Million Dollar Marriage Read online

  PRAISE FOR KATY EVANS

  “Katy Evans’s books are like a roller coaster; the excitement, anticipation, and absolute thrill of the ride keep me coming back to her awesome romances time and again.”

  —Kylie Scott, New York Times bestselling author

  OTHER TITLES BY KATY EVANS

  MILLION DOLLAR SERIES

  Million Dollar Devil

  MANHATTAN SERIES

  Tycoon

  Mogul

  Muse

  WHITE HOUSE SERIES

  Mr. President

  Commander in Chief

  White House—Boxed Set

  MANWHORE SERIES

  Manwhore

  Manwhore +1

  Ms. Manwhore

  Ladies’ Man

  Womanizer

  Playboy

  REAL SERIES

  Real

  Mine

  Remy

  Rogue

  Ripped

  Legend

  Racer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Katy Evans

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542007252

  ISBN-10: 1542007259

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser

  Cover photography by Wander Aguiar

  To life, an expert at tearing us open when we need to grow

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  THE MOMENT OF TRUTH

  HALF A MILLION DOLLARS IN DEBT

  THE AUDITION

  PANIC

  SURVIVING ROUND ONE

  WE DO

  LOST IN A CORNFIELD

  FIRST OUTPOST

  FRENCH IN THE DARK

  “LOBSTER” REWARD

  SNOWBOUND

  HEAD OF THE PACK

  CONFIDENCE

  SWEET AS PIE

  ALOHA, HAWAII

  BEYOND THE SEVEN SACRED POOLS

  FINISH LINE

  THE REAL WORLD

  SECRET MEETING

  FINALE

  MOVING ON

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PLAYLIST

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  It was a fake marriage.

  At least, that was the plan . . .

  THE MOMENT OF TRUTH

  December 17

  Nell

  I’m going to lose my lunch.

  It’s the live finale the entire country has been waiting for. The arena is packed to the gills with reporters, cameras pointed at us. Flashbulbs go off, and my future seems to flash through my eyes with them.

  Everything depends on what will happen in the next hour. We could give our answer in a split second, but not now. I know the announcer will drag things out to the point of sheer madness. Recaps of poignant moments from the season, interviews with contestants, performances by “special celebrity guests” who are also fans of the show.

  It’s all meant to build up to the moment of truth.

  Every one of the people in this arena, every one of the thirteen million people watching at home—they’re all waiting on the edge of their seats with the same question.

  Will they . . . or won’t they?

  I wish to god we could just give our answer and be done.

  He’s so close, but he might as well be a million miles away. Our fingers entwined, he waves at the crowd cheering our names. His hand isn’t the least bit clammy. I manage a peek at him, his chiseled features, his relaxed smile, and my throat catches.

  No wonder the world is in love with him. No wonder he’s been the fan favorite since week one.

  This is it. The end. Or . . .

  I look over at him and say, “Luke . . . I’m not . . .”

  He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his fingers stroking my palm. “Breathe, Penny. Just breathe.”

  So I do. But air is not the only thing I need to make me okay right now.

  We’ve been through so much, more than most couples will go through in entire lifetimes.

  And now we’re about to make the decision that will shape our future.

  To think, seven months ago, I didn’t even know Luke Cross. Three months ago, I despised him. But somewhere along the line, things changed.

  Somewhere along this crazy little adventure we’ve been having, played out on television for the entire world to see, I did what I told myself I’d never do.

  I don’t even know how it happened, but as I look back, it seems so inevitable. Like I couldn’t have stopped it, even if I’d tried.

  But just because it was meant to happen doesn’t mean it will last forever . . .

  HALF A MILLION DOLLARS IN DEBT

  Nell

  I really don’t know why I’m here. I’ll probably be the first person voted out. If we vote people out? I don’t watch television, so I have no idea how these competitions work.

  —Nell’s Confessional, Day 1

  Seven months earlier

  I’m lying on the floor of the living room of my off-campus apartment. I think I might be having a heart attack.

  Courtney comes inside and looks down at me with a pout. Kicks me a little with her pointy-toe flat. “That bad?”

  She sees the torn envelope, the trifold statement lying on my abdomen.

  She knows exactly what time of year it is and what this means.

  And yes, she also knows how bad this is.

  But for the past few years, I’ve been very good at living in denial, ignoring the approaching day of reckoning, the day when the crap hits the fan.

  Which is totally today.

  “I can’t breathe,” I moan out. “I’m dying.”

  She goes to the fridge and grabs a handful of grapes. “Hmm. If you die, is someone else responsible for your student loans?”

  I sit up and scowl at her. But only for a second because suddenly I feel weak again. I might be coming down with something. I lie back down and stare up at the old dusty crystal chandelier in our crap apartment. The crap apartment I’d chosen to save money. It’s not like I’ve lived like a princess all these years. I’ve been frugal, dang it!

  She crouches and picks up the letter. “Wow. $500K, huh?”

  Ugh. Hearing it out loud like that only makes it seem more insurmountable. I push my butt into the ground, hoping the floor will swallow me up. “How did I get here?”

  She taps her chin. “I don’t know. It might have to do with not getting a job when you graduated from college four years ago.”

  I sit up and stare at her. My best friend, Courtney, majored in education, obtaining her undergrad degree at Emory at the same time I did, and she has a real job now. She’s not making big bucks, but at least she can pay down her student loan debt each month and doesn’t have to put her half of the rent on her credit card. Plus, she can afford little luxuries, like . . .

  Courtney catches me eyeing her iced vanilla bean Frappuccino and hands it over. I greedily take a sip. “You poor thing.”

  I scoot my legs into crisscross applesauce. “How do you expect me to get a job? I’m still trying to finish my PhD!”

  She laughs. “In comparative literature. I don’t even know what kind of job you can get with a degree li
ke that. You said you don’t want to be a professor.”

  “I don’t.” It’s not that I wouldn’t. Actually, teaching sounds like fun. But getting up in front of a lecture hall full of college students and speaking? Even the thought gives me hives. I hate being on display like that. “But I’ve graduated with honors from all my classes. There are plenty of jobs available for someone with my education.”

  I may be deluding myself. I’d kept myself firmly out of the career counselor’s office at college. Never did a thing to brush up my résumé. I’d been perfectly fine, advancing my education at Emory University, first with my undergraduate double major in philosophy and art history, then my master’s in anthropology, and then my PhD. That’s because when Penelope Carpenter starts something, she finishes it. When I was a kid, I asked my parents what the furthest was that I could go with my education, and I made plans to get there, taking the classes that interested me. I said I was going to go all the way, and I did—on my own terms.

  I’m made to go the distance. Unfortunately, I amassed a little bit of debt along the way.

  But god. The real world? It gives me a panic attack. School is where I shine, where I feel comfortable. Books are my safety. And life? Well, that’s anything but.

  Ugh, just thinking about it, I feel the red welts popping up on my face.

  Which is why I really wish there were another degree I could go for. A megadoctorate. Maybe I can go for my JD? Postpone the day of reckoning even more?

  “You’re coming to the ceremony on Thursday, right?” I ask her.

  She pulls off her blazer. “Of course, Doctor.”

  I smile at her. Good. I don’t make friends easily, so she’s the only thing close to family I have here in Atlanta. All the rest of mine is up in New England, living the hoity-toity high life. And no, they made it pretty clear to me that if I wanted to go to a school that wasn’t Harvard, I was on my own when it came to paying for it, which I’ve been doing—poorly—by picking up tutoring gigs here and there. My dad was self-made and wants his children to be as well. He cosigned for me on my credit card and apartment lease, but he expects me to pay him back in full when I get the money. My mom thinks I’m making a terrible mistake by endlessly advancing my degrees and doesn’t hesitate to tell me every chance she gets. My father has told me that my inheritance is actually going to his alma mater, Harvard, when he dies. So I didn’t even invite them to my graduation. Not that they would come anyway.

  I pick up the folded paper by one corner like it’s dirty, then let it fall to the ground. “You think Gerald will be there?”

  She snorts. “No.”

  “But—”

  “Nell. The Gerald train has not only left the station, it’s in another country, speeding far, far away from you.”

  Way to be blunt, Nee. But yeah. I knew that. Still, I always hold out hope where his big blue eyes are concerned. I’d never taken an interest in guys before him, but I kept bumping into him at the library. He ended up asking me to study together, and I’ve been smitten ever since. He’s cute as heck, a fencer, a wine connoisseur, an art and classical music lover, and my all-around perfect man.

  He’s also a resident now at the Atlanta Children’s Hospital and engaged to some brilliant med student in a Barbie package. It’s been nine months since we broke up. You’d think I’d have gotten the hint and would’ve stopped texting him every week by now.

  But no, that would be what a girl who has her life together would do.

  And all Nell Carpenter has, clearly, is a giant black hole of debt.

  I stand up, throw my student loan statement in the trash, wrap myself in my cushiest blanket, and fall onto the couch, dead.

  Courtney looks at me with pity. “Aw, honey. You know what? Millionaire Bachelor is on tonight. Why don’t I get changed, we heat up that frozen pizza, and we watch together? We can make fun of how pathetic all the contestants are.”

  I don’t even answer. She knows I never watch that stuff. Never eat frozen anything. My form of entertainment is reading. Listening to classical music. Tooling around on my harp. Cleaning the house. And I eat clean. Some people would call it OCD. But I’m not. I just set high standards for myself.

  It’s hard to believe we’ve lasted as roommates. It’s a good thing she isn’t a total slob. But Courtney is one of the few people who can stand my quirks. Part of it is that she’s pretty easygoing, and part is that she was forced to. We were thrust together as roommates our freshman year at Emory and have roomed together ever since. When I said I don’t make friends easily, I lied. Actually, I don’t make friends at all. Sure, there may be a value in it, but I’ve always said that education is my priority, which is why I never went to a party or engaged in small talk or hung around in the common room. But it was almost like I had to make friends with Nee, because our proximity, sharing a tiny ten-by-ten room, dictated it. I even resisted it the first few months, but Courtney is bubbly and sweet and impossible not to like. Eventually we ended up going to the dining hall and studying together and becoming best friends.

  “Well. Fine. I’m going to eat pizza and watch. You can just sit there and mope.”

  So I do. I sit in my cocoon and whimper miserably as she gets a Diet Coke and frozen pizza and sits on the sofa next to me, watching the crap show. I try to ignore it, but eventually the hot, built millionaire catches my attention. Especially when he gets a couple’s massage with one girl one night, then ends up hot-tubbing with another girl the next.

  I squint at the screen as he starts making out with the girl in the hot tub. “What a charmer. How can you watch this trash?”

  Her eyes are so glued to the screen that I don’t think anything short of a nuclear holocaust will tear her away. “He’s hot.”

  “Also, a douche.”

  That doesn’t stop her. She’s practically drooling. She has a sweet, wonderful boyfriend who treats her like gold, and she’s pining away for this douche?

  A commercial comes on, and she goes to pop some popcorn in the microwave. I reach over and take a taste of her pizza. Ew. Cardboard tastes better. When I throw my head back on the pillow, I see something on the TV that makes me stop with little tendrils of fake cheese slipping down my chin.

  “Calling all Atlanta residents ages twenty-five to forty-nine! Want to make a cool million dollars? Come on down to the auditions for our newest hit reality TV show . . . Million Dollar Marriage! Do you have a unique personality and the spirit of adventure to win it all? Join us at the Atlanta Convention Center, noon to five on May fifteenth!”

  I stare until I forget to blink.

  “Hey, did you eat my pizza?” Courtney shouts from the kitchen.

  I wipe the cheese off my chin and point at the television. “What’s that about?”

  “What?”

  “The auditions for . . . something?”

  Courtney flops down with her big bowl of popcorn. “Oh yes! I’m so there! Joe and I are going out for it. We’ve been planning for months.”

  I’m confused. “You are?”

  “Yeah. They’ve been doing auditions all around the country. But . . .” She sees the wheels turning in my head. “Don’t get any ideas, Nell. Trust me. If you think Millionaire Bachelor is cheese, Million Dollar Marriage will probably make your head spin.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people—normal, everyday people who don’t have sticks up their butts—like cheese. They gobble it up. So I guarantee this will be more of the same. I mean, it’s a new show, but word is the premise is totally out there.”

  She doesn’t elaborate.

  “Out there as in . . .” She doesn’t fill in. “What do you mean? The top prize is a million dollars. I’ve got debt. I’d probably sell my soul for that.”

  She laughs, long and hard. “Uh, no. Nell. No. It’s really not for you. Remember? It said it’s only for the adventurous.”

  “And?”

  “And?” She gives me a look like it’s obvious. “Nell. You think a wild time is organiz
ing the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”

  My jaw drops. “I do not.” Okay. Well, maybe I do. One time I found a couple of pills I’d never seen before. “Besides, what are you? Indiana Jones? You’re not exactly Miss High Adventure either. And it asked for unique personalities.”

  She shrugs. “Well, that you definitely have. But still . . . you’d be on television and let everyone into your business?”

  “For a million dollars, I guess. Come on. Can’t I go with you guys?”

  I give her my puppy-dog eyes.

  “Uh . . .” She looks at the television. “May fifteenth. You know that’s the day of your graduation?”

  Right. “Okay, but it’s noon to five. Graduation’s not until seven. What would it hurt if I just went and checked it out with you?”

  She gives me a doubtful look.

  I don’t get why she’s being so reluctant. She’s usually all for these things. “Come on, Nee. Please. I need that money.” I called her Nee once because I thought it both cute and funny, and Courtney laughed so hard with me that it’s stuck. So we’re Nee and Nell.

  “Okay. I guess you can come. But if you roll your eyes or tell me how stupid it is one time, I’m going to kick you to the curb.”

  “Yay!” I hug her. “I can’t wait.”

  “Oh, girl,” she says, patting my head like I’m a Labrador. “You can. Trust me. You have no idea what you’re in for.”

  Luke

  All I have to say is this: Bring it. I’m up for anything.

  —Luke’s Confessional, Day 1

  Tim’s Bar is hopping, standing room only, every eye plastered on the television screens in the corners of the room.

  By the looks of this crowd, you’d think my little place was doing pretty damn well.

  But looks are deceiving.

  Everyone is here to cheer on Jimmy Rowan, the legend, as he debuts his brand-new stunt on YouTube. This is where he got his start. His following. Where he made his mark. Where he also met Elizabeth Banks, the rich girl he’s been dating for the past six months.

  Jimmy does all his business out of my bar, so much so that one booth in the back is his designated “office.” He’s been sitting in that office for the past hour, doing hell knows what with her. I launch a plastic straw at him from over the bar, and he turns.