I tossed the letter on the table in disgust, picking up my pint and drowning the last of my beer in one gulp. My mind buzzing with rage, I snatched the letter up and read it over again, unable to believe the audacity of its content.

My grandmother, June Sinclair, died six weeks ago. It wasn’t one of those really sad deaths – no one would cry at her graveside the way they would over a child in a car crash or a mistreated kitten. Of course, part of that is my upper-class British “stiff upper lip” relatives doing what they do best, but personally I think it’s because even my terrible family couldn’t stand June, who was the worst of the lot. I’d barely seen the woman since my parents kicked me out of their house seven years ago, which was just as well, since I didn’t exactly get on with her when we did have contact. My grandmother embodied everything I hated about my upbringing – the pretentiousness, the godly superiority complex, the stubborn refusal to move beyond 19th-century repression.

To her, I was an abomination – an ill-mannered wild child who dishonoured the family name by becoming an artist and dating other women. June detested me so much my own mother broke her three years of silence to call me and forbid me to attend her funeral. It was just as well – I didn’t own any black skirts of the appropriate length.

Which was why I’d been so surprised when June’s lawyer called in at my tattoo shop to inform me June left me something in her will. I was even more surprised when the lawyer handed me a handwritten letter and explained that Grandmother June’s entire estate was mine, provided I met her provisions.

I couldn’t believe my luck. My grandmother owned Primrose House, a beautiful Victorian mansion on the outskirts of Crookshollow, nestled right into the edge of the trees at the border of Crookshollow Forest. The house had been in our family for two-hundred years, and still contained all these enchanting original features – a wraparound porch, a hexagonal turret with a giant window and balcony at the top, lots of tiny rooms adorned with garish wallpaper and dark wood panelling, even an enormous ballroom hung with crystal chandeliers. Primrose House made me think of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, only instead of weird noises and supernatural forces, it was haunted by my disapproving grandmother who was always telling me to get my grubby hands off her antiques.

Two years ago, I’d been travelling across Europe, doing tattoo residencies and staying in squats and squalid backpackers, and meeting and shagging as many interesting people as I could. In Berlin, a sculptor I was shacked up with at the time took me back to her squat – a decadent Grand Guignol in a converted bunker where artists, DJs and tech entrepreneurs partied for weeks at a time. I stayed there for months – long after the relationship with the sculptor turned stale – enchanted by the wild, creative community that congregated there. Ever since, I’d had the dream of creating my own space just like it – a place where artists and other travellers could stay and collaborate. Part hostel, part gallery, part classroom and events centre. All awesome.

I’d saved a bit of money, and had even started looking at places, but even if I could afford the kind of property I dreamed of (which I couldn’t), none nearby had exactly the vibe I wanted. Except … except for Primrose House. It would be absolutely perfect, and now it was tantalisingly close to being mine. But the only way I could get it was to do one thing I absolutely was never going to do … get married.

“Bianca Sinclair,” a deep voice purred from across the table, the rich Scottish accent making my name sound like the heroine of a romance novel. “Disappointing family since 1989.”

I didn’t need to look up. I knew exactly who it was. Robbie slid into the seat across from me, a fresh pint in each hand. He slid one across the table to me, and took a sip from his own.

Robbie was a new friend of mine, but over the three months since we’d known each other, we’d become incredibly close. He came from a shifter pack in Aberdeen, but he’d abandoned his family to align with the Lowe pack here in Crookshollow. Since I was an honorary member of that same pack, and I’d all but abandoned my family as well, we had a lot in common.

All my life – except for the time I was overseas – I’d lived in Crookshollow. I admit I kind of believed the tales of witch hunts and strange creatures hunting in the woods. As a kid, I loved all the spooky stories about supernatural goings-on around the village, especially because my mother forbid that kind of blasphemous talk and so of course I couldn’t get enough. Even so, it wasn’t until last year that I discovered for myself that shapeshifters were real, and now one of them was my closest male friend.

It all started when my best friend and tattoo apprentice, Elinor Baxter, moved to Crookshollow and fell in love with the ghost of a guy I happened to go to high school with – Eric Marshell – who had since become a famous rockstar. I rescued Elinor from some evil drug dealers and helped bring Eric back to life. (Well, I found a person who knew how to do it, which is practically the same thing). Ever since, my life has been inundated with strange creatures, from my friend Belinda’s fiancee Cole, who could transform into a raven, to the famous fox artist Ryan Raynard, who was marrying my friend Alex. And, most recently, Caleb and Luke – two werewolves who’d come to Crookshollow, found their mates, discovered they were long-lost cousins, and brought all of us together to form a new kind of pack.

Robbie was the adopted brother of the pack leader, Caleb, and he’d abandoned his own pack in order to join with the Crookshollow Lowes. He was also the only one in the entire pack – apart from me – who wasn’t paired up in a nice couple. It was nice to talk to someone without having to deal with their goo-goo eyes and lovey-dovey shit. Robbie and I hung out most days after work and on the weekends, unless it was the full moon, and he had to run off into the forest.

Which was why, as soon as I’d read the letter, I’d sent Robbie a text and told him to meet me for a drink at the Tir Na Nog pub. Like any good friend, here he was, with a cold beer and a sympathetic ear.

“It’s ridiculous,” I said, taking a long gulp from my drink and slamming the glass down on the table. I shoved the paper across to Robbie, and he picked it up, his big brown eyes darting across the typed words. “She knew how much I loved that house, and that I’d do anything to have it. This is all part of her plot to force me to become a ‘real Sinclair lady.’ Even when she’s dead, that old hag is still trying to run my life.”

Robbie took a long time reading the letter. I ground my teeth with frustration, waiting for him to finish. Finally, he tapped his fingers against his glass as he set the paper down.

“Well?” I demanded.

“You’re right. It’s ridiculous. I love how she specified you had to marry ‘a man’.”

I snorted. My bisexuality was the inciting incident behind my parents kicking me out. When I was sixteen, they went away to the Bruges for the weekend, so I took the opportunity to invite current squeeze for a sleepover. Sally-something … I don’t even think I liked her that much, but she was soft with big, innocent eyes, and she was the only lesbian at our school who hadn’t already dumped me, so she was my best option. Of course, we thought we’d do what all teenagers did, and drink our way through my parents liquor cabinet, then shag in their bed. It was during the latter part of the adventure that they burst in and caught us.

The memory sent a fresh wave of anger through my veins. I glared at the paper as though my gaze could somehow melt June’s icy heart all the way down in hell, where she’d no doubt ended up. “Her lawyer said this will was drafted up several years ago. I guess Grandmother June was hedging her bets in case gay marriage became legal. Which, by the way, it did.” I jabbed my finger at the letter, as though June could somehow hear me from beyond the grave. Take that, you homophobic cow.

Robbie smiled. Robbie had the best smile. When he wasn’t smiling, he looked all quiet and serious, like he was thinking really hard about everything that was going on around him. But when you made him laugh, his whole face collapsed with childish glee. He was actually kind of adorable. When you combined that with the Scottish accent and the fact he was probably the nicest guy I’d ever met (the kind of guy that turned gay girls straight), I was surprised the female population of Crookshollow weren’t falling over themselves to date him.

“So, what are you going to do?”

I sighed, and tossed the letter into the middle of the table. “Nothing. I can’t get the house unless I’m married. That’s it. That’s the end of it. Bye-bye art house. Bye-bye dream. My parents inherit it and they’ll move in there and it will stay a stuffy, repressed shrine to Colonial oppression. Do you want some chips? I’m starving.”

Robbie picked up the letter and scanned it again. “Don’t give up, Bianca. This seems like an amazing opportunity. You’ve said so many times how perfect Primrose would be for your art house. And then this just falls in your lap? It’s like it was meant to be. Don’t give up just because of this one clause.”

“What are you suggesting I do?”

“Find someone to marry.”

I snorted. “That’s not going to happen. I’ve been so busy chasing all the wonderful Crookshollow women, I haven’t even been near a man in years. And even if I was seeing someone, I’m not getting married. Ever. It’s a stupid, archaic concept designed to shackle women to domestic servitude and I want no part of it—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Robbie had heard my anti-marriage rant a few times now. “It doesn’t have to be a real marriage, though. You could have a fake marriage.”

“A fake marriage?”

“Yeah. You get married on paper, all legal like. But you don’t have to act married. You wouldn’t even have to live together. Plenty of people have sexless marriages – yours would just be honest about it. Whose business is it of anyone else’s what you and your husband do?”

I leaned forward, heart pounding. Robbie was right, a marriage on paper would fulfil the requirements of my grandmother’s will. There was no stipulation that I had to be in love with my husband, or stay faithful to him. In fact, in my family, that sort of arrangement was practically frowned upon. I could keep my life of freedom and adventure and keep the house.

The idea had merit. But there was one key problem. “Just where am I going to find someone willing to fake-marry me so I can get a house?”

Robbie raised an eyebrow.

Shit.

“No,” I said.

“Come on, Bianca. It’s a dead pure brilliant idea. I think we’d make a great fake couple.”

He grinned that silly grin of his. Fuck. This was crazy. Was he right?

“I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

“You did a moment ago. Am I not good enough for you?”

“Don’t be silly. I just—” I stared at him, searching his eyes for what he was really thinking. Was he being serious?

“Do you think I’m not the strong, protecting, husband type? I can husband with the best of ‘em. You dinnae want to miss out on these bad boys.” He held out his arm and flexed his bicep. I dissolved into giggles. He looked ridiculous.

“See? I made you laugh. That’s a fine quality in a husband. My mother told me that.”

“You do, at that.” My mind whirred with the possibility. Could I really marry Robbie? Would it ruin our friendship? Was it not somehow wrong to ask him to do this for me? If he met someone, and wanted to get married for real, that could get really complicated. “I don’t think you’ve thought this through. Why are you so keen on this?”

Robbie shrugged. “Ryan’s house is nice and all, but it’s way too big. I get lost on the way to the bathroom. Plus, listening to Alex and Ryan discuss art for hours on end while making googly eyes at each other is driving me barmy.”

I nodded. I get it. Ryan and Alex were getting married in a few months, and they were still very much in their honeymoon phase. They were both artists, and they talked this weird language of “post-structuralism” and “movement of light and shadow,” that made me want to crawl into a hole and die. Alex was always asking for my opinion “as a fellow artist,” but I drew skulls and half-naked women on people’s skin for a living. I knew nothing about post-structuralism except I wanted to get as far away from it as possible.

“That’s it? That’s the only reason you want to marry me?”

A strange, sad look passed over Robbie’s face. I opened my mouth to question him on it, but as soon as it appeared, it was gone. I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it or not.

“I just want to help. Is that so hard to believe? You’ve been talking about this art house ever since I first met you. I want to see it become a reality.”

My stomach flipped. I can’t believe he’s agreeing to do this. Robbie is amazing. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.

I placed my hands on top of his. A warm flame rushed through my arms, wrapping my body in a cosy heat. My eyes stung with emotion. “Are you absolutely sure about this? It won’t be easy. We’ll have to do some pretending. With the house on the line, I know my mother will be checking up on me, making sure I am really fulfilling Grandmother’s wishes. She’ll try to force us to get married in a church. She’ll try and give you some title. She’ll never shut up about grandchildren. I couldn’t ask you to—”

“I’ll deal with her. Just think, Bianca, it could be perfect. I need a place to live. You need someone to be your fake husband. We could both live at the house, tell your mother we’re fucking ten times a day to make her a million grandchildren, and I can help you do all the work you need to do in order to get it ready. I’ll even help run the place, if you want me. I need a job.”

“You’re making this sound so possible—”

Robbie turned his hand over, so his palm was against mine. The warmth of it seared through my skin. Why did touching him feel so good? He rubbed his thumb across my knuckles. With his other hand, he picked up the last onion ring from the basket on the table, and held it out to me. “Bianca Sinclair,” his voice rumbled, “will you fake-marry me?”

This is crazy.

My heart pounded in my chest. I can’t get fake-married, especially not to my friend. It would be wrong. It would be—

But the wheels were already starting to turn in my head. It could work. Robbie was handy – it would be great to have his skills to get the house made up the way I wanted it. We already got along great and we both drank the same beer, so living together would be a breeze. We’d basically be flatmates with the right to receive medical information about each other, which honestly could come in handy one day. It was just the kind of crazy stunt that would make the perfect backdrop for the crazy art house I wanted to create.

Besides, Robbie with his lower-class speech and his tattooed sleeves was exactly the kind of husband my mother would hate. My grandmother’s letter only stipulated I had to be married. It said nothing about the nature of my relationship, nor the kind of man I could be married to. Having Robbie for a son-in-law would drive her insane, and that alone was worth considering it.

I stared into Robbie’s gleaming blue eyes, thinking how secure I felt around him, how much I’d come to depend on his friendship. If I had to fake-marry someone, he was the best possible choice. “Let’s do it.”

Robbie grinned. At the sight of his wide, toothy smile, a warm feeling spread out from my chest, through my whole body. I stretched out my finger, and he slipped the onion ring on.

I grinned, raising my hand to my lips and taking a bite out of my engagement ring. “I love it. It’s perfect.”

Robbie’s brown eyes regarded me intently. That sad expression flicked across his face again. This time, I was sure I didn’t imagine it.

“You okay?” I held out my ring to him. “Do you want a bite?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long day. There’s surprisingly little to do in that big old house if you don’t read books. Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not exactly conventional.”

“I’m not exactly a conventional woman.”

“Aye, right. That I know well.” Robbie drummed his fingers against his glass. “But, you willnae hate me if I cause a rift in your family? If your mother really is the way you say—”

“Trust me, she’s even worse, but she doesn’t scare me. She has no power over me anymore. Are you sure about this? It’s a big ask, fake-marrying me. It’s all fine for me – I’m anti-marriage – but what happens if you met a girl you wanted for a wife?“

“I dinnae think I’ll ever marry anyone else,” he said, then quickly added. “I mean, I never saw myself getting married, and it’s hard to find a woman who could deal with the whole shifter thing.”

“That’s going to change once you guys reveal the existence of shifters to the world. Ladies are going to fall at your feet.”

“Because I smell so bad?” Robbie lifted an eyebrow.

“Because you’ve got that whole broad-shouldered, wild-man of the forest thing. Ladies dig that, trust me.”

Robbie shook his head. “They’re going to be sorely disappointed. I’m not a wild-man of the forest or even an alpha like Luke or Caleb. Under my old pack law, I wouldn’t even take a mate. I never expected I’d marry, either.”

“So you’re good?”

“I’m good,” he said firmly. “We’re doing it, Bianca. You’ve told me so much about this art house dream of yours, I feel like it’s my dream, too. If I can help you make it happen, I’m gonna do it.”

“Okay.” I placed my hand over his. Heat soared down my arm again. It must be the excitement kicking in.

I can’t believe this is really going to happen. I’m really going to be the owner of Primrose House. I’m really going to make my art house a reality.

The sides of my face hurt from grinning so much. Robbie’s face mirrored my own, his entire face alive with excitement. “This calls for a celebration.” He stood up and dug his wallet out of his jeans. “No more beer for us. We need a bottle of champagne.”

“And some chips!”

“Bubbles and chips?” Robbie’s grin made my heart skip a beat. “You really are my future-wife.”

I watched my friend and future husband leaning over the bar to place our order. He ran a hand across his buzzed hair, and the fluorescent lights under the bar illuminated the scraggly tattoos across his lower sleeve. The heat of his hand still lingered against mine. I rubbed my fingers, but the heat didn’t go away.

My stomach flipped again, but this time, it wasn’t excitement. It was nerves.

What did I have to be nervous about? It was just a fake marriage between platonic friends. It would only become a problem if I had feelings for Robbie, but I didn’t. I didn’t see him as anything but a really good friend.

Didn’t I?