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“Come again?” Ward snaps, his brows slamming down.
“Act like you’re in love,” Nick strangles out. “You two look like you’re ready to tear each other’s throats out. You’re always arguing. Flirt a little. Be cute.”
“We don’t flirt,” I say, wincing. “We just—”
Ward cuts in with, “Great advice. Because my deranged little brother knows everything about being madly in love.”
Nick stares at Ward, his eyes half lidded.
“Call it what you want. It doesn’t look anything like whatever the hell that was. And ‘don’t ask about our personal lives?’ You’re paying her so people will ask.”
“I’m paying to close the Winthrope deal,” Ward says sharply.
“Which we won’t do if no one believes this is real,” Nick says.
I bite my lip. “He’s right.”
They both look at me.
“Who?” They say together.
I laugh. “The way you guys argue makes me wish I spent more time with my sister. Nick’s right.”
“Bam!” Nick says, gunning up his fingers.
Not amused, Ward’s raised brow screams.
“Do I even want to know?” he asks.
“We argue a lot, Ward, but I’m usually more comfortable with you than I was lying to a room full of people. We have to work on that.” I sigh and my shoulders slump.
Ward’s face is tight before he says, “There’s room for improvement, I’ll admit.”
“So, will you two let go of your egos and act like you’re in love?” Nick asks.
“I’ll try,” I say.
Love is hard to fake. Then there’s the fear that faking it might lead to not faking it, and this sham has a ninety-day deadline.
“We’ll make the best of it,” Ward promises.
“You guys better figure it out fast. We can’t afford to lose this deal,” Nick reminds us, wagging a finger.
He isn’t wrong.
To make this look real, we have to convince ourselves first, I realize.
Can we feed our hearts the biggest lie ever without inflicting permanent damage?
Reese drops us at the curb, and I follow Ward into his building, a sleek luxury condo stabbing at the sky like a middle finger.
“This is my working residence. I stay here during the week because it’s so close to the office. If you don’t like it, we could stay somewhere else over the weekend.”
It’s instant shock and awe even though it’s not the first time I’ve been here.
The floor is marble. Glass elevators circle a fishpond with a cascading waterfall. Gold trim gleams from every corner.
“I don’t belong here, but I’m not sure I’d belong at any place you own, Ward.”
“Why do you say that?” His eyes soften.
Is that a hint of concern in his voice?
I give back a lazy shrug. “My dad does well for a living. My family’s upper middle class, and my mom only ever worked part time.” I look around the building. “But I’m way more middle class than this...this castle.”
I let out an awkward giggle. But I’m not laughing the second his firm hand grips my shoulder, his fingers sinking into my skin.
“Get used to it, beautiful. You’ll be richer when this is over. If you stick with your art, the payment you’re getting from me won’t be your last million. Get comfortable with the finer things, Paige.”
It’s a sweet thought but so far off.
After this sham, I’ll sink my payout into a studio, work out a business plan, and scrape by more firmly middle class than my parents.
Maybe, there’ll be enough left for a down payment on a basic condo somewhere in Chicagoland. But he doesn’t need my worries, so I just smile.
It’s going to be hard living in a personal luxe hotel for three months. I can’t be the only one who notices I’m like a fish out of water.
Ward pushes the button and we step onto an elevator with an old lady in a fur coat that I really hope is vintage. She’s holding a gold leash tied to a dog whose designer collar costs more than my whole outfit. She glances at us, but her eyes linger.
Yeah, lady, I know. I’m an intruder in Elysium.
On the top floor, I step out of the elevator in front of Ward, then wait for him to pass so I can follow him into the penthouse.
The hardwood and silk of his couch catch my attention immediately when we step through the door. I was too tired to notice last night, stumbling into my room and settling into the posh bedroom.
“Oh, you have a settee.”
He grins. “Grandma insisted. It’s an authentic piece from the Victorian era.”
“Wow. You would be a fan of the Victorian stuff. Everyone had whole trees up their butts then, too,” I say with a teasing flick of my tongue. “Or was it a walking stick? They loved those.” The techno-magic Tesla from our ride home that first night pops into my head. “So, wait. You have a thing for Victorian furniture but electric cars?”
“What can I say? My style’s eclectic.”
