4B – Jenna
JENNA
My living room was the saddest display of holiday cheer I’d ever seen.
We were weeks away from Christmas, and instead of my usual red handmade stockings, I’d hung a “Will hang later” Post-it. There was no fir tree glowing with warmth, no North Pole train circling the floor, and no sign that the holidays had even arrived.
Well, unless you wanted to count the letter hanging exactly where my tree should’ve been—the letter that explained why I hadn’t had a single second to even think about decorating for the season.
Dear Santa,
I’m only asking for one thing this year—just one tiny little thing—and it doesn’t require you to come down a chimney or carry anything heavy on my behalf at all.
Please find a way—any way—to stop the world this week during my boss’s Naughty or Nice bonus ceremony so I can slap the shit out of him with my heavy-duty stapler. Then give me a chance to kick him a few times when he hits the ground, too.
(You can restart the world seconds after.)
Merry Christmas & thank you in advance,
Jenna Dawson
“He better actually deliver my wish to me this year…” I muttered under my breath.
I took a long sip of wine and began organizing ornaments.
As I was setting up a few golden reindeer, a knock sounded at my door.
I remained still, not wanting to deal with my neighbor selling me his holiday beef drink for the third time this week.
When I was sure he was gone, I returned to untying strings, but the knock sounded again.
I refused to show a sign of life.
Staring at the door, I noticed the lock softly clicking, the knob slowly turning.
What the hell?
It opened with ease, and Nicholas stepped inside.
Completely uninvited, looking sexy as hell in a dark gray coat, he looked around until his eyes met mine.
“Did you not hear me knocking?”
“I did.” I set down the reindeer. “Did you notice me not answering?”
He shut the door. “This is an emergency situation.”
“Well, thank you so much for calling to see if I was home first,” I said.
“I did call. You hit ignore.”
“Because I don’t want to be bothered.” I crossed my arms. “How may I help you?”
“I need a wife.”
“A what?”
“A wife.”
“A white?” I asked. “Like a flat white latte?”
“A fucking wife.” He narrowed his eyes. “Someone who is married to me.”
I blinked. “Willingly?”
“Yes, willingly, Jenna.” He moved closer to my bare tree. “I spoke to a very special lawyer who found a few loopholes in my contract.”
“You mean, Damien Carter?”
“Who he is, is not your business,” he said, as if I didn’t have his contacts synced to my cell phone.
“All I need from you is a perfect wife who can sign an NDA, smile her way through a few questions from the inheritance agency—if they bother to ask any at all—and someone who can pass as someone who loves me as much as I love her.”
“Until your marriage is over in a few weeks?”
“Exactly.” He nodded. “Get me one of those by the end of the week.”
I stared at him.
“Do you have some problems, Miss Dawson?” he asked. “Never mind, don’t answer that. We’ll be here all day if you start listing them.”
“I could say the same for you.” I rolled my eyes. “If I decide to help you with this, I want a bonus.”
“You’d need to earn it first. And what the hell do you mean by ‘decide’?”
“This goes beyond my scope of job responsibilities,” I said. “It’s way beyond short notice, highly illegal, and you know that.”
He looked like he was about to deny any of those facts, but he sighed. “How much money do you want?”
“Half a million should do it.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“You’re about to get a quarter of a billion, and you’re worried about such a small amount?”
“If I give you half a million, you might be tempted to quit working for me.”
Exactly. “That’s not what I’m thinking at all.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, that’s my price,” I said. “Take it or leave it. I’m sure there are plenty of other executives you can trust to get this done for you secretly and at the highest level.”
“There are. Hundreds.”
“Then go and harass one of them.”
Silence.
“Get a notary to sign off on a short note that you promise to give me at least six months’ notice if you ever decide to quit, and I’ll pay you the half million.”
“Six months?” I balked. “The industry standard is two weeks.”
“Take it or leave it.” He mocked me. “That’s my price.”
Don’t do it, Jenna. Hold the line. Hold the goddamn line.
“Okay, fine.” I held out my hand for a handshake, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he gently pushed it away and gently grabbed my waist, pulling me closer than necessary.
As if someone was in the room with us, listening, he lowered his voice.
“Assuming you’ll have that note to me in a matter of hours, what do I need to do next?”
“Send me a short—and I do mean short—wish list of all the qualities you want in a wife so we can make this as believable as possible.”
“How long do I have?”
“Two hours,” I said. “Not a minute more.”