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What was so special about October fifteenth?
The attorney opened the folder and skimmed a page. “The final challenge is October twelfth.”
“I would have the money by the twelfth?” she asked, lighting up.
“If you win,” the man corrected.
“When we win,” Harper countered again.
The attorney tugged at his collar. “Two teams are competing in theCelebrity Bake or Bust, and whoever wins will have the funds in their account by close of business on the twelfth.”
“I don’t usually do public math, but I can safely say that October twelfth is three days before the fifteenth.”
“It is,” the man answered, confusion marring his features.
And he wasn’t the only one who was perplexed.
“Three days before the fifteenth,” she hooted and laughed like she’d lost her mind. She sniffed the air, then did a little skip dance over to the other table where a baker placed a tray of bonbons. She picked up a treat and held it in front of her face. “Three days,” she announced to the chocolate before popping it into her mouth. She closed her eyes and sighed. “Butterscotch.”
What the hell had gotten into her?
“Miss, you can’t eat those,” a woman in an apron said, eyeing his bonbon bandit as one would watch a rabid animal, which wasn’t that off the mark.
Harper gasped. “Sorry, I was having a moment.”
“We know about your bonbon moments,” the baker mumbled, sliding the tray away from the Singing Bonbon Bandit.
“Give me the pen, Paxton,” she crooned, prancing to their table. The lawyer handed her the pen, and she signed the contract. “There, I’m in. It’s your turn, heartthrob.”
He looked from the pen to the papers as a jolt of anxiety tore through him. “I can’t do it.”
“What?” Harper uttered as the excitement drained from her face.
He shook his head. “It’s not a fit for me. I have too much going on.”
“I can help you with your niece. You don’t need a nanny,” she pressed.
“No, I can’t,” he bit out. He hated to be a prick, but she didn’t understand.
“Landon, this could be very good for your image,” Mitzi added, but he couldn’t concentrate.
“I’ll pretend to be your loving wife,” Harper pleaded. “I’ll be crazy low maintenance. You won’t have to bring me breakfast in bed or do anything on the romance scale of devotion.”
What the hell was she talking about.
“Romance scale of what?”
She chewed her lip. “It measures romantic stuff like general courtship activities, trips to romantic locales, kisses in the rain, fireworks displays…”
He narrowed his gaze, not buying the scale business. “Fireworks?”
“Okay, the romance scale of devotion isn’t an actual thing,” she confessed. “Not to pat myself on the back or anything, but it’s a decent measure of devotion. Still, I made it up to make a point. I’ll do whatever it takes to help your career or your image or whatever. I’ll help care for Aria. I need to win this money. I need it for…”
And then he remembered. “Your grandmother’s house.”
She nodded. “This money would keep the bank from repossessing it.”
What the hell?
