After Losing My Memory, My Ex and I Had a Happy Ending

It was the third year of my intermittent amnesia when I overheard my husband, Leo Maxwell, chatting with one of his bros.

"Dude, seriously, your wife blacks out every few months. You're having us take turns pretending to be you, what if one of us actually falls for her?"

Leo swirled the whiskey in his glass, that cocky smirk plastered on his face. "Relax. Clara’s frigid. As long as you don't hit on her, she's not gonna be looking for that kind of action.”

“Just a heads-up, though," Leo continued. "Play your parts, but keep your hands to yourselves. She's still my wife after all, and when I’m done screwing around, I'm gonna come back home.”

For the past three years, every man who’d held my hand, kissed me, even shared my bed after my memory lapses wasn’t actually Leo.

Three years. Nine memory wipes. Nine stand-in husbands.

What they didn't know was that I’d faked my amnesia for two years.

I heard the front door open and my ninth “husband” walked in, catching me while I was zoning out on the couch.

His voice was warm and smooth. “Clara, I’m home.”

I looked up at the guy in the doorway, faking a confused frown. “Who are you? Are you my husband? I thought my husband’s name was Leo Maxwell.”

He froze for a split second, then stuttered, “No! I’m… I'm a friend of your husband’s! Don’t worry, Clara. I'll call Leo right now and have him come home!"

He scrambled toward the balcony, phone clutched in his hand.

“Leo, it happened again! Clara’s got amnesia! Who’s up next? Get your ass over here and relieve me!"

I eavesdropped from behind the curtains, listening to the guys in the speaker pushing back.

“Dude, Clara is way too clingy. You gotta watch her 24/7. No thanks."

“Yeah, she’s great, but damn, she’s intense. A guy needs some freedom, you know?”

“Why don't you just go home yourself, Leo?"

“No way,” Leo drawled. “I’m not done having fun. Who's gonna take my shift? Come on, bros before hoes, right?"

Then a voice cut through the complaining. “I’ll do it.”

It was Sawyer Grant, Leo’s best friend.

Sawyer was famous for being a total ice king. The guy had been single since birth, or so the rumors said.

When Leo first proposed the whole fake-husband scheme, Sawyer was the first to object.

Why was he suddenly playing along?

Thirty minutes later, the door clicked open.

Sawyer stepped inside, silhouetted against the hall light.

“Clara, I’m home.” His voice, usually so controlled, had a hint of something raw in it.

I stood up, staring at this tall, drop-dead gorgeous man.

“You’re my husband, Leo Maxwell?”

“Yeah,” Sawyer mumbled, clearing his throat, “sorry, I was working late tonight.”

Right then, his phone rang.

Sawyer gave me a quick apologetic glance and went out to the balcony.

I heard Leo's voice, all casual: "Oh, hey Sawyer, I forgot to tell you, just hold her hand, give her a hug, but don't you dare bang her, all right? She's still my wife, after all.”

“Got it,” Sawyer said, his voice deep.

For three years, no matter how the guys played Leo, they never crosse...