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He was one of those special talents that came around once in a decade, and he was so in demand that in order to keep the integrity of his custom line—all the pieces he made by hand himself—he had to release his clothes in quarterly drops. They always sold out and often crashed his website within seconds of going live.
I was lucky enough to know him before his fame, having served him a caramel macchiato with a triple shot years ago when he was having a bad day. I helped talk him through it, and we’d been inseparable since. He’s the reason I was wearing the sleek romper I did now. Without him, I’d still be in my five-year-old yoga pants and a T-shirt. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but I didn’t think an exclusive Manhattan club would approve.
Jesse extended his arm, and I looped mine through it. He turned us in the direction that would take us toward my favorite street vendor?—
“Aspen! Wait, Aspen!” I heard Crossland calling my name, and Jesse stopped, spinning us around just in time to see himskidding to a stop before us. His chest heaved as if he’d run through the club and out of it in order to catch up to us.
Jesse kept his arm in mine and stepped just slightly in front of me like he thought Crossland might try to snatch me up and drag me back upstairs again.
A little flutter of heat raced through me at the thought of being in Crossland’s arms again, and I reminded myself that I was an independent woman who had been taking care of myself since I was fifteen and the last thing I needed was a man coming in to save the day.
That shut that needy little feeling down real quick.
“How would you like to make a million dollars?” Crossland asked, not a hint of amusement or playfulness in his tone. He said it as seriously as if he were asking if I preferred coffee over tea.
“Excuse me?” I asked. Whowasthis guy?
Crossland grinned, smoothing down the lapels of his suit jacket. “Look, I just lost a massive bet and I need you to be my exclusive girlfriend for three months. I’ll bedamnedif I lose to Ethan Berkeley?—”
“Ethan Berkeley?” Jesse asked, looking down at me and then back at Crossland. “What did you say your name was again?” he asked.
“Crossland McClaren,” he answered.
Jesse released me, pulling out his phone and typing away on the screen.
“Holy shit,” Jesse said. “You’re…you’reCrossland McClaren.”
“Yes,” Crossland drug out the word. “I thought we already established that.” He smiled, his eyes solely on me.
Heat trickled into my veins, and I shifted on my feet under that stare.
“Damn,” Jesse said, nudging me as he bent down to show me his phone. “He owns the Calgary NHL team.”
I looked at the screen, noting the numerous pictures scattered across the browser he had opened. One picture had a quick bio underneath explaining Crossland was a billionaire NHL owner with a variety of other companies, some I recognized and some I didn’t. The rest of the pictures showed him either with other people like Ethan Berkeley and Asher Silas, fellow franchise owners, or with multiple models that I’d seen in Vogue or movie stars that plastered the big screen.
My lips parted open, shock radiating through me. This was the guy whose lap I was just on? The one I’d calledbabein a fun little game I thought would quickly be over and done with?
“One million,” Crossland said again. “All you have to do is pretend to be my girlfriend for three months.”
Jesse pocketed his phone while I struggled to find my voice.
“Nah,” Jesse said. “You may be who you say you are, but we’ve seen documentaries like this. I’m not letting you make my girl into your weird rich-guy pet.” The seriousness and defensiveness in Jesse’s tone actually made me laugh.
Which made Crossland tilt his head, an effortless smile shaping his lips that I couldn’t stop looking at for some reason.
“Look, I don’t trust anyone,” I finally said. “Thirty minutes was a giant leap for me. Three months would be impossible. No matter how cute you are. But thanks for the offer.”
I needed that taco now more than ever, and tried pulling Jesse that direction, but Crossland stepped into our path, his hands raised like he wanted to make sure we knew he wasn’t about to grab me.
“I get it,” he said. “Trust me, or don’t…trust me.” He cringed. “Look, I’m not a creep. I know that probably isn’t clear with me approaching you on the street and all, and making you sit on my lap earlier for ten grand, but I digress.Please, just meet me hereat three p.m. tomorrow and I’ll have a better business proposal for you.” Crossland handed me a business card, and I took it with a sense of surrealism.
Was this really happening?
“Please?” Crossland asked, those blue eyes locking with mine in full pout mode.
I’m sure he’d used that look on more than one person to get his way.
“Three p.m. tomorrow. Give me the ten minutes I need to show you I’m not a creep.”
