Chapter 2 #2
"Violet reminded me of my mom—warm, perceptive. She invited me to the estate three times before her death. We talked in the library, surrounded by books. She specifically asked me to look after you. She said, 'She needs someone who won't give up on her when she's stubborn.' I promised I would."
Emmy studies me. "You really cared about her."
"I did." I straighten, returning to business. "This solution honors her wishes and helps us both. It's logical."
Emmy still looks skeptical, and she squints at me. "What's the catch?"
While she asks this, we're looking at each other, no hostility for the first time. I notice her hazel eyes have gold flecks near the pupils.
A thought, sudden and unbidden, slides into my mind. What would those eyes look like if they darken with desire? Those lips, would they taste as sweet and pillowy soft as they look?
My jaw tightens. I shove the thoughts away. This is a business arrangement. I cannot afford to complicate it with attraction.
But my body isn't listening to logic, so I need to move and do something besides ogle this woman across from me. I stand.
I retrieve a folder from my desk and return to the chair. Emmy's expression changes when she sees it. "Of course you have a contract."
"I'm a lawyer. I draft contracts." I slide the document across the coffee table.
"The terms are straightforward. Sixty days total—thirty to satisfy the will's requirements, thirty more for credibility.
Minimum two dates per week. Attend family events together.
Physical affection in public as needed for believability.
Complete discretion—no one can know it's fake.
Clean break after sixty days, no complications. "
"Oh, no complications?"
I clear my throat. "Yes, it's clean. Cut and dried.
.. although," I look down at the coffee table.
"Judith did mention that she'd heard a rumor, and she emphasized 'just a rumor', that someone or some parties might challenge the Will.
Might be looking to 'lawyer up' as they say.
So we need to be scrupulous and adhere to the provisions set out in our agreement.
" I pause for emphasis. "And this, um, our agreement must be absolutely private.
Emmy's eyes hold mine for a beat, then drop, and she reads through the document, then looks up. "There's nothing here about what happens if things get ... complicated." She quickly follows with "...things between us."
"They won't. We're both professionals."
Emmy studies me, searching for something. "Do you have a pen?"
I hand her the Montblanc from my shirt pocket. Our fingers touch again. This time, neither pulls away. The contact lasts two seconds—I count. When she takes the pen, her thumb brushes my palm.
Fuck.
Heat shoots through my arm, and my body responds inappropriately. I become very aware of the growing tightness in my trousers.
This is absurd. No one has ever affected me like this. Certainly not from a simple touch.
Emmy signs it and slides the contract back across the coffee table. "There. Signed and sealed."
I sign as a witness and date it. "Actually, just signed, not sealed." The agreement sits between us, now very real.
"So, when do we start?" she asks.
"Tomorrow. We need to establish the relationship timeline."
"Of course you have a timeline."
"I have several timelines. And a contingency plan."
Emmy tilts her head. "You're kind of insane, you know that?"
"Thorough. The word is thorough."
"Insane was more accurate. But I'll accept thoroughly insane, if you insist."
She stands, gathering her bag. I stand as well, holding the document low in my left hand, making damn sure not to expose the tentpole lifting my trousers. The coffee table separates us, which helps, but not much.
She's small compared to me—even in her boots, the top of her head barely reaches my chin. She would fit perfectly against my chest, and maybe I would fit—
—Jesus fucking Christ, I need to stop.
Emmy leans back but maintains eye contact, the movement exposing her throat. Slim, creamy. I imagine dragging my tongue along the side, trailing kisses up to—
I force my gaze back to her face.
She crosses her arms, pushing her breasts up and out. "So you're saying we need a backstory? Like how we went from hating each other to dating?"
"Exactly. The transition needs to be believable."
"Let me guess—you've already mapped out our meet-cute?"
"I don't know what a meet-cute is, but I have three options, each with varying degrees of plausibility."
She laughs—genuine, surprised. The sound does something to me.
My body's response intensifies. I'm hard now. This is inappropriate, unprofessional, problematic. I need her to leave before she notices.
I turn toward the windows, pretending to look out. "I'll email you the timeline and first date details."
"Right. Timeline. Because, of course." She heads toward the door. Pauses. "Adrian?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For this. I know it's ... unconventional, but that library … I can't let it go. I refuse to."
"It's logical."
"Still. Thank you."
The door closes behind her.
I remain facing the windows, forehead pressed against the cool glass, trying to bury my growing certainty that I've made a catastrophic miscalculation. I adjust my trousers.
Sixty days of pretending with Emmy.
Sixty days of being close to her, touching her, acting like she's mine.
Can I get through this? I already can't control my physical reaction to simply being in the same room.
I exhale and watch my breath fog the glass.
This was supposed to be logical. Mutually beneficial. Professional.
Instead, I'm quite certain I just orchestrated my own unraveling.
Am I headed for a work-life balance complicated by dramas and unintended consequences?
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