Chapter 1
BEN — FOURTEEN YEARS LATER
“Watch your step.”
Red Dawson’s warning comes too late. I’ve already stepped my leather loafer right into the thick mud, sinking my foot halfway down.
With great effort, I yank myself out of the muck, nearly losing my shoe in the process, and hurry after Red, who isn’t waiting up for me.
“This property’s been in the family for a hundred and fifty years.” He stops at the edge of the massive fields, hands on his hips, and surveys the long rows of wind turbines.
“Impressive.” I fight the urge to check my watch. My private jet won’t be leaving Texas without me, but I do have an evening appointment to get to in Chicago, so if we could speed this up a bit…
“It would be in good hands with SkyNova,” I say. “Our company values—”
“Tell me, son.” Red pushes his cowboy hat back, revealing a wrinkled face crafted by wind, sun, and life lessons. “You have a lady? My wife read in a magazine that you’re one of the sexiest men alive or something.”
“Uh, well…” My personal life isn’t what I came all the way across the country to discuss. It’s my renewable energy enterprise that I’m here representing.
“It’s important. Family,” Red Dawson drawls.
I nod, only because that’s what he wants.
Shamefully, there’s very little I wouldn’t do at this point to secure this contract.
Expanding into Texas would boost the organization I founded ten years ago to new heights, establishing SkyNova as a national player rather than only a regional one.
The agreements on Red’s ranch alone would be worth fifty million annually.
“I appreciate that family matters,” I state carefully, “but I’m here to discuss commercial opportunities.”
Red’s weathered hand gestures toward the horizon where his turbines cut elegant lines against the vast Texas sky.
“This is a family enterprise, son. Every one of these machines represents food on my table, college tuition for my grandkids, security for generations to come.” He fixes me with sharp blue eyes.
“I don’t work with men I don’t trust, and I don’t trust a fellow who can’t commit to nothing. ”
The negotiation is slipping away from me. I can sense it in the shift of Red’s posture, the way his friendliness has cooled by several degrees. This is exactly the kind of situation I’ve spent years learning to navigate, yet somehow, I’m failing spectacularly.
“Mr. Dawson, I assure you that my personal life has no bearing on my professional capabilities—”
“Doesn’t it?” he interrupts. “A man who won’t settle down, won’t put down roots? How do I recognize he won’t cut and run when things get tough? How do I discern his word means anything?”
My jaw tightens. In boardrooms from Chicago to New York, my word is gold.
I’ve built SkyNova from nothing into an enterprise worth over a billion dollars through careful planning, strategic thinking, and yes, ruthless focus.
The kind of concentration that doesn’t leave room for distractions like relationships.
But standing here in the Texas mud with this opportunity crumbling around me, I realize that my greatest strength might actually be my greatest weakness.
“Actually,” I hear myself declaring, “I am seeing someone.”
Red’s eyebrows shoot up. “That so?”
Panic floods my system, but I’m committed now. “Yes. We’re quite serious.”
“Well, why didn’t you mention so?” Red’s entire demeanor shifts, his smile returning. “What’s her name?”
My mind goes completely blank. Then, desperately, I remember the image on my phone—the one picture I have of a woman that isn’t work-related. Without thinking, I pull out my phone and scroll to find it.
“Freya,” I state, showing him the screen.
It’s a photo from last Christmas, taken at some industry party I’d dragged her to as my plus-one. She’s laughing at something off-camera, her red hair catching the light, green eyes bright with amusement. She looks radiant and happy and completely out of my league.
Red studies the picture, nodding approvingly. “Pretty girl. She looks like she’s got spirit.”
“She does.” At least that part isn’t fabricated.
“How long have you two been together?”
“Two years,” I fabricate smoothly, though my palms are starting to sweat. “We’ve been friends much longer, though. Since high school.”
“Ah, childhood sweethearts. That’s the kind of foundation that lasts.” Red hands my phone back, looking pleased. “When’s the wedding?”
My throat goes dry. “Wedding?”
“Well, you mentioned you were serious. A fellow your age, successful as you are, dating a girl for two years? I assume you’ve got plans.”
I should backtrack. I should explain we’re taking things slow, that marriage isn’t in the immediate future. Instead, I hear myself declaring, “It’s this year sometime. We’ve been engaged for a couple months.”
The words hang in the hot Texas air like a challenge to the universe. It’s like another person spoke them, yet somehow they came out of my mouth. I’ve never been one to fabricate stories, and yet this false tale is tumbling right out.
Red claps me on the back with enough force to knock the wind out of me. “Well, congratulations, son. You mentioned it’s this year? When, exactly?”
“We haven’t set an exact date yet,” I manage, my voice sounding strangely distant to my own ears. “Soon, though.”
“You bring that pretty fiancée of yours down to Texas sometime. Marnie would love to meet her. Matter of fact, why don’t you both come to dinner next week? Marnie and I will be up in Chicago for our anniversary. Always wanted to see the city.”
My heart stops. “Dinner?”
“Next Thursday work for you? We’ll be staying at the Palmer House downtown.”
I nod numbly, already calculating how completely screwed I am. “That… that sounds wonderful.”
“Perfect.” He extends his hand for a shake, and I notice his grip is significantly firmer than it was an hour ago. “I’ll have my lawyers draw up the preliminary paperwork. Assuming dinner goes well, of course.”
“Of course.”
We shake hands, and I manage to make appropriate small talk as we walk back to his ranch house. Red’s wife, Marnie, insists on wrapping up leftover cornbread for my flight home, and I accept it with the grace of someone who definitely isn’t having a complete mental breakdown.
It’s only when I’m safely ensconced in my private jet, watching the Texas landscape shrink beneath us, that the full magnitude of what I’ve done hits me.
I told a client I was engaged. To Freya. Who definitely isn’t my fiancée. She’s not even my girlfriend.
I’ve never even had a real girlfriend. I’ve never been on more than four dates with the same woman.
I pull out my phone and stare at Freya’s contact information. We’ve been friends for so long that her number is still saved under “Freya Hurricane”—a nickname from high school that she’d earned through her tendency to blow into situations and completely upend the status quo.
She’s going to kill me.
Or worse, she’s going to laugh at me.
I down the scotch my flight attendant brings me and try to figure out how to explain this to the woman who understands me better than anyone. The woman who used to climb through my bedroom window and drag me away from my textbooks. The woman who never let me take myself too seriously.
The woman I’ve been half in love with since I was in braces.
I drain my glass and signal for another. This is going to require significantly more alcohol.
My phone buzzes with a text from my assistant: “How did the appointment go?”
I stare at the message for a long moment, then type back: “I’m engaged.”
Three dots appear immediately, then disappear. Then appear again.
“Congratulations? To whom?”
I don’t respond. Instead, I lean back in my leather seat and close my eyes, trying to figure out how I’m going to convince my best friend to fake marry me without destroying our friendship in the process.
The plane heads toward Chicago, carrying me home to face the consequences of the most impulsive decision I’ve made in my entire life. Red Dawson wanted to see family values and commitment?
Well, he’s about to get a front row seat to the performance of a lifetime.
Assuming Freya doesn’t hang up on me the moment I explain what I’ve done.