Mail-Order Groom: A Valentine Romantic Comedy

All he had asked of Charlotte was that his temporary bride be the kind of woman his mother was most likely to approve of, and now that he was finally seeing his new "wife" in person—-

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

The woman in bed looked like someone who had jumped out of a fifties pinup, and try as he might, he could not see why the supposedly intuitive CEO of Heart's Match, whom Fleur de Konigh had sung praises of, would think that a woman with such overt sensuality could be an ideal daughter-in-law for his ultra-conservative mother.

Charlee-Mae started to stir as he crossed the room, and by the time Philippe came to stand next to her bed, his "wife" was already wide awake and watching him with amber-colored eyes filled with undisguised curiosity.

She pushed herself up gingerly, and he automatically reached down to help her even as he expected her to shrink from his touch.

But she didn't.

And it was how Philippe's disconcertment deepened into acute discomfort, with the way Charlee-Mae proved completely unresisting to his assistance. The way her amber eyes gobbled him up made him feel strangely restless, and as he adjusted the mountain of pillows behind her back, his fingers accidentally brushed over the back of her neck—-

Putain.

Her warm, satin-smooth skin almost felt sinful to touch, and he had a sudden and almost violent need to place as much distance as possible between them. It was as if a part of him recognized in her a destructive force that had the power to turn his entire world upside-down, and only pride alone kept him from getting the fuck out of her room.

Philippe gritted his teeth as he forced himself to move back at a careful and unhurried pace, all the while feeling Charlee-Mae continue to eat him up with unabashed curiosity. Fair's fair, Philippe thought, and so as soon as his dark gaze collided with hers, he indulged himself with his own scrutiny of her appearance.

Her long blonde locks were a wild, curly mess around her heart-shaped face, and aside from the layers of bandages wrapped around her head, another visible sign of her injury was the multitude of small but vividly red gashes that marred her from head to toe. None of these things, however, was enough to detract from the kittenish appeal of her looks...which Philippe was disturbed to find himself powerfully attracted to.

Merde.

"Hello."

Her voice was...sweet. It was the only word he could think of. Not thick, dark, and heavy like syrup, but more sweet like honey, which was as wholesome as it was addictive. A woman's voice was something he had never paid attention to, so why then, Philippe wondered irritably, was her voice suddenly different? Why did hers sound so fuckable, even when all she had said was a simple bloody hello?

He could see that she was waiting for him to answer, and while the thought of engaging in small talk struck him as distastefully artificial, years of etiquette training were impossible to ignore. But just as he was about to force himself to say 'hello' in return, it was then Philippe noticed her wide-eyed gaze flicking back and forth between their hands.

It took him a moment to realize she was comparing their wedding rings, and since she was the one who had chosen its design in the first place—-

"Is there a problem?" he asked politely. She would not be the first woman to have fickle taste in jewelry, and in some cases, it only turned out to be a woman's ploy to gain herself more jewelry.

His question appeared to make her nervous for some reason, and when he noticed the way her chest started to swiftly rise and fall under her hospital gown, Philippe just as swiftly tried to forget what he had seen.

His new "wife" - Mon Dieu, would he ever get used to calling her that? - might have the breasts of a blonde bombshell, but now was also the least appropriate time to indulge in such thoughts.

"I know this is going to sound silly—-"

Philippe frowned at the way her fingers started interlocking and unlocking over her lap.

"But I just want to be sure—-"

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" What is it?

"Are you my husband?"

Fifteen minutes later, and Philippe had his worst fears confirmed in the private office of Dr. Konstantin Manolis. He had known the other man for years, and it was in light of his friendship with the Greek neurosurgeon that Philippe wasn't even thinking of getting a second opinion.

If Konstantin believed Charlee-Mae suffered from amnesia, then that was what it was, but what he did have a hard time accepting was what his new "wife" had no memories of.

"The E.R. had to sedate her when she first came in," Konstantin relayed, "since she started panicking and insisting that they had it wrong, and she wasn't married."