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“That’s a lot of money,” I say, mentally doing the math. “How much do you owe again?”
“A lot,” she says, stalking over. She shoves that finger down on my desk, leaning forward slightly, other hand on her hip. “There will be rules. No sex. No unnecessary kissing. Hands to yourself. No getting attached. Max of one year, but no more. And in the end, we divorce, no fighting it.”
“No sex?” I ask, leaning back. “I doubt you can pull that off.”
“You have a really high opinion of yourself.”
“I tasted that whimper, Fiona.” I tilt my head, waiting for her to deny it. She doesn’t, which sends a thrill into my guts. “You won’t last a week before you’re throwing yourself at me.”
“Do you honestly think women find you that attractive? I’m in this for the money, Gareth. I don’t give a damn about you at all. Are you taking the deal or not?”
I grunt, nodding. I’d be stupid to turn her down. Whatever she’s asking, the Crowley family is worth easily ten times as much.
“Yes, with my own stipulations. We do this for real. You come to live with me. You act as my wife whenever we’re in public. I’m starting to think being married might be useful for my career.”
“One year.Max.”
I pull out a yellow legal pad and a pen. “Should I draw up the contract?”
She rolls her eyes but sits. “Do it.”
I spend the next twenty minutes drafting the language. She barks out suggestions as I go, bickering about everything from where we sleep (“Separate freaking rooms, asshole.”) to how often she gets to use my home gym (“As often as I want and you better not stand around staring at my ass.”) to her rock-climbing membership (“Non-negotiable.”) and in the end, I give her everything she wants.
Because there’s only one thing I need.
And that’s her, playing the part.
If we can pull this off and fool the Crowleys, my career will be made. It won’t matter how much money she wants—I’ll pay her all that and more.
In the end, she looks over the document, commenting only a few times on my terrible handwriting.
But she signs. Her name, scribbled at the bottom. She turns it toward me, lips pushed together.
I write my name in a big, looping cursive. She rolls her eyes again.
“I now pronounce us—”
“Asshole,” she says, stands, and marches out of my office.
I watch her go, heart racing.
We’re either going to pull off the con of the century together or end up dead.
Chapter12
Fiona
“Welcome home,” he says as he ushers me into his apartment.
It’s at the top of an expensive, fancy building in downtown Dallas. I didn’t think people actuallylivedin places like this, but apparently, I was wrong.
Gareth’s space is obscenely nice. Grays, whites, blacks, muted colors. Leather couch, enormous windows, modern kitchen with gleaming appliances and one of those obscene hidden refrigerators that cost like fifty grand. “Not very…” I trail off, tapping my lower lip. “Not very personal.”
“Personal?” He cocks his head. “You’re right. I travel half the year.”
“I know, but still.” I poke my head into the enormous master bedroom. “No pictures. Barely anything on the walls. It looks like you hired someone to make it look good and just—stopped there.”
“Because that’s exactly what I did.” He steers me toward the home gym. It’s suitably decked out with weight machines and a couple treadmills. Plus a little steam room toward the back.
