A Groom of One's Own (Appies, #3)

by Emma St. Clair

I didn’t really think … I mean, you wouldn’t …” He didn’t think what? I wouldn’t what? My thoughts have been tossed haphazardly into an industrial dryer where they’re tumbling around on high heat. Around and around. Mixed up. Heated. If Eli’s cheeks are rose-petal pink, mine must be Valentine’s red. “Wow. I’m bad at this,” Eli says with a chuckle that sounds less humorous than a funeral dirge. “It’s not like you or anyone else would want to marry me anyway. For money or whatever reasons.” His eyes flick up to mine, and I swear there’s an unspoken question: Would they? Maybe even … would you? I wish I could say this didn’t have some part of me standing up, jumping and waving while shouting, Me, me, me! You had me at For money! Yes! I do! Put a ring on it! It’s the same part of me suddenly aware that I still have a letter poking me in the boob that very much has to do with money and my desperate need for it. And would it even be a hardship to marry this man? The one snuggling a dog, whose face is inches from mine. The one with kind blue eyes and the kind of scent I’d like to wrap myself up in like a warm sweater. “Can we, uh, just forget I asked you to commit fraud?” Eli asks, and his fingertips do a tiny dance at the top of my spine. I fight to keep still and not tremble. “I’m clearly beyond help.” “I …” My thoughts are still tumbling, but now it’s more like one of those lotto ball machines, and as I open my mouth to speak, I’m not at all sure what word will separate itself...