Chapter Two
A truly terrible agreement, really.
Amber
For reasons unknown, Liam’s office building lobby hosts a museum-size painting…of a megalodon. Centerplace behind the front desk and between two shining elevators, it catches all my attention the moment I step within the business building, saturated with business people in business wear.
As I approach the receptionist, I notice that the title and artist reside on a gold plaque beside the feature, declaring: Shark by Aubree Waltz.
Wow.
Deep.
“Hello!” the receptionist beams. “Welcome to Whirlwind Branding! Do you have an appointment?”
I pin my best smile in place, hoping that my slacks and blouse offer the sense of professionalism that my face most assuredly does not. “Hi, yes and no. Could you tell Mr. Warrick that Amber is here to see him?”
The receptionist gasps, scans me, swallows, and nods. Carefully, she dials Liam. After a moment, she stammers, “H-hi, yes, sir. So very sorry to interrupt you on your lunch break. There’s an Amber here to see you?”
The woman’s eyes shift between the phone and me, and she wets her lips. Softly, she whispers, “Um…miss?”
“Hm?” I tilt my head, and the waves of my curls tip against my cheek.
Her whisper lowers. “Mr. Warrick says he doesn’t know an Amber .”
Mr. Warrick is going to find my knee lodged in his throat. Never mind that I’ll need a stool to reach it. I will find one. And I will use it.
My eyes begin to roll, but I remember myself before I get too salty. Were I taller, I’d gracefully extend my hand over the desk for the phone, lift it to my ear, and tell Liam to take a walk out the window of his penthouse office.
He’d probably tell me that the windows up there do not open, and utterly pretend to miss the point.
Unfortunately, I am the size of a regular KitKat, standing at a majestic four foot eleven. Which I have been. Since my last growth spurt in fifth grade.
“Tell him he’s about to miss an opportunity.”
Terrified, the poor girl echoes my line with shaking intonations that do not fully get my point across at all.
Man. Sometimes, I wish I were taller.
“U-um,” the receptionist whispers, “h-he says to tell you that he’s serious about s-suing.”
This time, I can’t stop my eye roll. Planting my hands on the counter, I push myself up, and snap, “I know you’re serious, Liam . When have you ever not been serious about something?”
The woman’s eyes widen.
Then shock hits her so suddenly the phone slips out of her hand. “He…he…” Breath leaves her. “He…just… laughed .”
I huff, let my feet drop flat against the ground again, and mutter, “Yeah, he does that. Anyway. Top floor, right? I’ll let myself in.”
Picking an elevator, I subject myself to the longest ride in American history, barely holding onto my will to live by the time I step from the shining doors into an elegant lobby with a slew of plush chairs arranged before an empty wide desk.
My shoulders sag, and I wish I could knock the elevator music out of my ears like pool water as I trudge up to the large oak door boasting William Warrick centermost upon a brass nameplate.
Shoving the mammoth creature open, I slam it behind me and locate William Warrick himself.
Dim lighting. Black-out curtains over large windows. Gray paint and cherrywood furniture.
Practically a morgue, it is the furthest thing from the Liam I know.
But I love it. Deeply.
Until I find a gothic vase with the bouquet from yesterday on his desk.
My nose scrunches.
Seated beyond the flowers, in a massive velvet chair that suits the man’s physical vibe , Liam watches me, black eyes predatory. His fingers thread before his lips as he sets his elbows on the dark cherrywood. Like the roses, hints of blood red seep past the luster, and I hope my coffin’s cherrywood when I die…
Simply beautiful.
Low, Liam says, “What is it with you and slamming doors?”
I cross my arms and trot up to his desk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He arches a brow. “No?”
I flop into one of the chairs in front of his desk. Leather. Plasticky. It’s as soul-sucking as the World’s Longest Elevator Ride. Clearly, Liam’s found more subtle ways to torture people in the eight years we’ve been apart.
Skin crawling, I sit myself back up, and chirp, “Nope. Long time no see, Cutie.”
Stoic, impenetrable Liam can’t help himself then. He smiles.
A shiver cuts down my spine.
“Those clothes don’t suit you, Bambi,” he murmurs.
“Your office doesn’t suit you, Cutie,” I counter.
His ebony gaze travels the room, finding its way back to me. “Professionalism. Such a chore.”
I reference my attire. “Likewise. I am, after all, here on business.”
“Oh?” Twisted amusement looms beyond his Grim Reaper stare as he leans forward, whispering, “And here I thought our matters were of pleasure, not commerce.”
“Ew.”
“Ow.”
“You’ll get over it.”
His gaze drifts, smile returning to a steel line. “I might not. I tend to hold grudges.”
“You should work on that in therapy.”
“I fired my therapist.” He lowers his hands, loosens his fingers, draws circles on the surface of his desk. “He suggested I meditate to overcome my control issues. I told him meditation was a waste of time. He suggested I journal. I wrote a lovely story about how exactly I’d take over the world and subject the masses to my tyranny. It contained seventy-two bullet points; he said I’d missed the point.” Liam’s eyes close, long dark lashes kissing his cheeks. “Needless to say, we just didn’t seem to get along.”
“Yeah, the most shocking thing about that whole soliloquy is the fact you went to therapy in the first place.”
He breathes a laugh. “Well, it was an important step in my achieving moral high ground, which I outlined in my seventy-two bullet points. Watch this… Amber?”
I hesitate, eyes narrowing, before I say, “ Yesss? ”
“Have you been to therapy?”
I clear my throat. “ Noo .”
He tuts. “Pity. Self-awareness is the first step in obtaining inner peace.” His eyes brighten, sparking like nuclear bombs. “See? Wasn’t that fun? I love doing that.”
“There is something fundamentally wrong with you, Liam.”
Peaceful, he nods. “Yes, I know. I went to therapy for it.”
The injustice that this man is ragingly successful while I can’t even seem to make ten dollars a month working nonstop. I have five books out. Five. And, still, I’m lucky if I see ten page reads on any given day with the Kindle Unlimited program, where—for your information—a page read is equivalent to less than half a penny.
My reviews are good, when I can get them. I spend hours upon hours emailing hundreds of bloggers to get five replies and one carry through. I struggle, day in and day out, while being told all my effort means nothing if I’m not making money.
All my work is a hobby if it doesn’t start getting returns.
Meanwhile, Liam goes to therapy for sport .
Who does that?
Who goes to therapy for sport ?
There should be a limit to the audacity a single white adult male can possess.
After the silence between us is constricting, Liam sighs. “Did you or did you not put in writing that if you weren’t married by age twenty-six, you would marry me, assuming that I also remained unattached?”
“I did,” I slur, “put that in writing, on a napkin .”
“Some of the greatest songs in history were written on napkins, Amber.”
I let my head loll. “Fair enough. How many binding contracts have been, though?”
His eyes narrow. “You made a promise to me.”
“I was going through puberty, and you were bullying me about my dreams.” I sneer. “Does hearing I failed make you happy? That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? So you can have me confirm that I failed . So you can watch the light drain from my eyes as I say you were right, Liam and I was wrong . You have a penthouse office, and I’m between jobs again because I can’t handle anything I pick up. You’re making millions of dollars a minute, and I’m cleaning up after my parents who could fight about a blue sky on a perfect sunny day. You win. Congratulations. Can I go home now?”
Liam’s steady gaze bores into me before he actively frowns. His usually linear lips tip downward, and he rises—all six foot something of him towering. “You sucked all the fun out of being right, Bambi.”
“Good.”
He rounds his desk, positions himself in front of me, and leans back, glowering down his aquiline nose. “You’re also completely wrong.”
“What else is new?” I mutter.
“I have waited breathlessly for this day to come. I have dreaded the possibility that someone else would get to you before our appointed time. Some nights in these past nine years, I have not slept for fear of waking up to a social media status confirming you belonged to someone else.”
Belonged. For some reason, I feel as though that word should set me on the highest of alerts.
Unfortunately, Liam plows ahead before I can truly give it much thought. He asks, “Are you twenty-six?”
“I mean, physically or mentally? Because according to much of society, no.”
His voice raises, ever so commandingly. “I am not inquiring as to society’s perception of you, Amber. Were you born twenty-six years and one day ago or not?”
I frown, which means I am pouting when I mutter, “Yes, I was.”
“Can you presently afford health insurance?”
A breath saws in and out of my chest, and I have known for a long time how severely demented Liam is, but this is a whole new level of humiliation. I grit, “No, I can’t.”
“Then, you should marry me. It’s that simple. Those were the terms.”
“I realize you’re insane, Liam, but that is not how real life works.”
“True. It’s how real life should work. When someone says they’ll do something, they should do it. You said you’d marry me, and you put it in writing, and we both signed.”
I launch to my feet. “ Why are you so desperate for a wife? Don’t you have hundreds of women throwing themselves at you daily?”
His hand reaches, cups my chin, and reels me in. “I might. But not a single one of them is as precious to me as you are. And not a single one of them is bound to me via signature beside a red sauce stain.”
If I didn’t know better, I might blush. Instead, I grit, “It was a Mild sauce stain.”
“Every feature…” he whispers, ignoring me in favor of turning my face to better examine my cheeks, my lips, my nose. He melts, eyes glazing. “So… cute .”
“Goodbye, Liam.”
His grip solidifies, making it impossible for me to get away. And, were he any other man, I would be terrified.
But.
He’s Liam.
And this is just how Liam’s very stupid brain works. I’m used to it. And if I told him to let go because he was hurting me, he would. He’s not quite that kind of evil.
“Please,” he says, and that is the last word I expect out of his evil mouth. “Health insurance is on the table. What else do you require I add in order to tip the scales in my favor?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Name your price.”
“Are you…” I press my lips together, scan his impenetrable face. “Liam, Cutie, come on. You’re not trying to buy me, right? We don’t do that anymore. Women are not worth twenty cows and a bushel of donkeys.”
“A bushel is a volume measurement, equivalent to sixty-four pints. Sixty-four pints is not a lot of donkey. Strictly speaking, it isn’t even one donkey.”
“Bushel is also used to refer to large amounts.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head as best I can while still in his grip. “Why… why do you know that other stuff?”
He mumbles, “Sixty-four is a great number. Square root is eight, the symmetrical number you love so dearly. There’s nothing wrong at all with sixty-four. Should I add sixty-four donkeys to the table? Would that please you? The table might break beneath their weight, but I am not unwilling.”
Yeah, I’m gonna go with no . “Liam.”
“Yes?”
“Forget about the donkeys.”
“I’ll do my best.” He swipes his thumb across my cheek, following the motion with his eyes. “Please, Amber,” he says again, and it’s starting to freak me out, “I would have you to wife. What will make that painless for you? Money? Clothes? Amenities? If you’re here for business , let’s do business. Counter my offer.”
The concept is intriguing, especially while February 1st looms. “You promise you aren’t just trying to get me to take your insanity seriously before you scoff and smirk and get your high?”
“I promise. Because, unlike some people, I keep my word without negotiation.”
Gripping his wrist, I pull his hand off me and set it back at his side. Then, I say, “A pool.”
“Our home has one.”
“Indoor?”
“Yes. Heated, too.”
“Coffee.”
“I’ll supply it.”
“I’m not vegan.”
He sighs. “I’ll overlook your murder of cute animals. The idea of their sad faces as they’re slaughtered is wholly on your conscience, not mine.”
I’ll get over it. “You’ll provide for my needs, entirely?”
“Yes.”
“I want a weekly allowance. For fun stuff.”
“Name your price.”
“Twenty-thousand dollars.”
“Five hundred.”
My brows jump. “That’s not a fair increment.”
“It’s bartering, baby. Your turn.”
I twitch. Something about Liam calling me baby makes my skin crawl. Actually, the idea of anyone calling me baby makes my skin crawl. “Fine. Ten thousand.”
“One hundred.”
“That’s not how it works!” I stomp my foot. I hate that I’ve just stomped my foot.
Liam’s lips tipping up as his attention falls to my Mary Janes proves he loves it. “Care to go again?”
“ Five hundred , or I walk.”
He cups his hand over his mouth, muttering a breathless, “That was adorable.” Pink tints his cheeks as he drops his hand and nods. “Very well. Five hundred dollars of allowance a week. Anything else?”
“Yeah, what’s the fine print in this union?”
“Fine print? There is no fine print. All I expect from you is that you complete your wifely duties.”
I blink. I stare. I feel a headache coming on. Rubbing my temple, I mutter, “I know you’re not talking about sex. Delineate.”
“Stay-at-home wives keep the household, accompany their husbands to expected events, and offer relevant support.”
“I will not be keeping any households. I’ve done enough household keeping for my parents in my lifetime. You can afford a maid.”
“Yes, we can. But given that I’m the one in this partnership bringing in money, hiring a maid is your job.”
That sounds like a phone call.
I do not like phone calls.
“Why don’t you already have a maid?”
“Because, Bambi, I am not a child who needs someone to clean up after him.”
I plant my hands at my hips. “Is it because your house looks like what I suspect it looks like?”
His attention skitters, far away from my face. “I suppose you’ll find out when you move in.”
Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.
Dark eyes flick back to me, shy, coy. “Anything else?”
“Confirming that I will have my own room?”
“I’ve already prepared it for you.”
My nose scrunches, and I shudder. “I want the funds to fully redecorate however I see fit.”
“Should anything not be up to your esteemed standard, I shall consider redecoration to be household costs, not allowance.”
As he should.
My mind wrestles with the pros—money, basically; comfort and money and not having to stress about what in the world I’m going to do before the end of the month—versus the cons—I am looking up at him. The one big con.
Speaking about looking up, my neck is starting to hurt, so I look down, at Liam’s proffered hand.
“When?” I ask, clenching my fist and not moving it from my side.
“Tomorrow. My only free blocks are lunch, so we can get married around noon, after you sign a prenup, then you can settle your accounts with your family Saturday and move in on Sunday.”
That’s a fast turnaround time. “You’re sure you’ve thought this through?”
“Yes.”
“It’s really stupid of you to do this, Liam. Frankly, you do not have to be this anal about a napkin you signed when you were eighteen.”
The line that forms between his brows in response to that comment suggests quite otherwise. So I try to further support my claim, “People are supposed to get married when they love each other.”
“Did your parents teach you that?”
My mouth drops . First of all, how dare you , and second of all, how dare you! “How dare you,” I say.
“Amber.” He smiles, much too gently after the stunt he just pulled. Using his free hand, he coils one of my loose curls around his finger. “I have never loved anyone more than I have, quite thoroughly, tolerated you.”
Wowza. Well then. Be still my heart , I guess.
I sigh. “I’ll stick around as long as I can tolerate you for the perks and the allowance in order to get this stupid plan ticked off in your brain, then I fully intend divorce, got it?” I lift my hand to his.
He pulls his hand away. “One year.”
“What?”
“I want, at minimum, a year.”
That sounds absolutely awful. And my face must show it, because he starts his supporting points.
“Treat me like a CD. The term for receiving your investment is one year.”
I wet my lips. “What’s fifty-two times five hundred?”
“Twenty-six thousand.”
Huh. Poetic. Somehow.
Making twenty-six thousand dollars of pure profit the year I turned twenty-six, instead of going into horrific debt or having a nervous breakdown trying to hold a job is…something. Something not terrible, maybe.
“Come on, Bambi,” he murmurs. “You survived thirteen years with me, didn’t you? What’s one more?”
My breaking point, probably.
All the same, I hold out my hand. “Fine, one year. Try to be kind to me.”
“No.” He practically beams as his fingers close around mine. “ Pleasure doing business with you.”
I smile. “Most harrowing experience of my life.”
Our hands separate, and he returns to his desk, saying, “I’ll see you tomorrow, noon ten sharp?”
“ Noon ten , huh? Yeah, sure, Cutie. See you then.”