Chapter 8
LILA
I wake up to a pounding headache and the sight of Archibald Fisher sprawled on my floor.
Foggy memories of last night take shape as I prop myself up on an elbow and take in his sleeping form.
His face is peaceful; mouth soft and slightly open, breathing slow and heavy.
In contrast, his long limbs are stretched out at odd, almost unnatural angles, like a chalk outline of a body at a crime scene.
Which is fitting, because right now, it kind of feels like I committed a crime last night—betraying both myself and my art collective.
What the hell was I thinking, getting drunk with Fisher like we’re the best of friends, bringing him to all my favorite neighborhood spots.
Then, to top it all off, showing him where I lived and inviting him to spend the night.
The firehouse isn’t zoned for residential occupancy, so if Fisher tells his family I live up here, they could have me evicted…
and I’d only have myself to blame. My penance for being dumb enough to let my guard down with a man offering me expensive booze, a dimpled smile, and those yummy carved-from-marble muscles.
“Mmhpf,” Fisher moans, making me jump. He stirs, but doesn’t open his eyes, still caught in the limbo between sleep and waking as he rolls onto his side and brings one hand under his shirt to scratch his chest. His shirt creeps up, showing off abs that are even better than the Young Hercules sculpture.
He mumbles something incoherent, and I quickly smooth my tangled bed-hair and run my fingers under my eyes to rid them of as much crusty mascara and eyeliner as possible.
Not because I care what he thinks of my looks, but because I don’t want to terrify the guy when he wakes up.
Maybe if I sneak off to the shower, Fisher will wake up while I’m in there and let himself out, and we can avoid an awkward hungover conversation.
I’m debating how I might make it to the bathroom without stepping on him—he’s quite literally taking up my whole floor right now—when he cracks open one eye.
His gaze goes blurry with confusion until it finds me, sitting close by on the bed.
When he sees me, both of his eyes widen, and he smiles a sleepy smirk.
“Morning,” Fisher mumbles, sitting up to reveal an angry streak of rug burn on his cheek.
“Hello,” I say, feeling shy now that I’m sober again. It’s weird having him here, in my space. He’s so big he makes everything look comically smaller than it already is, like he’s in a dollhouse.
“I read somewhere that sleeping on the floor is good for your back, but the author of that article was obviously a liar,” Fisher says as he lifts his arms above his head to stretch.
The bottom of his T-shirt—somehow still pristinely white and clean after drinking and sleeping in it—rides up, and I’m treated to another glimpse of his taut, golden stomach.
All the blood in my body rushes to my cheeks, and I turn away—but not so quickly that I don’t see Fisher’s grin as he clocks me blushing over him like some lovesick fangirl.
Get it together, Lila.
“Did you spend the whole night down there?” I ask.
“You told me to sleep on the couch, but I didn’t fit.”
I glance at the little loveseat in the corner, trying to imagine him sleeping on it. He’d have to curl up like a cat, and even then those long legs of his would be hanging off the side. “I guess you are pretty big.”
“Not the first time I’ve been told that,” Fisher replies with a wink. And though he’s clearly kidding around, there’s a wicked gleam in his eye that makes something stir deep in my stomach.
I roll my eyes. “Obviously not what I meant.”
“But now you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.
Yes.
“No!” I squeak, but I can’t help but laugh. Despite my best efforts not to, I actually kind of…like the guy. He’s funny, and surprisingly down to earth for a billionaire.
A loud banging noise comes from downstairs, and Fisher jumps to his feet in an instant.
“What was that?” he asks, glancing at the door, then at me.
There’s something endearing about the way he does this—from the way he refused to leave me on my own last night and insisted on walking me home, Fisher seems naturally protective in nature.
Looking out for other people seems almost like a reflex for him, and it makes me feel safe.
Which is probably the opposite of how I should feel with him.
He might be the family pariah—at least, according to him—but he’s still one of them, at least in blood.
“It’s just one of the artists letting themselves in for the day—the front door bangs when you close it,” I tell Fisher, and his body language relaxes.
“How the hell do you sleep through that?”
“Well, for one, I’m usually awake long before…” I glance down at my phone. “Nine a.m.”
His eyes widen. “Shit, it’s nine already? I have to be at practice soon.”
“Okay.” I slide off the bed and stand up, smoothing my wrinkled shirt. “I’ll sneak you out the back.”
I don’t bother to elaborate why this is necessary. Fisher’s smart enough to read between the lines and understand that my friends will have questions if they find out he stayed here last night.
“Wait, Lila,” he says, stepping in front of me. “Before I go, I want to talk to you about something.”
I tilt my head up to look at him, but his expression gives nothing away. “Sure.”
“Did you end up going to City Hall?”
I snort a little laugh. For a moment, I thought he actually wanted to talk about something serious, but of course he’s just trying to make me blush again. The guy is relentless. “Yes, and I’m not painting you naked, Hercules,” I say with another giggle.
Fisher’s face twists in confusion, and he gives me a clueless look. “Sorry, what?”
“Your idea of petitioning them to get the firehouse heritage status so the sale would have to have a no-demolition clause didn’t work. So the deal’s off—no life painting of you and your, um, package.”
Fisher stares at me incredulously for a long moment, before he bursts out laughing.
“Shh!” I beg. “They’ll hear you downstairs.”
“Shit, sorry.” He smacks a hand over his mouth, his eyes dancing as his shoulders shake.
Then, still chuckling, he lowers his voice and says, “I’d forgotten all about the deal we made the night we first met…
but now that you’ve reminded me, I must say I think you should reconsider.
I’d make a magnificent subject to paint.
Both me and my package, as you say.” Fisher grins, but then his expression grows serious.
“So, they wouldn’t approve the heritage permit? ”
“They wouldn’t even entertain the idea,” I answer. “I think your family has already won the mayor over.”
He nods slowly, his eyes moving around the room as his internal wheels spin. “We had a conversation last night, not sure if you remember, about my granddad’s will?”
“Of course, I wasn’t that drunk.”
He leans back against the kitchen counter, running a hand through his messy hair as he studies me. “Do you remember making a joke about us getting married?”
“I wasn’t hitting on you, promise.” I hold my hands up. “It was just a stupid joke.”
“Okay. But what if we actually did it?”
I cough. “Had sex?”
“Get married,” Fisher corrects, then grins. “Not that I’m ruling out sex, of course.”
I try my best to ignore the way that comment makes my stomach react. “Ha,” I say, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, I gape at him. “Wait, are you serious?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it might actually work.”
“In what universe would us getting married work?”
He shrugs. “In order to get my inheritance, I have to get married.”
“So…you’re proposing we have some sham marriage so you can collect all your millions?”
“Exactly.”
The warmth I’ve been feeling towards him since last night shifts, evolving from appreciation to annoyance. Is he so used to getting everything he wants that he thinks because he can make me blush, he can also make me think it’s a good idea to commit an actual crime with him?
He seems to sense my change in mood, because he looks at me and adds, “There would obviously be something in it for you, too.”
I shake my head, disappointed. I was right to be cautious of him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, because here it is.
If he thinks he can buy me, he’s got another thing coming.
“To you, this apartment might look like a shithole you assume I’m dying to move out of, but like I told you last night, it’s temporary while I find a new place.
” I straighten my spine so I’m at my full height, which is unfortunately about a foot shorter than he is.
“I might not be rich, but I have everything I need, and I make enough from my art to get by. I’m not so poor and pathetic that you can tempt me with a paycheck to play a part in this—I don’t want your money, Fisher. ”
“But you do want the firehouse.”
I look at him sharply. “What’s that got to do with this?”
“I know you don’t trust me, Lila, and you’ve got a good reason not to. But you have to believe me when I say that I’m not trying to pay you to help do my dirty work so I can get a bunch of money. This isn’t about the money itself…I don’t want it for me.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, staring into his green eyes. They’re clear. Earnest. Eyes I want to trust, but don’t know how to.
“I mean, of course I want it, but I refuse to be a pawn for my family. I’m not going to let them force their expectations of how I should live my own life onto me.” He smirks. “But granddad would hate the idea of a fake marriage.”
“Why not just walk away from the inheritance and be done with this whole thing?”
“Because if I don’t get the money, the money goes to my jackass cousin, to further line the pockets of some vanity political campaign he’s running for in Georgia…so if we do this, it could be better used for an actual good cause. Like saving this incredible neighborhood.”
I blink at him, hardly daring to believe what I think I’m hearing.
“What are you saying, Fisher?” I ask carefully.
He grins. And then, he drops to the floor so he’s down on one knee in front of me.
“I’m saying, marry me, Lila. Marry me so we can get my inheritance, and stick it to my family by using the money to buy this firehouse before they can.
” He reaches for my hands, his expression turning serious.
“If your petition at City Hall didn’t work, then they will destroy this place after the purchase goes through. And we can’t let that happen.”
My hungover mind is swimming, his words making no sense…yet so much sense at the same time.
“You really don’t want the money for yourself?”
He shrugs. “Like you said, I already have everything I need. What I want is to be free of my family’s constant desire to control me and how I live my life—and if I can do that while also stopping their assholery from negatively affecting all the people who live and work in this neighborhood, that’s just a bonus.
Not to mention I’d also be sort of saving the state of Georgia from my cousin. It’s a win-win.”
“How would this even work?” I can hardly believe I’m entertaining this crazy idea.
“I don’t know. But I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out.
I have a matinee game on Saturday, but we could pay the courthouse a visit afterwards to tie the knot; make it official.
Then I’ll send the marriage license to my granddad’s lawyer, and get my inheritance.
In the meantime, you could talk to the building owner and tell them not to close yet, because another offer is coming.
We could match whatever Fisher Group is offering, but add a no-demolition clause to our proposal. ”
“That actually sounds like not a terrible plan.” I bite down on my bottom lip, considering. “And once the sale’s complete, we’d get a divorce?”
“We’d have to stay married long enough to make it seem legit, otherwise I wouldn’t put it past the Fisher family to contest the validity of our marriage.
” Fisher’s eyes look distant as he thinks.
“So I guess we could stay married on paper and just go on living our separate lives the way we usually do, then get a divorce after a year.”
I cross my arms and look down at him, still on one knee in front of me. “What about other women?”
“What about other men?” He smirks. “From what I hear, Zane might be jealous.”
“There’s nothing between me and Zane. And I can go a year without dating. I don’t date much to begin with. But you, on the other hand…”
“What, you don’t think I can’t keep it in my pants for millions of dollars?”
“Jury’s still out, I’m afraid.” I snort a laugh. “But I guess if you do ‘cheat’ with other women while we’re married, it will make our eventual divorce seem more believable.”
“Would you be okay with that?” He asks, then laughs as he clarifies, “I mean, be okay with us getting divorced in a year, not me sleeping with other women while we’re married. I’m not going to do that.”
I consider this for a moment. The sanctity of marriage isn’t something I’ve ever given too much thought.
My dad was married…but not to my mom. She was young when she got pregnant with me unexpectedly.
When she told my dad the news, he panicked.
It turns out that he wasn’t the eligible bachelor my mom thought he was, he was actually a married jerk who had been cheating on his wife—with her.
Which made Mom the other woman; pregnant with his illegitimate child.
And no matter how much hush money my father offered my mother to “deal with it,” she refused.
Mom decided to have me on her own, and wouldn’t take a penny of my dad’s dirty money.
My mom never married, or even dated much, when I was growing up. We had each other, and that seemed to be enough for her. She dedicated her whole life to me, sacrificed so much of her budding art career to raise a daughter she hadn’t planned for.
“I’m okay with getting divorced after,” I say.
Delight dances across Fisher’s features. “So we’re really doing this? It’s a yes?”
This is so insane, it just might work. “I…guess so.”
“Great.” He grimaces. “Because my knee’s really starting to hurt.”