Bride Bargain (Marrying the Boss)

1. Claire

One

Claire

“ T he internet hates me again.”

It’s first thing on a Monday morning, I just walked eight blocks to this skyscraper in the pouring rain, and my boss is waiting for me in the lobby when I arrive. He’s dressed in dark pants and a crisp gray shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the collar unbuttoned. No tie. There’s a pained expression on his handsome face.

Standard Monday morning, really.

“Oh dear.” My umbrella drips a trail of raindrops across the marble lobby floor as I march to the elevators, and the boss falls into stride beside me, despite his legs being so much longer than mine. His clothes are bone-dry and his dark hair is rumpled from where he’s been tugging at it. “What happened this time?”

Prickly silence. No other response.

Hiding a smile, I prod the button to call the elevator, glancing up to watch the lit-up numbers count down the floors. All around us, snatches of conversation echo across the lobby and the sounds of traffic rumble in from the street. It’s a busy morning in this sky-high building, and you can tell who hasn’t been caught in the rain by their smug, dry faces.

As we wait for the elevator, a million thoughts churn in my head. Thoughts like: I need to call that supplier back. And make travel arrangements for that visiting scientist next week. And call a meeting with the R why don’t I care that my boss has a digital mob with pitchforks baying for his blood? Don’t I know that getting canceled ruins lives?

But, see: Elliot Ramsay gets canceled like the rest of us get haircuts. It’s a regular appointment for him, and I’ve been his right-hand woman since the day he founded his company, so…

This is not my first rodeo. And Elliot always gets through the scandal, albeit with a tiny dent in his pride.

“Well?” The elevator doors swoop open, and a small crowd floods past us into the lobby. A few of the workers look up from their phones and do a double-take, staring openly at my boss before hurrying away and whispering to each other.

Shoot. This one must be a doozy.

Elliot waits until the elevator is empty, then ushers me on. He turns and glares at the other people waiting out in the lobby, pointedly jabbing at the close-doors button, and I sigh as we’re shut in together. It’s like he doesn’t even want to fix his reputation.

Only once we’re alone do the boss’s shoulders relax beneath his shirt. It’s cool in the elevator, with shiny mirrored walls and the lingering scent of someone else’s coffee.

My stomach flutters, like it always does when the two of us are alone, but I ignore it like the pro I am. Believe me: I’ve had a lot of practice by now.

“I can’t help until I know what happened, Elliot.” When I wring out my blonde hair, raindrops patter on the floor, because despite huddling under an umbrella for the whole walk here, my clothes are sodden and my shoes squelch whenever I move. Gross. Hope Elliot’s ready to see his assistant in her gym clothes all day.

My boss mumbles something, scratching the side of his neck. He gets like this sometimes: weirdly bashful, despite being six-foot-something of solid man, with more brain power than the rest of this company combined.

“I didn’t catch that.”

“I pushed an old lady,” he says, louder this time. He scowls down at the floor and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Not hard. But someone caught it on video.”

Ooooh shit.

Forget that To Do list. This is not what I want to hear on a Monday morning.

My tongue runs over my minty-fresh teeth, and I think carefully before I say: “And why did you push an old lady, exactly?”

Because Elliot Ramsay never does anything uncalculated. He never says or does anything without a precise reason, without examining all the angles of a situation, and if he pushed some old bat… well, something must have happened. The internet at large may not believe that, but I do. I’ve known this man since high school math class, and my faith in him is rock solid.

“It’s not important,” he says.

“You could not be more wrong.” My wet shoes make a tiny fart sound when I shift my weight. I glare up at Elliot in the mirror, but here’s the thing—it doesn’t even occur to him to make fun of me for something like that. It never does.

This man beside me is noble to a fault. Most people don’t realize that, because he won’t smile at strangers and he avoids small talk like the plague, but I happen to know that Elliot Ramsay donates more to charity each month than most tech bros do in their whole lifetimes.

“She wouldn’t stop touching me,” he says. There’s that pained expression again, his handsome face so mournful in the mirror, and my chest squeezes in response. Suddenly we’re back in high school together, whispering next to the lockers as he asks me, baffled, how he offended someone this time. How he read yet another situation so wrong. “I asked her to stop twice, but she kept squeezing my arm and touching my chest. So I moved her away from me. Gently. ” He sighs, agitated. “But on the video it looks… bad.”

I bet it does.

Oh, Elliot.

Pressing my lips together, I turn away from the reflection to face my boss in the flesh. Need to crane my neck back to get a good look at him, because he’s tall and surprisingly sculpted beneath those tailored clothes, towering over me the same way he did beside those high school lockers. My heart speeds up, and I try to ignore the voice whispering in my head that we’re alone, alone, finally alone.

Even with his shoulders all slumped in defeat, Elliot Ramsay is a hottie—he always has been, ever since he was the cutest guy in math class.

And that, it seems, is the problem.

“She shouldn’t have done that.” I keep my voice even, but anger’s spiking my blood pressure. “Elliot?” I wait for him to meet my gaze, his navy blue eyes drifting along my shoulder before finally boring into mine. Once he’s locked on to me, it’s hard to breathe evenly. Hard not to sway forward. My voice comes out all frazzled when I add, “She shouldn’t have touched you like that, especially once you told her to stop. You’re not the bad guy here.”

His shoulders melt down another inch, a relieved sigh gusting between us. But doubt flickers across his face, and I freaking hate that. I hate that no one else on this planet understands this man; I hate that the internet always paints him as a villain. Because sure, compared to most celebrities, Elliot is a little awkward—and yes, he struggles with small talk. Not every social cue lands right with him.

But this man is good —to his core. Take it from the woman who’s worked for him for the last six years, and who’s nursed a secret crush on him for far longer than that. He’s a sexy, awkward cinnamon roll in a tailored suit.

This world doesn’t deserve Elliot Ramsay.

Above our heads, the lit-up numbers count the floors. This elevator is so fancy, it barely vibrates at all, and there’s no sound in here except our breaths and the occasional rustle of our clothes.

Elliot sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “I’ve seen the comments. They’re saying I hate women.”

I scoff. “Well, that’s ridiculous. You hate everyone equally.”

The ghost of a smile flickers behind Elliot’s palm, before he brushes it away and drops his hand. “Everyone but you, Claire.”

Butterflies explode in my stomach, their wings tickling my insides, but after all these years I’m a pro at not letting my secretly gooey responses show. I smile at my boss and best friend, playing it cool and calm, giving away zero sign that his words affect me as strongly as they do.

Once I’m alone in my apartment tonight, I’ll replay that statement over and over, fixating on the rich cadence of his voice until the words lose all meaning. Once there’s no one around to hear me, I’ll relive this moment and scream into a pillow.

But this morning, I keep it together—until Elliot tugs on his rolled sleeve and says, “So I’ve been thinking: we should get married.”

* * *

An hour later, I’m dressed in my creased, barely-used gym clothes and pacing back and forth in front of Elliot’s huge desk, my running shoes squeaking against the floorboards. Rain gusts against the floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows, pelting the glass like tiny pebbles, and the city out there is gray and cloudy and damp.

“Insane,” I say for the millionth time, throwing up my hands. “This is insane. You are insane. What a thing to spring on me on a Monday morning.”

Elliot leans against the front of his desk, arms crossed over his chest. He shakes his head slowly, watching me pace like he’s fascinated by my animal behavior. Like I’m a lion in a zoo. “Would you have said yes if I proposed on a Tuesday?”

Proposed. Gah!

The desk phone rings—again. My boss reaches back and hangs up without looking—again. This has been my life for the last hour, and my shoes give a tormented squeak as I fling myself around and pace back the way I came.

“You didn’t propose. People don’t get married for PR reasons, Elliot.”

He’s so freaking calm. “Yes they do.”

“Not emotionally healthy people!”

Elliot smirks and shrugs, as if to say: well, who’d you think you’re dealing with? And oh my god, I’m going to murder this man.

I don’t care if we grew up in the same small town and moved out to this city together; don’t care if I have a standing monthly phone call with his mom Jan. Don’t even care that he brings me tubs of vanilla bean ice cream when I’m sick. I swear: if Elliot had worn a tie today, he’d be throttled already.

He doesn’t know , I remind myself silently, gritting my teeth as I pace. Elliot Ramsay doesn’t know what those ice cream deliveries do to me. He doesn’t get that I’ve been pining for him like some tragic fool since that first day in high school math class; that I’ve daydreamed about marrying him more times than I can count.

So if my boss’s casual, throwaway proposal has left a smoking crater in my chest… well, that’s on me.

“It’s the perfect solution,” Elliot says now, in a tone that strongly implies that I’m the one who’s being unreasonable. “You’re already my favorite person, and the length of our friendship suggests that you don’t mind me either.”

Understatement of the year. I pace faster.

“This way my public image will improve, people will see that I don’t hate women, and the world will start looking elsewhere for scandal. Plus fewer old ladies will try to grope me in public.” Elliot stands straighter against the desk, thrilled by his own idea. I’m zooming past him so fast, his shirt practically gusts against his body. “And you’ll get half my assets, so you’ll never have to worry about money ever again, even if something happens to me. It’s a win-win situation, Claire.”

It is not a win-win, and there’s so much wrong with his little speech that I don’t even know where to begin. From the idea that I don’t mind the man I physically ache for every night, to his frankly naive idea that married men don’t get hit on, to the thought of me taking his money—it’s wrong, wrong, wrong.

“I can’t talk about this.” I pluck my baggy t-shirt away from my chest, flapping the fabric to fake a breeze. “Oh god, I’m sweating. This is my only change of clothes.”

“Well, if you stop pacing—”

“I can’t .”

If I stop pacing, my heart will beat right out of my chest. If I stop this frantic movement, I’ll have to look my best friend-turned-boss in the eye, and then he’ll see exactly why I can’t marry him as some twisted PR move.

Spoiler alert: it’s not because I’m above such things. It’s because it’s Elliot offering this. Elliot with his steady blue eyes and that deep voice which makes me shiver; Elliot who makes my insides riot whenever he walks into a room. Sexy, awkward Elliot, who simultaneously looks like he wandered out of a magazine centerfold, and who wouldn’t recognize flirting if it pinched him on the ass.

He tilts his head now, watching me closely like I’m another tech problem he needs to solve. It’s a very familiar look.

His phone rings. Without blinking, he reaches back and hangs it up.

Rain batters the windows, and a bead of sweat trickles down my spine. My shoes squeak against the floorboards, and my legs burn from power-walking up and down his office. Mental note: do more cardio. Preferably while running far, far away from this bullshit.

“I wouldn’t expect anything,” Elliot says, fiddling with one shirt cuff. Sudden discomfort rolls off him in waves. “Physically, I mean. I know you wouldn’t want that, Claire.”

Ha! A manic laugh blooms in my chest, and I want to cackle like a hysterical old witch.

Because… I wouldn’t want that? Is that what he really thinks? Listen: I would trade my left pinkie finger for the chance to lick this man’s throat. I’d transfer my meager life savings if it meant I could bottle his spicy-clean scent and spray it on my pillow every night, then roll around naked in those sheets. But has Elliot noticed my pathetic pining? He has not.

Which just goes to show: genius is specific. And Elliot Ramsay may be a tech wunderkind, but when it comes to messy things like emotions… he’s as much of an idiot as the rest of us.

“No.” I fling an arm out, slashing through the air as I jog to the doorway. At least I’m dressed for a quick escape. “This is nuts.” The door slams behind me, the sound echoing across the penthouse.

* * *

Fifty minutes later, hunched at my own desk, I’ve watched the video of Elliot pushing that lecherous old woman away dozens of times. Rage boils in my veins as I watch him brush her off politely, his expression getting more wooden with each refusal until he finally snaps.

Elliot’s right: he’s gentle when he moves her away. Even on the grainy video it’s clear, but the internet mobs have agreed: the love of my life is trash. He should be hanged, drawn and quartered; his tech should be boycotted; he should be made to pay for daring to assert his personal space.

Screw that.

I storm to the office door and fling it open, barging inside. Elliot blinks at me from where he’s been staring moodily out of the windows, hands shoved in his pockets. His dark hair is even more rumpled than before and he looks tired, with dark shadows beneath his eyes. “Claire?”

“I’ll do it,” I say, out of breath for no good reason. I stopped pacing nearly an hour ago, and yet my heart has not slowed at all. Am I dying? “Fuck it. Let’s get married.”