Will & Patrick Wake Up Married by Leta Blake Page B

family that sent Patrick and Will a bouquet in congratulations for their marriage. Okay, so maybe Will’s not entirely crazy to be paranoid about that. Not that Patrick’s gonna let him know. The marriage being discovered as a fraud by the Molinaro family is still one very accessible escape hatch.
    Patrick sighs and clicks on one last thread. It’s full of gossip about yet another marriage for Kimberly, this time to a Monty Edison, and it also ends in the man’s death. Luckily less mysteriously: a heart attack while on a camping trip with some pals in the Badlands.
    Patrick rubs his eyes. So, okay. Will’s had a chaotic life. After reading The Hurting Times gossip there’s no doubt about that. Patrick can relate. His own childhood wasn’t sweet or wholesome either. But for Will this entire marriage-in-Vegas thing should be nothing more than the comedic icing on top of the shit cake. Instead, it’s going to cost Will everything. Whatever ‘everything’ is, which is a good question, and Patrick decides to look into that too.
    After only thirty minutes of research, he leans back and sighs. Will’s foundation does good work, just as its name implies. It’s dumbfounding to consider the full impact Will’s money has on the world. He pushes at the edges of Will’s foundation a bit more, and finds that it just grows more impressive. Just what the hell is Will trying to prove with all of this do-gooding anyway?
    Rolling his eyes, Patrick closes the laptop. He slaps his palms against his thighs and stands up to stretch. So trapped. So, so trapped. Beads of sweat start on this forehead, and he takes a long breath. No. Not trapped. He can still get a divorce and walk away.
    Sure he can. If he wants to be the reason for the collapse of the Entirely-Too-Good-To-Be-Real Empire. Dammit.
    He pockets his hotel room key and heads for the door. He’s getting out of this room because at least he still has that option open to him.
 

     
    It’s cold as a witch’s tit, and Patrick shivers in his business shirt and light jacket. When he left Atlanta, he packed for autumn in Nevada, not for this trip to hell, which has officially frozen over. He wanders around something called Old Healing, which takes him all of about ten minutes. There’s a pharmacy and a bookstore, both with elaborate Christmas displays in their windows, followed by a shop displaying wedding gowns with holiday-themed bridesmaid dresses and accoutrements. Based on all the Patterson/Molinaro marriages and divorces alone, Patrick’s betting weddings are a big business in this town.
    The next store he passes is a sports utility place, with red and green canoes, camping gear, and Gore-Tex jackets on display in the window. Patrick heads into the warmth of the store and locates a shopping cart immediately, steering it to the winter coats and gloves. With the help of Google and his phone, he pulls up a suitable list of brands and requirements for cold-weather gear. He chooses a maroon-colored matching set of coat and gloves, and then he heads over to the boots department. There’s a dark grey pair with lug soles and good insulation.
    He grabs a box with his size and sits down on the floor to try them on. No salespeople appear to help him out, a fact he’s glad for. He prefers to make his own choices without being talked at. The boots are suitable and lightweight enough to ship back to Atlanta, or wherever he ends up when this is all over. In the meantime, his toes won’t fall off. The weather forecast on his phone is calling for lows near zero, possibly dipping below in the next few weeks. He takes the boots back off and shoves them haphazardly into the box, dropping it into the cart with all the rest.
    Next he chooses some good wicking socks in gray and black. He grabs a dark maroon fleece and a navy hoodie, along with some sweat pants for lounging in the hotel room. His eye catches a pile of colorful rolled up yoga mats and he makes a detour to grab a couple of