We barely move, chest to chest, as his humming softly quiets. Then his mouth presses against my cheek, and he whispers, “You’re my life now, Lainey, mon cœur qui bat.”

I hope you loved reading about Emmett and Lainey in Forbidden French. If you’re a sucker for the marriage of convenience trope as much as I am, continue reading for a sample of To Have and to Hate.

SYNOPSIS

Marry a man I barely know to save my family from ruin.

It might’ve been simple, if my betrothed were anybody else.

On our wedding day, my husband-to-be arrived at the courthouse like a black cloud rolling over Manhattan. Walt didn’t crack smiles or pepper in pleasantries as we exchanged hollow vows in front of the judge.

His disdain for me was so palpable I assumed we’d walk out of that ceremony and resume our regularly scheduled programming. But then fate was like, Hold my beer. I got this.

In desperate need of help and with nowhere else to turn, I had no choice but to ignore a crucial rule in our contract: I shall only contact Mr. Jennings II in case of emergency. But hey, what’s a little fine print between husband and wife?

Turns out, Walt’s a stickler for legalese—I think it might be his love language. Oh, and his attitude at the courthouse wasn’t a put-on. My so-called husband is a jerk. He takes what he wants without giving any consideration to other people—specifically ME, his blushing, contractually-obligated bride!

I knew life with Walt would be no honeymoon, but a marriage of any sort should still come with a few standard guarantees:

To have and to hold.

For richer or poorer.

In sickness and in health.

But after experiencing Walt’s version of wedded bliss, I say let’s forget about all that lovey-dovey crap and just take me straight to death do us part.

Chapter One

I stand out like a sore thumb. Even in New York City, people tend to opt for cream or white when it comes to bridal attire. I’m in neither. Even worse, my dress is shorter than I remember it being when I left my hotel room. The hem has lost inches on my walk to the courthouse. I like to think the cheetah print is subtle, but my black Doc Martens are not. I’ve had them for years. They’re my version of Dorothy’s slippers.

Another gust of wind blows up my dress and I shiver in my boots, looking up and down the street, waiting for him to show. I’m surprised by the number of blushing couples that rush past me, eager to get out of the cold and begin their wedded bliss with a ceremony inside the courthouse.

I’ll be one of them soon, I suppose. I look down at my naked ring finger and imagine how it will look with a fat diamond weighing it down, then I think back to the phone call I received last night.