"I'm wearing a wedding ring the size of a Buick, you just walked out of the shower in your suite where I apparently spent the night, and I'm pretty sure—" I swallow hard. "I'm pretty sure we got married."
The silence that follows could be used to age cheese.
When Vic does speak again, his sharp jaw is tightened, its sharp edge rigid enough to cause a paper cut.
"Harper Josephine Beaumont," he half-grunts. "Age thirty-seven. Former sous chef at La Lumière in Manhattan. Currently unemployed. Applied to StreamEats six weeks ago for the Weeknight Wins host position."
My blood turns to ice. "How do you?—"
"Congratulations, by the way. You got the job. The offer letter went out two weeks ago. You start Monday."
"I—what?—"
"So yes, Harper." He finishes buttoning his shirt, jaw still pulsing. "We did get married. At the Game Over Chapel of Eternal Love. By a pixelated officiant. At approximately 2:47 AM."
I'm going to be sick.
"And before you ask how I know all of this—" He picks up his phone from the desk and turns it toward me. "—I had my assistant pull your file while you were sleeping. Background check. Employment records. Social media.”
On the screen is my employee file. My resume. My LinkedIn photo. Everything.
"You—You had me investigated?"
"Due diligence." His gray eyes are cold as winter. "I woke up married to a woman I met on a plane twelve hours ago. A woman who, conveniently, is about to start working at my company. So yes, I did my homework."
“Your—“ I start and stop, my brain attempting to put pieces of this puzzle together.
Did he just say HIS company?
As in StreamEats belongs to…him?
Indignation rises to the surface of my skin, my neck growing hot.
“I’m s-sorry, but you own StreamEats?” I ask.
“Yes, as I’m sure you’re already aware.”
My mouth turns into the Sahara. “And you think I what—Planned this? You think I—what? Orchestrated some elaborate scheme to get drunk and marry you for a job?"
"I think the timeline is interesting."
"INTERESTING?"
I throw off the covers and stand, which is a mistake because I'm still in my dress and stilettos and I'm about eight inches shorter than him, but I'm too furious to care.
"I didn't even know who you were until thirty seconds ago!"
"You knew enough to apply to my company."
"YOUR company? I applied to a COOKING SHOW. I didn't know it was owned by some, I don’t know—paranoid billionaire with a God complex.”
His eyes flash. "Paranoid."
"YES! You had me INVESTIGATED while I was ASLEEP in your BED after we got MARRIED!"
“You were too drunk to consent.”
“Okay, for one—that’s the argument that date rapists use. And two—I’ve been perfectly nice to you despite your insufferably grumpy attitude since the moment we met. And clearly for no good reason. You don’t see me stalking your LinkedIn profile, do you?”
