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“I was a jackass. I’m sincerely sorry.”
“Nah, you were a Wardhole.”
He snorts. “Right. Thanks for the reminder. Now how much would it cost to open a sculpture studio?”
Yikes. He’s serious.
I try to come up with an estimate on the fly. First I’d need a kiln and a space with good natural lighting, and that’s just the start. Real estate around here isn’t cheap.
“Hm, probably around six or seven hundred thousand to own, including tools and space. And that might be the low end.”
My lips twist.
How many sculptures would I have to sell to make that profitable? The thought scares me.
“It’s yours. Partner up for ninety days, and I’ll give you a cool million and help you write your business plan so we can get your dream off the ground.”
My stomach drops.
“What? Y-your serious? Why?”
“Because, Paige. I need to turn into less of a pumpkin, and that’s your price to be my Cinderella. Deal?”
This can’t be real life.
No one pays a million smackers for ninety days of lying, even if it’s the fake betrothed kind. But this conversation borders on flirty and surreal, and I can’t resist having some fun.
“A million dollars, plus you get your own coffee and teal-blue ties. Those jobs are below a fiancée, even a fake one.”
He snorts loudly.
I smile.
“You drive a hard damn bargain. Fine, then, one point five million dollars and no more coffee runs. But you’ll pry tie-duty from my cold dead hands. I won’t be caught dead without my lucky tie, and I rather like your touch making them luckier.”
Dead.
My face heats so much I need a temperature check. I can’t breathe.
One. Point. Five. Million.
Dollars?
Yes.
Shut the front door. In ninety days, I’ll be a millionaire.
I swallow back the giddiness threatening to send me jumping to the rafters and tighten my grip on my phone. I suck in a tortured breath and release it slowly.
“The color you’re looking for is called cerulean-emerald. If you asked for the right thing, getting the tie wouldn’t be such a big kerfuffle.”
“My girl knows what to ask for,” he throws back.
His girl?
Ward flipping Brandt just called me his girl?
Because I’m his assistant, or because he wants me to be his counterfeit bride?
Gah. Too bad it’s not real. Being his. Because I know I’ll regret it soon, but right now, it sounds nice. Really nice.
Can I even do this, though? Be in another fake relationship after Austin?
It’s been years, and I’m still not really over him. My frustrated single status is a testament to that.
A pained laugh slips out.
“What’s so funny?” Ward asks.
“Sorry. I was just remembering something. Didn’t mean to laugh.” I’m such a dork, but it’s out there now.
“What?” His voice hits my ear, hot and demanding, before his voice gentles. “What were you remembering?”
“Nothing. Honest. I just...I need to think this over,” I say.
Not that there’s much to mull.
A debt-free studio would put my life on the fast track to eureka. I’d be living out my dreams, and I’d be wealthy beyond my wildest imagination.
Even if the art didn’t work out, I’d be set to figure out a badass backup plan.
“What if I just want the million and a half and to be retired from tie duty? No studio?”
“What you spend your money on is none of my business.”
“Are you serious, Ward? This isn’t some sick joke, right?” I still have my doubts.
“Hang on, Grandma’s calling.”
He clicks off the call.
Fine. I need calm to digest this, without him and all his grouchy hotness breathing down my neck, tempting me from the other end of the phone.
Besides, Beatrice should come first.
It’s her company, she’s his grandmother, and she’s still in recovery.
Ten minutes later, I’ve made my decision.
I might hate myself in the morning, but I also can’t help it.
He drives a hard bargain, but a fair one.
I’ll just steel myself and make sure I don’t fall any deeper. Resisting Ward Brandt shouldn’t be so hard. There’s plenty to hate.
It’s only ninety days. It’s only fakery. It’s only one little yes to get paid.
But he never calls back.
Ugh. Why negotiate so hard if he wasn’t that serious?
Oh, yeah, I forgot.
Wardhole.
I make a spinach-artichoke dip with focaccia bread and flop down in front of The Great British Baking Show when my phone dings.
Sorry, she wanted to talk and her medication makes her loopy, then Trista called to check-in on logistics. Can you meet Nick and I at my home base outside the city tonight?
Before I can respond with a snarky, Nick and me, it’s Nick and ME, a brilliant businessman should at least use proper grammar, the phone pings again.
We can work out the details, Paige. I promise you I’m trying to be fair.
Forget about his grammar. My mouth drops.
Holy crap. I didn’t even give him an official answer, and yet he’s already taken it as a screaming yes.
Like he just knew. Full steam ahead. No stopping now.
