“The fucker,” Andrew spits. “He used to go on these rants about how Jack would squander her money, used to try to manipulate her into going back to college, but that never worked on Jack. But once he realized she was content working at a bakery, he wrote her completely out of the will. I don’t think he told anyone, not even Lovey. I only found out when the executor called to tell me about the new stipulation before submitting the will to probate court.”

I catch Andrew staring in the direction of his sister. It’s difficult to make her out from this far away in the dark, hazy bar. Just the length of her neck and the outline of her shoulders are visible. She flicks her chin, and I feel a sharp tug in my chest. Her grandfather wrote her out of his will because she didn’t live up to his expectations for the family name.

“It takes about four months for the court to settle a will, so no one else in my family will know about the trust until then,” Andrew explains, hushed and urgent. “And my sister will never have to know the truth if I can inherit the two million immediately and just give Jack her half.”

For the first time since Andrew drunkenly put two hands flat on a table and asked if I would marry him does this whole absurd scheme make sense. “You want to protect your sister from knowing what your grandpa did.”

“Yeah.” He exhales, his eyes wide and glassy and so fucking full of love. Andrew is willing to marry an absolute stranger, not for himself, but for his sister. He’s giving up what he may or may not have with Dylan for his sister.

And it dawns on me. How none of this is about me and the two hundred thousand dollars. If I tell Jack the truth—if I act on these feelings, even for a second—I’m costing her one million dollars.

I turn back to the lip ring bartender. “Yeah, I’m going to need a Moscow mule, actually.”

Chapter Eighteen

New goal for the night: don’t kiss Jack again.

I am crushing this goal. After my first Moscow mule, when Dylan insists on us playing a round of pool, I do not try to kiss Jack when she shows me how to hold my cue stick like we’re in a Carrie Underwood song. When Dylan gets so drunk they go on a rant in Spanish about Phoebe Bridgers and bottom prejudice and skinny jeans (from what I can infer based on my AP Spanish skills), I don’t stare at Jack’s ass as she leans across the table to line up her shot. Not even for a second.