The airport waiting area is filling up, but it’ll be another half-hour before they start boarding our plane. I dial my sister and cross my fingers while I wait for her to answer.

“Hello?”

I grin at the sound of her voice. I haven’t seen her in months and suddenly, I can’t wait to be down there. “Sarah!”

“Hi, Bailey, how are you?”

“I’m good. I’m at the airport, heading your way soon!”

“Oh.” I can practically hear the smile fall from her face. “You are? Like, without any notice?”

Can’t wait to see you either, sis. “I have a job in Seaside. I’m doing a little photography on the side these days, and my friend decided at the last minute that she wanted me to take some pictures for her.” And I need to get my husband to divorce me. But my sister already thinks I’m impulsive, careless, and irresponsible. No need to give her ammunition for those conclusions. “I thought I could swing by and see you and Faith.”

Sarah lives near Rock Hill, about thirty minutes from where Keegan, Emma, and Mason live in Seaside. Since she never comes home to visit, I only get to see her and Faith when I go down there.

“Sure. Give us a call when you’re down here, and we’ll see if we can make it work. The summer’s really busy. Faith has day camp while I’m at work and then nights are dance, gymnastics, and swimming.”

“I know you two are busy. I’m flexible.” I’m determined to keep the cheer in my voice. “I’m going straight to my photoshoot off the plane, but I could come by after.”

“Tonight’s not good, Bailey. Call tomorrow, okay?”

I bite my lip as my throat goes thick. “Sure thing.” I’m not going to let her get to me. I don’t need my family drama hanging over my head right now. I have enough on my plate.

We say goodbye, and I end the call. I have thirty minutes until I get to board the plane that’ll take me to my husband. I might as well get some work done.

I focus my attention on the set of photos I’m editing on my laptop. The girl from this shoot was exceptionally nervous. She lost a bunch of weight while her husband was deployed and wanted to surprise him with boudoir photos when he returned home. The upside of spending a couple of years stripping is that I can be clinical about body parts, so it doesn’t feel overly intimate to take pictures of women in lingerie. I did it for a friend of a friend a few months ago, and then word spread, and now I’ve done almost a dozen boudoir sessions and have another four on the books. Most women have no idea how beautiful they are, so I use lighting and shadows to show them. Watching a woman who’s afraid to look at her pictures fall in love with the images on the screen is the best thing ever. I think this one is going to love hers. There’s a whole series where she’s wearing one of his camo jackets and a scrappy lace thong with a stripe of black paint under each eye. If she doesn’t love them, I know he will.

I apply a filter to soften an image of her standing in knee-high grass at sunset, and my phone buzzes. I grab it with one hand and tilt my head to study the finished product on the screen. Only when I’m convinced it’s the perfect blend of sexy and cute to add to the set do I look at the text that came through. I don’t recognize the number, but as soon as I read the words, I know the message is from Ron from the bank.

A slut like you would be lucky to have a chance with a man like me.

“I want a divorce.”

A thousand times I’ve imagined Bailey Green showing up at my front door, and those were almost the words I hoped would come out of her mouth. In countless fantasies, her sentences started with “I want.”

I want you.

I want your mouth . . . hands . . . body.

I want us to try to make this work.

All that. But never I want a divorce.

Even so, this isn’t unexpected. The timing is, however, pretty damn inconvenient.

“Good to see you too.”

She groans and stomps inside my house. “Jesus.” She spins around the foyer and gapes as she takes in the open-concept kitchen and living room. “What did you do? Fuck an interior designer? A bachelor pad isn’t supposed to look like this.”

“I’m not a bachelor,” I say.

Her eyes widen and her cheeks blaze pink. I’m not sure I’ll ever tire of reminding her of our drunken Vegas nuptials.

I drag my eyes from the roots of her blond hair down to the tips of her toes. I’m still waiting for the day that looking at her doesn’t punch me in the gut with need. I’m not sure it will ever come. She’s dressed for the Florida heat in cutoffs and a tank. Those curves would make a godless man believe. I want to drop to my knees and give thanks in every way I know how, starting with the strip of soft skin exposed between her shirt and her shorts. Instead, I kick the door closed behind me and tuck my hands into my pockets, where they can’t get me into trouble.

God, I’ve missed her, and there’s not much I want to do right now more than hold her face in my hands and kiss her. Just a kiss. Then another. Would that be what I need to let her go?

When I moved down here to play for the Gators, I’d given up on her. I did everything I could think of to get my mind off her, to move on from the girl who’d give me her body but refused to give me her heart.

And then, a month after I stupidly slept with Lindy, Bailey and I were in Vegas with our friends. One drink made the next seem like a good idea, and the third made dancing and touching seem like a good idea, and then more drinks made for more touching. We capped off the night with our best idea of all: a visit to the wedding chapel down the Strip.

I knew she was drunk and I was taking advantage of her at a weak moment, but the fact of the matter is, when Bailey’s guard was down, she said “I do” with tears in her eyes and her hands gripping mine like she was afraid I might run away.

“We agreed we’d deal with this after Mia and Arrow’s wedding. Their wedding is over.” She swallows. “Let’s deal with it.”

“About that . . .” I wander into the kitchen and lean against the center island. “I changed my mind.”

She blinks at me. “Changed your mind about what?”

“I don’t want a divorce.”

“You . . . don’t want . . . a div—” She shakes her head. “No. Do you want to make my life difficult? You don’t get to put me off for weeks only to stand there and tell me you don’t want one.”

“But I don’t. My circumstances have changed.”

She bites her bottom lip. “I didn’t mean to marry you.”

I grunt. “Yeah, you did.”

“I was drunk.”

“You were sober enough to walk into that chapel and down the aisle. Sober enough to repeat the words.” My gaze flicks to her hand and to her bare ring finger. I came home from Vegas with two rings and no wife. “You were sober enough to make me promise that I wouldn’t let our impulsive marriage ruin my life.”

“That does sound like me.” She frowns. “You know I don’t need you to end this, right? I can get a divorce without you.”

I draw in a breath through my teeth. “Yeah, but contested divorces are a whole lot harder to get.”

“So that’s your plan?” she asks. “You’re going to stay married to a woman who doesn’t want to be married to you until I’m willing to go through some ugly divorce?” She stares at me, as if she’s waiting for me to come to my senses. “Why are you doing this?”

“Like I said, my circumstances changed. I need a wife, and conveniently, I already have one.”

She combs a hand through her hair. “You’re a sexy NFL receiver.”

I grin. “Thanks. You’re not so bad to look at yourself.”

She groans and tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. I have to avert my eyes to block out the raw sensuality of the image. There’s no denying that this woman gets to me on every level. She’s my kryptonite. “My point is, if you’re so desperate to have a Mrs. Dahl, there are lines of women who would happily take up the position.”

I don’t want them. “Why would I go to that trouble when I already have you?”

She backs away from me as if I’m a wild animal and she’s trying to escape without moving too fast. “You really want word to get out that you married the stripper?”

“Stop it. You’re not a stripper anymore.”

“The trailer trash.” She lifts her chin and swallows hard. “The broke bitch gold-digger.”

I flinch. “Stop.” Those are labels my snobby parents would throw around. I don’t like hearing Bailey talk about herself that way.

“Do I need to continue with the things they’ll say about me if this reaches the media?”

“Four months,” I say. “That’s all I’m asking.”

She shakes her head. “For what?”

“I have to leave for training camp Sunday, but I’m asking you to move in when I come back.”

“Move in?”

“Temporarily. Live here through the regular season—that’s through the end of the year. I’ll pay you well to act like my wife, to be my wife for those four months.” I draw in a breath. This is the hard part—the part I have to promise myself I’ll stick to, no matter how much it sucks. “If you do me this favor, come January, I’ll take care of all the legalities of ending our marriage.” I’ll let you go, no matter how much it hurts. “And you’ll be thirty thousand dollars richer.”

She sputters. “Thirty thou— You’re offering to pay me thirty thousand dollars to be your wife?”

I shrug. “Yeah.”

“For four months?”

“If you move in right after training camp, it’s technically four and a half.” I fold my arms. “It’s better than what you’d make managing The End Zone in that time.”

“No shit. You’re insane. Completely insane.” She screws up her face as she studies me, as if she’s never seen me before and is trying to figure me out. “Is this about sex? Are you offering me money to warm your bed for four months? Is that what you think of me?”

I cock my head and wait a beat before stepping forward and cupping her face in one hand. I can’t help myself. When she’s close, I want to touch her. “You and I both know you’ve always been happy to come to my bed.” My gaze drops to her lips before my thumb sweeps over them. “But right now, I need more than that from you.”

“I can’t give you more.” Her voice trembles. Is that regret? Sadness? I might know if she’d let me in. But she’s kept her walls up for four years. I’m not holding my breath that she’s going to let them down now. “I have nothing to offer you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You’re already my wife. It’d be a favor, Bailey. A favor that just might save my career.”