Marrying My Billionaire Hookup

“So. You and Jo moved in together,” Rafael says.

Here it comes. “Yes.” I brace myself for a punch—literal or figurative. At least my back is to a wall, so nobody can get behind me. And this way, I can also see the kitchen where Jo is and the living room too.

Pablo steps forward. Today, he doesn’t have a kiddie tie around his neck. But there is a blonde princess in a blue dress on his black T-shirt with a caption that reads, “Let it go.”

“That’s a step in the right direction. Jo never lived with anybody else before,” he says.

Oh. So perhaps this means he won’t be the one throwing the first punch…

“Yeah. It’s a big commitment,” Angel adds, looking pleased.

Won’t have to fight with him either… Perhaps her brothers are realizing I’m not Jack the Ripper.

“It’s because none of them had a place like Edgar’s,” Hugo says. “It’s freakin’ awesome. Hell, I’d live with him.”

“Thank you, Hugo,” I say. “But I’m taken.”

“Just as well. You aren’t my type.”

“So when’s the ceremony?” Rinaldo asks.

“We don’t know yet.” Jo and I agreed to live together for at least four months. I don’t want to rush her after mentioning the timeline myself, although if it were left up to me, we would’ve been married by now. “Not exactly.”

“Don’t want to wait for too long.” Diego grows serious. “She’s going to be bigger than a house soon and won’t fit into any traditional wedding gown.”

“A woman who doesn’t get the wedding of her dreams isn’t forgiving,” Rinaldo says. “Seen it I don’t know how many times. Impossible to reason with. And you want to add pregnancy hormones on top of that?” He looks at me with pity.

Hmm. He must’ve seen a lot of botched ceremonies at his hotel

.

“She’ll hold it over you forever.” This time it’s Rafael. “She doesn’t just let things go. Trust me.”

Pablo laughs. “She’s still mad you broke her makeup from Korea five years ago.”

“Seven,” Rafael says.

That’s a long time, and I’m surprised by this new side of Jo. The makeup must’ve been something special. So how long would she be mad about a wedding not being perfect?

“Rafael!” Jo’s dad calls out from the living room. “Get me a beer, will you? And get Edgar something to drink, too. We taught you better!”

Rafael sighs. “A beer good?” he asks. “We’ve got some Dos Equis. And Pacifico, I think.”

“Either would be fine. Thank you,” I say.

He goes to the kitchen with Hugo tagging along.

“You should all come here. You’re missing some good analysis of yesterday’s game,” Jo’s dad calls out.

We all obediently move to the living room. A couple of talking heads are discussing some soccer match in animated Spanish. Rafael and Hugo rejoin us with enough ice-cold beer for everyone.

“You.” Jo’s dad tilts his bottle in my direction, then pats the empty spot next to him on the sofa. “Sit here.” He isn’t smiling.

Uh-oh. “Yes, sir.”

He gestures at the TV. “That was a good match.”

I merely smile, since I don’t watch soccer, and I don’t understand what the analysts are discussing on TV. I speak some Spanish, but know very little about soccer or terms used for the sport.