Page 33 of Ridin’ Dirty

“Lyla,” he called. “Let’s go,” he barked.

“Thirty seconds,” she replied, sounding unbothered.

He didn’t resist the urge to sigh as he reached up and rubbed at his eyes with this thumb and middle finger. His day was far from over, but he wanted to get on with it. While Lyla shopped, he managed to complete the application for their marriage license online. It was easy enough with her there to fill in the blanks he didn’t know, but he was smarter than to think they’d be in and out of the courthouse. Nothing that happened in a government building was over that quick.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

Pistol shot his head up, having not heard her exit the fitting room, and suddenly felt a lot more alert than he was thirty seconds ago.

Shit. She’s a fuckin’ knockout.

She had on a pair of white platform high heels with a bow tied at the back of each ankle—purchased at the first store they entered. Her makeup was freshly applied. He knew she touched it up with what he bought at the second store she dragged him into, and he was sure whatever he paid for that tube of red lipstick was worth it.

But the dress—the dress she couldn’t find at their third stop before she insisted she needed to try one more store—it was perfect.

It wasn’t too modest or too frilly. It was simple but sexy, reminding him of all that existed underneath the smooth, white fabric. It was a sleeveless, off the shoulder number that clung to her every curve until the hem that stopped at the middle of her thighs.

Her hair hadn’t changed a bit, but he liked it how it was. Her bangs were fanned across her forehead, her short, thick bob hanging unceremoniously just below her chin. For the first time since the idea of marrying her had been planted in his head, he admitted maybe luck was on his side, after all.

“Here,” she murmured, handing him the tags she’d already ripped off the dress. “I’ll sample some perfume on our way out. It’s not a shower, but it’ll have to do.”

He glanced down at the price of the dress.

One hundred seventy-nine dollars.

He wouldn’t miss it.

Lifting his gaze, he watched her saunter across the store—yesterday’s clothes shoved in one of her shopping bags. Dressed in all white and in those heels, he doubted she was going to make a run for it, but he knew better than to trust her.

He was tired, not stupid.

She was hot, not loyal.

They were strangers, not lovers.

Until she was his wife, she was a liability.

Without further delay, he headed for the register, anxious to pay so they could be on their way.

Twenty minutes later, they were ascending the steps into the Missoula County Courthouse. They were halfway up the stairs when Pistol felt Lyla’s hand slip into his. It startled him as much as it surprised him, and he flinched. If not for her gentle yet firm grip, he would have yanked away entirely. Instead, he stopped mid-stride and raised an eyebrow at her in silent inquiry.

“What? Do you want to sell this or not? We don’t have an appointment. I get the feeling if we don’t at least look like we like each other, they might suspect we have no business getting married—or worse, that I’m here under duress.”

His eyebrow still cocked, he made a show of giving her a proper once over then muttered, “Babe—you, in that dress, with those red lips? No one would question me.”

She parted her lips, as if to speak, but then immediately changed her mind. She then shut her mouth and began to pull her hand away from his, but he clamped her fingers in his grasp as he continued up the stairs, silently pulling her along behind him.

She had a point.

Only fools in love got hitched on a whim.

Hell, as far as he was concerned, only fools got married at all.

He’d seen more marriages fail than succeed. While there were exceptions to every rule, he believed marriage wasn’t worth the hassle or the heartbreak. Settling down with an ol’ lady was one thing—but a legally binding union was on another level. Twenty-four hours ago, marriage was the furthest thing from his mind. Now, it was the law that drove him to it.

The way he saw it, he had two choices.

Risk his freedom or give a woman his name.