“Miley, I wanted to ask you…”
He trailed off, his expression growing tense. I’d never seen Christopher Vale struggle with words before. On camera, in interviews, at the resort, the man always knew exactly what to say. But right now, standing in the kitchen in sweatpants with messy hair and a coffee mug he hadn’t filled yet, the words were stuck. I could see them sitting right behind his lips, refusing to come out.
This was fascinating. And slightly terrifying. Christopher Vale, speechless.
“Are you going to ask me to marry you?” I said.
He stared at me. The coffee maker hissed. A bird sang outside the window. The morning held its breath.
“How do you know about that?”
“I overheard a bit of your conversation last night.”
He set the coffee pot down and looked at me fully. Something close to embarrassment crossed his face before he became serious once more. For a second, the great Christopher Vale looked like a man who’d been caught rehearsing lines in the mirror.
He coughed lightly and cleared his throat. “So what do you think?” he asked.
I sucked in a deep breath. “I think you need help. And I think I can help you.”
His eyes lingered on my face long enough to make my pulse skip. He said nothing for a beat and then muttered under his breath. “I already swore not to drag you into my private mess.”
“I heard. And I’m telling you I’m not being dragged. I’m walking in.” I wrapped my hands around my mug even though there was nothing in it yet. Old habit. Comfort in the weight of something warm, even when it was empty. “With my eyes open.”
He studied me. That assessing look, the one I’d seen at the resort and the bar, the one that made me feel like he was reading a page I couldn’t see.
“It wouldn’t be real.” He straightened. “You understand that. It would be a contract. We’d live together. You’d attend events as my wife. After ninety days, the contract dissolves and we go our separate ways.” He waited, watching my face. “In exchange, you’d receive monetary compensation. Separate from the restaurant rebuilding. Significant.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Half a million.” He said it like it was a dinner reservation and not a life-altering sum. “But of course, I’m open to negotiation.”
My jaw hit the floor—and not figuratively. I felt my mouth actually fall open and had to make a conscious effort to close it, which I did, badly, and then opened it again because my brain was trying to form words and my mouth was not cooperating.
Half a million. Five hundred thousand dollars. That was Vicky’s legal fees. That was a custody lawyer who fought instead of folded. That was Eloise staying with her mother—and a safety net wide enough to catch both Torres sisters and hold them steady.
I opened my mouth again, but the hesitation rolled in like fog. This was too good to be true, and from my personalexperience, whenever an opportunity came easily, it almost never worked out. There was always a catch. A cost. Something hiding behind the generosity that only showed itself after you’d already said yes.
I was afraid that something terrible might happen.
“I… I… um, need to think about it,” I said.
What was wrong with me? Why did I have to think about half a million dollars? What kind of person hears “half a million” and says “let me sleep on it”?
Me, apparently. Miley Torres, professional overthinker, amateur self-saboteur.
Christopher nodded. Even if he was surprised by my hesitation, he didn’t show it. “You have until Friday.” His voice was level but I could see the tension in his hands, the way his fingers pressed against the counter. “I don’t have much time, Miley.”
“Friday,” I repeated. “Okay. Friday.”
I picked up the coffee pot, poured with hands that were steadier than they had any right to be, and walked to the guest suite with a full cup and a head that was anything but.
I locked the bathroom door and called Anna.
“You’re not going to believe what just happened.”
When I finished, the line was quiet for three full seconds. Then she yelled right in my ear.
“That’s CRAZY!”
