Chapter 2
Charlotte
“You know how much your Grandmother values marriage and family.”
I inwardly roll my eyes. “And her heart is set on Wade Sinclair? You should tell Grandma what a real piece of shit he is.”
My mother opens her mouth to scold me about my language, but instead she pinches the bridge of her nose as she sucks in a deep breath. “Charlotte, darling, you know how important this retreat is. Your father’s company—”
“Is hanging by a thread,” I finish for her, zipping up one of the many garment bags I’m supposed to bring along to this week-long family disaster. “I’ve heard it all before, Mother.”
She sighs dramatically, as if I’m the unreasonable one here.
"Darling, the Sinclair family is going to be there, and if you don’t have a real fiancé by your side, well.
.. they’ll expect the engagement to Wade to be finalized.
" She stares straight at me. “We’re doing this to protect you. I know you don’t want to marry Wade. This is the only way.”
“To hire a fake fiance? To pretend I’m marrying some random stranger?”
My mother places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s either pretend to be engaged to the security detail, or really get engaged to Wade.”
I roll my eyes so hard, I’m pretty sure they’re going to get stuck.
Wade Sinclair, the walking, talking heir to the Sinclair fortune.
The crowned prince. Too bad he’s about as charming as a wet mop and twice as self-centered.
“Fine,” I huff out, upset that my grandmother is pushing this idea of marrying Wade so hard.
“We can’t let your father’s company take the hit.
If your grandmother doesn’t believe you’re fully happy with this,” she looks down at her phone for a split second before returning to look at me, “Asher, then your grandmother will pull her investment. She’ll destroy everything we’ve worked so hard for.
Can you please do this for the company?”
“For the company,” I mutter under my breath, folding a silk dress with more force than necessary. “Not for me.”
“Exactly. So, just for the week, you’ll pretend to be engaged to this… ex-military man.”
“Fine.”
My mother gives a satisfied nod, as if this entire plan isn’t completely absurd. “Right. Your father hired him for security, but he’ll do nicely as a fiancé stand-in. Tall, handsome, a bit rough around the edges—just the type to make Wade jealous.”
I shove another pair of shoes into my suitcase, my irritation growing with each passing second. “Why can’t we just uninvite the Sinclairs. Tell Grandma they couldn’t make it?”
“Because the Sinclairs hold too much influence,” she says, as if that explains everything. “We need them on our side.”
I know she’s right—about the influence, at least—but that doesn’t make this any less infuriating.
Pretending to be madly in love with a man I’ve never met?
Spending a week playing the perfect fiancée while fending off Wade’s creepy advances and keeping my parents’ business afloat?
Keeping my grandmother happy? Not exactly my idea of a relaxing getaway.
My fingers hover over the last dress I’m supposed to pack. It’s a white lace number that screams “I’m so in love, I’d definitely wear this while strolling hand-in-hand with my fiancé through a picturesque meadow.” I toss it in without folding it. Maybe wrinkles will make me look more authentic.
My mother leaves the room, and I sigh, trying to remember why I’m doing all of this.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock at my door, and I glance up, expecting to see one of the house staff.
Instead, a tall, broad-shouldered man steps into the room, his presence taking up more space than seems possible.
He has dark hair that looks like it hasn't seen a comb in days, a rugged face with a few too many sharp angles, and eyes that are scanning me with the kind of casual interest that makes my skin prickle.
“Charlotte Lane?” he says, voice low and gravelly, like he’s already tired of this whole thing before we’ve even started.
Which irks me. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s so gorgeous. Maybe it’s because instead of being snarky, I’d rather have him toss me on the bed and lay claim to me right here and now.
I need to stop reading my sci-fi romance novels late into the night.
“That’s me,” I reply, crossing my arms as I assess him right back.
So, this is the infamous Asher Hawke, my fake fiancé.
I bite back a groan. He’s definitely the tall, dark, and dangerous type, but his clothes—black jeans, worn boots, and a plain, fitted t-shirt—scream more “security detail” than “sophisticated society fiancé.”
Great.
He steps farther into the room, giving my half-packed suitcase a glance before turning his attention back to me. “Your mother sent me up here. Said we should go over the plan.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The plan?”
“Pretending to be in love,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something—annoyance, maybe—in his eyes. “I hear we’re engaged now.”
My lips twitch, but I refuse to smile. “Lucky me.”
He cocks his head, studying me for a beat too long. “Lucky? That’s one way to look at it.”
I can’t help it, but my eyes roll on instinct. “Don’t get too excited. It’s just for the week.”
“Trust me,” he says, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy sort of posture that’s clearly designed to look casual, “I’m not thrilled either.”
I let out a slow, measured breath, trying—and failing—to bleed off some of the tension crackling in the air. The entire room hums with it, thick enough to choke on as we size each other up like opponents in a ring. Well. This is off to a great start.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I say, more sharply than intended as I zip up my suitcase with a firm tug. The sound slices through the heavy silence. “Try to act like you’ve actually seen a five-star hotel before, and maybe we’ll survive the week.”
Across the room, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Just leans one broad shoulder lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, exuding casual dominance. His lips tilt into a slow, infuriating grin that makes me want to throw the nearest pillow at him.
“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice deep and warm, with just enough amusement to stoke my annoyance. “I can play the part.”
Sweetheart? The word slithers under my skin, both condescending and way too distracting coming from that mouth.
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
But before I can deliver the scathing comeback teetering on the tip of my tongue, he pushes off the frame, unfolding to his full height with deliberate ease.
He gestures toward the door with a slight nod, entirely too pleased with himself. “Shall we?” he asks, tone light and controlled—as if he’s already dictating the pace of this game.
I bite back a retort, snatch up my bag, and march past him without a glance. “This is going to be a disaster,” I mutter under my breath, words meant only for me.
Except nothing gets past him. His deep, velvet chuckle follows me down the hall like a slow burn across my skin.
And somehow, from the warmth curling low in my stomach, I know he agrees.
And worse? Some part of me might already be bracing for exactly that disaster.