She was drying a plate at that moment when the realization hit that there just might be more to Nash than a mansplainer so committed to winning a bet that he was willing to get married to a stranger to win it.

And that meant nothing but trouble for her.

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Chelle

“You did what?” Karmel asked, wide eyed, with her chocolate hazelnut croissant stopped halfway to her mouth.

She’d said it loud enough to get some stares from the folks sitting at tables around theirs at Grounded Coffee, who’d already spotted the woman from that one show (it was a different one for everyone) but were ignoring Karmel the way only jaded Harbor Citians could.

Chelle waited a few beats for the gawkers to turn back to their own tables and lowered her voice. “I listened to him jerk off.”

Now Karmel was grinning, a devious little upturn of her mouth that showed just how much she was about to enjoy whatever came next. Chelle braced herself. She knew this would happen when she walked into the coffee shop no matter how much she mentally warned herself to just keep her mouth shut about Nash. Karmel had a way of just pulling the truth out of her—whether it was the reality of what growing up a rich Finch had been like or what she’d been up to with her (Karmel’s words) hot hunk of a husband.

“And he did this,” Karmel continued after taking a bite of chocolatey, flaky deliciousness, “because you told him to?”

Chelle sank lower in her chair and mumbled an affirmative into her toasted almond latte with extra foam.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

Okay, big girl, grown-ass woman panties time. Chelle sat up straighter and forced herself to make eye contact with her too-amused-to-hide-it friend. “Yes.”

“Michelle Finch, you dirty bird,” Karmel said with her signature husky laugh that grabbed the attention of a few more coffee shop patrons, who then glanced away almost as quickly as they started staring. “I’m impressed.”

Yeah. That was one way to look at it. Guilt stole all of the taste from her latte as she took another drink. “With what, that I sexually harassed my fake husband?”

“Is that what it was?” Karmel added enough sugar packets to her plain black coffee to qualify it as a dessert. “Did he not listen to you first?” She sipped from her mug, wrinkled her nose, and then added a strong pour of liquid creamer. “Did you intimidate, use force, or otherwise coerce him into masturbating while your back was turned? Is there a power dynamic I’m not aware of?”

It wasn’t that simple. “Not exactly, but—”