Player Two Required (Big City Romance #3)

Chapter 1

The Proposal

“Marry me?”

I blink. My brain tries to parse the words. Tries to run them through, to make them match something that would fit the context. But it can’t. I swear my boss, Anders Anderson III, just said, Marry me?

My expectations, as far as I have any, are when I finally hear those words, some guy will be on his knees, ring proffered, somewhere remarkable.

The top of a mountain, maybe. Or a penthouse suite in a luxury hotel.

Or if he genuinely wants to make a dream come true, against the backdrop of the Northern Lights streaking the night sky in multi-coloured glory.

Never did I expect a proposal from a man behind a desk in his office in the middle of a business meeting at noon.

While the office is spacious enough to accommodate a leather sofa and a couple of armchairs, it is still sparse and utilitarian.

All white melamine and stainless steel, it is unlikely to feature in many romantic fantasies.

My boss clears his throat and speaks again. “Cora, will you marry me?”

He says it quite clearly. There is no mistaking the words.

He isn’t talking into earbuds, or practising a speech, or addressing an imaginary friend.

He is definitely speaking to me. And I am lost for words.

Most people would describe me as talkative, the kind would say chatty; the less charitable, mouthy.

There has been only one previous occasion in my life when I have ever been speechless. This moment is the second.

“Cora?” Another prompt, a little testy, rouses me enough to finally croak out that all-important word in reply.

“Umm, no.”

“Why not?”

Like walking into one of those surprise house makeovers where they’ve removed everything that made it a home, I am floored.

This is our regular Friday meeting, where we set up for the week ahead.

The normal topics under discussion are the contents of reports and spreadsheets, received or required, hotel bookings or travel arrangements.

A proposal is completely unexpected. We are not intimate.

Unlike Ginny in Marketing, I am not currently, and never have been, banging my boss.

We have never even shared so much as a saucy kiss under the mistletoe at the office Christmas party.

My automatic reaction might have been, Hah!

Hah! if I didn’t know that Anders Anderson was a stranger to a joke.

My next thought, ‘Fuck, no!’, I throttle back because, after all, Anders is my boss.

While not the easiest person to work for, he allows me to flex my time around a sick child and school commitments when necessary, ensures my pay increases in line with market rates, and never once in the three years I have worked for him, behaved inappropriately. Until today.

“Why not?” His tone is vexed, as if I am the one behaving unreasonably.

“Why not?” My voice seems to have recovered enough from the shock for words to flow.

“I think the better question is why? Why are you asking me to marry you? To the best of my knowledge, you aren’t about to be deported, so marrying me cannot give you any additional work permits.

You are good-looking and wealthy, so you can’t be short of contenders for the position of Mrs Anderson. ”

I slow down at this point and tread very carefully.

“Even if Imogen didn’t want to take things further, there will be another woman who will.

” My cocksure boss has recently been dumped by his leggy, blonde girlfriend.

I imagine such an event is a rarity and a particular blow to his ego.

It probably explains his irrational behaviour now.

“Precisely,” he says. “You.” His finger lifts to point at me. His eyes seek to lock onto mine but I avoid that trap by looking down at my notebook. I learned that move early.

“Not me. Very much not me.”

“Cora,” he finally follows up his assertion with an explanation.

“It isn’t often I come across anyone I can tolerate.

Take the men out of that group, then those too old or too young, and you have a very small pool.

” His fingers show how small. “I want a family and I am already thirty-five, past the peak period for sperm quality.”

There you have it. Why a man of his looks and his wealth might still be single at thirty-five.

“No,” I say, interrupting. “I do not want to hear one more word on the subject of sperm. In fact, let’s agree never to use the s-word again.”

“Okay, but it still stands,” he says, apparently unaware of the innuendo. “I’m not getting any younger and I don’t see the point in spending more time searching for someone who likes children and who can get along with me when you are right under my nose and tick both boxes.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say. But the sarcasm is lost.

“You’re welcome. You are the obvious choice. Your fertility is proven. You take time off to go to Sports Days and such shit. Ergo, you’re a good mother.”

I could have laughed at his definition of good motherhood.

Not, hauling your ass out of bed at three in the morning because you heard your child cry.

Not, cooking at the stove when you have a sky-high fever and can barely stand without almost passing out because there is no one else to feed your child if you don’t.

Not, being covered in vomit because your darling poppet didn’t make it to the bucket in time, but still making sure she is clean and settled before you rinse the disgusting mess out of your hair and clothes.

He wants a family, but he has so much to learn. I almost agree, just so I get to watch.

Fortunately, sanity prevails. I start my rebuttal. “First off, husband and wife is a very different dynamic to boss and assistant.”

“Plenty of bosses marry their assistants.”

“And they carry on being the dominant one, the important one.” I drop my head to one side and look up, just enough to see him, not enough to catch his mesmeric eyes.

“I’m not interested in spending the rest of my life running around after you.

Secondly, fertility is not something you can take for granted.

Babies frequently arrive when you don’t want them.

” Something I knew well. “And often fail to arrive when you do. And past performance is no indicator of future performance.”

“Fair point,” he says. “But you already have a child.”

“And she already has a father.”

“Not a very good one. I’ve overheard your calls. He cancels at short notice. He forgets birthdays. He never follows through on promises. Anyway, as my mother says, ‘A child cannot have too many people to love them.’”

“Your mother is a wise woman. But you are missing the point. No-one wants the threat of being abandoned because they are barren. Getting married just to have babies is nuts. But thirdly, and this is the most important point, I don’t want to marry anyone.”

Anders's eyelids flicker like he can’t quite believe my words.

“But Cora, I really think you should consider this. Look at what I can give you. Financial security. A lovely home, the finest schools for Effie, the best holidays. All this and more. I would settle some assets on you upfront so you would never have to worry if anything happened. But I don’t expect you will because I’d always be there for you.

Whatever you need, whenever you need it.

That’s got to be better than what you have at the moment? ”

It was better than what I had at the moment, but I am not about to admit that. “No price on freedom,” I say instead, but my glib reply doesn’t sway him.

“Take some time to think about it. We don’t have to rush. But it makes perfect sense. Do you know the single biggest factor in a successful marriage? It’s that both partners want to make it work. It explains why arranged marriages function. Both sides enter the marriage wanting it to succeed.”

My own opinion is that Stockholm syndrome probably has more to do with arranged marriages, but I don’t say anything.

It is clear Anders is taken with his new idea, although I am confident he won’t kidnap me or try to coerce me.

For all his ability to railroad people, he is a decent person.

And I have had three years' experience of not being railroaded.

I can bide my time and sooner or later, some pretty young daughter of nobility called Rose or Poppy or Peony, working in marketing or PR, will stray across his path and be happy to become Mrs Anders Anderson III, together with all it entails.

I had said ‘No’ and I meant it, but as I retreat to my desk, one teeny tiny treacherous corner of my mind is building a picture.

The wisteria-scented air stirs on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

French doors to the kitchen open behind me as I sit in the sunshine, watching my daughter, Effie, try to teach her younger brother the rudiments of football.

Except he keeps picking up the ball and running away, forcing her to chase after him.

Anders appears on the terrace, carrying our baby in one arm and a Pimms overflowing with fruit in his other hand.

“For you,” he says as he kisses my forehead.

He takes a seat beside me on the outdoor sofa (grey rattan, the type that features in celebrity home magazines and costs more than my car).

Our little Naomi settles in his lap as he looks at me and says, “Have I told you today how much I love you?”

Back at my desk, I shake my head. I am being stupid and sentimental. In Anders’s entire proposal, there had not been one word about love.