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She sighs down the phone, and I can almost see her glare of utter contempt manifesting in front of me. “No. But I have read through that information you gave me, and I’ve called to make a counteroffer.”
“Okay, shoot,” I say, my heart racing.
A sudden vision flashes before me, of her falling into my arms, looking up at me with those gorgeous, wide eyes, and then I brush her golden hair out of her face and she smiles with those plush, pink lips and whispers to me that she was wrong all along, that she’s always loved me and that she always will. She’s wearing a white dress — her wedding dress — and I lean down slowly and kiss her…
“Aiden, you’re not listening, are you?” she snaps, dragging me out of my fantasy. I absolutely have to stop doing that. If I’m not careful, the teenage crush is going to bloom into something real and uncontrollable.
“Sorry,” I say weakly. “What?”
“I said, I don’t like it, but the fact is, my company is stalling and yours is teetering on the edge of collapse. We both need a boost. And unfortunately a merger looks great for both our businesses, on paper. I could really use the marketing power of Fletcher Tech.”
“And we need fresh blood desperately,” I add, trying to figure out where she’s actually going with this.
“Exactly.” She sighs again and pauses, the faint hum and crackle of the phone line the only thing connecting us. “I don’t want to marry a guy I don’t know, let alone a guy who betrayed me and everything I stand for.”
“But…?” I say hopefully, holding my breath for whatever’s coming next.
“Butmy business means everything to me. So, here are my terms. I have full and final authority over Mettie’s Marketplace, no matter what deal we strike. It’s mine and it always will be.”
“Okay, deal,” I say. That’s an easy enough thing to agree to, and I have way too much going on to eventhinkabout running something new on top of it.
She takes a deep breath. I try to imagine her face — is she angrily steeling herself for what comes next? Or nervous about agreeing to the arrangement? Or bored and irritated by the whole thing? Really, I want to imagine her smiling sweetly, the sun brushing over her face, catching the tip of her small nose.
I’m wandering back into dangerous territory here.
“Good. So my second demand is this: we spend a weekend together, to get to know each other again. I refuse to marry a stranger.”
“You want to go on a weekend date?” My heart leaps at the idea, and I’m sure she can hear the way I’m grinning like an idiot, but I don’t care. This is better than anything I could have expected. I thought that if she agreed to the deal, she’d want to have it on paper but nothing more.
Would it have hurt to be married to a woman like her on paper alone? I can’t see how it wouldn’t. But this makes it sound like marriage means something to her. Like she wouldn’t be content to sign the deed and never see me again.
“No!” she says sharply. “Well. Kind of. I refuse to call it a date.”
“Whatever you want.”
“What Iwantis to go back to the blissful universe where I never had to see your damn face again.”
“I don’t think we live there, honey.”
“Don’t start with that,” she growls. I’m sure if she was in the room right now, she’d pretty much be trying to tear me limb from limb.
“So, any ideas where we’re vacationing? Somewhere tropical and romantic?”
She ignores the comment. “My assistant manager suggested Desert Cove.”
“Oh, the oasis! It’s supposed to be fantastic there.”
She mutters something I can’t make out, then says, “Great. Well, if you’re happy, send through the dates you’re free, and I’ll get Kelly to book it all.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. I’m met by what I can only assume is an astounded silence, so I continue. “You’ve said it yourself; I’m surrounded by all my dad’s money. Let me use some of it on you.”
There’s another long hesitation during which all I can hear is her breathing, before she gives in. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll send you my dates.”
Already, I’m waking my computer up and searching for the Cove. It’s an exclusive spot, but I can use that Fletcher charm to get us in whenever we want. “You’ve got my email?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice clipped. “And… Aiden?”
"Uh-huh?” I hum, typing with one hand on the website.
