William Warrick is pure evil, and also my husband.
Be careful what you write on a Taco Bell napkin in high school. Committing to a marriage pact beside a Mild sauce stain normally isn’t contractually binding.
Unless, of course, your signature winds up next to the signature of a future billionaire CEO, who is 100% serious, 100% certifiably grumpy, and 100% the kind of person to make 30-day Valentine activities at his fancy office building mandatory.
Let’s just say, Liam’s secret stuffed animal collection can attest to his obsession with cute things; according to him, I’m the cutest thing he’s ever seen; and, now that the napkin terms are met, I’m his.
All. His.
For at least one year.
