've always been."

Devin smiled. The corners of his mouth lifted in all the right ways, but something behind his eyes did not move with them. In the dim light of the bar, with my vision blurred and my judgment thoroughly pickled, I did not notice.

"Right," he said quietly. "Never."