“And what if he loses?” Trina asked. I smirked at her, knowing she was wishing for some sort of medieval torture.
“How about he has to write a song and tell us about how wrong he was,” Sinclair said. “He could sing it at the Harvest Festival.”
Trina rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t sound like a punishment.”
“Some might say living with you is punishment enough,” I quipped.
Wyatt and Sinclair made an “ooh” sound.
Trina glared at me.
“Not me though. I look forward to it.” I winked at her and then sauntered off to the other end of the bar to refill drinks. I couldn’t decide if we were still debating a hypothetical fake marriage or if we were negotiating terms. But I was a patient man, and I could continue like this until either Trina admitted she was wrong about how hard a fake marriage could be, which seemed unlikely, or she agreed to the bet, which also seemed unlikely. I was curious to see which side won. Hopefully, the bet did. I could potentially win the girl and the guitar. Who thought such an opportunity would drop onto my lap on a quiet weeknight at Salvation Station?
When I finished serving the patrons at the other end of the bar, I returned to the group. “So, what was decided? Are we getting fake married, Katrina?”
She looked at all of us like we’d grown third eyes. “You’re all crazy. I can’t believe we’re really talking about this.”
“Hey, you’re the one that came up with this idea,” Sinclair said, holding her hands up in surrender.
“For Wyatt to keep his farm and you to win over the town,” Trina said in exasperation.
“The motivation isn’t in question,” Wyatt said.
“He’s right,” Sinclair agreed. “You said it would be easy peasy to be fake married, and you continue to hold that opinion even though both Wyatt and I said it wasn’t as easy as you think. So, put your money where your mouth is. Prove us wrong.”
Trina’s eyes narrowed as she looked from Sinclair to me. I tried to keep cool. I hoped I looked indifferent to her decision even though inside I was praying for her to accept the bet. I could already picture her in my home. In my kitchen. In my bed. Blood rushed to my dick at that thought. Thank God I was behind the bar.
“Fine. It will be a piece of cake.” Trina held out her hand to Sinclair to shake on the bet.
Yes! Inside, I was doing cartwheels. “Maybe we should drink on it.” I pulled out four shot glasses and poured top shelf whiskey in each.
Wyatt whistled. “Going for the good stuff.”
“It’s gotta count, right?” I said, pushing a glass to each of them while picking up one for myself.
“To fake marriage,” I said, saluting Trina.
“We’re not actually doing a ceremony are we?” she asked. “I mean, you two were legally married even though it was fake. I’m not doing that.”
“No, it can be all pretend,” Sinclair said.
Trina looked like she ate food that had gone bad as she lifted her drink in salute and drank with the rest of us.
“You can move in tomorrow when you get off work. I’m off and can help,” I said, reaching for their glasses.
“I’d like another,” Wyatt said, holding on to his glass.
Sinclair looked at him.
“Then we can go to the oak tree,” he winked.
“No talking about sex in front of the brother,” I said. It had been a revelation to learn the things Wyatt did to my sister under that tree on my parents’ property. I hadn’t known about their relationship until Sinclair told me she was pregnant after Wyatt had run off. I didn’t mind their relationship, although at first it was weird thinking of my best friend and my sister as more than friends. But I loved them both, and wanted them to be happy. After ten years apart and a fake marriage, they were finally happy. But still, I didn’t need to know about their sex life.
“Move in? What are you talking about?” Trina asked, bringing me back to my original statement.
“Fake married people live together. Don’t they?” I turned to Sinclair and Wyatt for confirmation.
“They do,” Sinclair confirmed, a sly smile on her face.