“I’m thinking the Firehouse pizza. What are you going to get?”
I glanced through the menu long enough to spot a tomato pesto pie.
After the server took our orders and menus, I went back to idly leafing through the paperwork when one particular document stopped me cold. “Parrish? Is this… is this what I think it is?”
Surely I was wrong. I passed the paper across the table to him and waited to see his reaction. He took a sip of his water and barely kept from choking on it when he noticed the wording at the top of the official-looking document.
“Marriage certificate?” he squawked. “What? What? What?” Parrish shook his head, presumably to get himself to stop repeating himself. “What in the Sam Frick is this?”
Two spots of red bloomed in his cheeks as he suddenly had some kind of thought. His eyes widened and he gawked at me. “I did not do this. I promise you, Diesel. I swear I didn’t try to trick you into anything. I swear. We can march right back to Merchant, Greene, and Chandler right now and make them explain themselves. Better yet, they can come here. They can explain that this was all a-a mistake. Or something.”
He was so adorably flustered, I couldn’t help but let out a burble of a laugh. “I know, babe. I can’t exactly see you trying to trick someone into marriage. Especially someone like me.”
He shook his head violently. “I wouldn’t. Ever. I swear on my… b-butterfly books.” His teeth clacked together as if he wanted to stop himself from saying anything more.
I blew out a breath. “I remember them saying something about us needing to be married to make a strong case?”
“I remember them asking us what we planned to do for our vows.” Parrish bit his lip. “But I thought it was all hypothetical. What else is in there?” He reached for the folder, and I handed it over.
While he riffled through the fat stack of documents, I took a minute to down several gulps of the cold beer.
He looked up at me with a frown. “What do you mean ‘especially someone like me’? You’re… you’re the total package, Diesel. Anyone would be lucky to m-marry you.”
His eyelashes fluttered as he looked back down at the paper. “I’m… We’re…” He looked back up at me. The red apples of his cheeks stood out even brighter than before. “You’re my husband. I think.”
Even though it was a mistake, or at least some kind of temporary legal step only meant to protect Marigold, it felt kind of nice for a moment to think of him as mine.
“My husband,” I said, trying out the term. His eyelashes fluttered prettily as he looked away. I reached out and clasped his chin, gently turning him back to face me. With my other hand, I lifted up my beer bottle. “To my beautiful husband on the day of our wedding. I wish you nothing but love and happiness for the rest of our days.”
It was half a joke, but the sentiment was real. He picked up his water glass and clinked his glass against the bottle. “Congratulations, Mr. Partridge,” he said.
“You don’t want to be Parrish Church?” I asked with a wink, and we both started laughing. I tried letting the shock melt away in his easy presence, but I couldn’t shake the reality of what that paperwork revealed. We were actually legally married. Regardless of the reason, I would have to divorce this sweet man if I wanted to give him his life back.
As our pizzas came and we continued to sort through the papers while eating, reality set in. There was a prenup agreement protecting each of our assets. As if I had many assets. Still, it was nice to know the attorneys had been as careful to protect my house and the salvage yard from Parrish as they’d been to protect his big family money from me.
It wasn’t until we were almost back to the parking garage that I came across the adoption petition. I froze in my tracks and didn’t even notice the honking horns until Parrish yanked me off the street and onto the safety of the sidewalk.
“What the heck? You almost got smushed!”
I kept reading. “This… this says they’re putting you on the adoption petition.”
“Really? I mean, I guess it makes sense. If we’re married and they think it would make a stronger petition…”
He nudged me toward the entrance to the garage. I scanned the papers manically. “This says you’d be an equal petitioner. That you’d have equal rights to Marigold…” I swallowed. “Marigold Partridge.”
I started to feel light-headed. This had gotten way, way out of control. I didn’t want Marigold Partridge. I wanted Marigold Church. Beth hadn’t let the Kensingtons change her name, even after they’d adopted her. She’d claimed her name was her last connection to our parents and me. Now the lawyers were doing the same thing—making her a Partridge the same way the Kensingtons wanted to make her one of them.