Chapter 9
Tilly: Cocktails tonight?
Chloe: I’ve only just gotten over my hangover.
Tilly: So, you're ready to go again, yes?
Chloe: No. Some of us have to work tomorrow.
Tilly: All work and no play makes Chloe a grouchy girl.
Chloe: The answer is still no.
Tilly: Sounds like you need a cocktail—hold the tail. How long has it been?
Chloe: Too long.
Tilly: Please don’t say Sweeney was the last guy you had sex with.
Tilly: Oh god it was, wasn’t it?
Tilly: That's it. I’m sending you a gigolo. What’s your work address?
Chloe: Send a hooker to my work and I will never speak to you again.
CHLOE
I’m beginning to think maybe Tilly is right, and it has been too long since I’ve had a man’s hands on me.
Because right now, my heart is thundering in my rib cage so hard I might pass out and my chin still burns from Zeke’s rough, calloused fingers.
I don’t know what is so broken in me that the sight of six feet and five inches—thank you, Google—of glowering man brings my body to life with an electromagnetic hum. But here we are.
I’m also reeling because I’ve just joined the dots between laid-back Chase Walker being the Chase Walker that owns Dev Tech Inc.
And his brother, Mace—Mr. Ice-blue Eyes who rode up on his sleek black horse to pick up his wife—being the Mason Walker, CEO and head of the board for Jefferson Lee Investment Bank.
Only one of the biggest banks in the world.
I was drinking in a dingy Irish bar with part of the city's most elite family and had no idea. It almost makes me want to laugh.
Zeke is looking at me like he’s waiting for something, so I clear my throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The corner of his lips twitch, as though he’s fighting back a smirk. “I have a problem that I’d like your help with.” I don’t reply, my brain whirring with whiplash from his enigmatic moods. “Did your online research extend to my family?”
I blink, gathering my control. “Not extensively. I know your father owns Guerra Industries Group, but that’s it.”
He nods, closing his laptop and leaning back in his chair with his large hands laced in his lap. “My father is retiring. He intends to hand the business over to me, and as part of that process, he is insisting I be married.”
I don’t move, because I can’t possibly have heard that right.
“Actually, he presented a girl to me with a pretty little bow and all but demanded I make an honest woman of her.” His voice is like boots dragged over wet gravel.
I huff out an incredulous laugh. “What is this, the eighteenth century?”
His full lips curl up over his white teeth in a predatory smile, stretching the scar tight. “Funny, that’s exactly what I said.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I tilt my head, trying to get a feel for whatever this is. Did he bring me up here solely to tell me he’s getting married?
“I plan to find an alternative for a while. Someone who is older than twenty and can hold her own would be a good start.” He dips his head to straighten his silver tie pin in a matter-of-fact way.
A jolt of something hot and corrosive streaks through me at the thought of him standing at an altar next to a pretty woman in a white silk dress.
“So…you’re what? Asking if I have any eligible single friends?” I snort out a laugh. “I’m not sure how closely you read my resume, but dating agent isn’t part of my skill set.”
“No, Chloe. I’m asking you.” He levels with me, lifting his cool mahogany gaze back to mine.
I splutter, half a laugh and half outrage.
“You want me to marry you?!” My voice shoots up an octave and I grip the arms of my chair.
“This has to be a joke, right? I’m being punked.
” I actually glance around, half expecting Ashton Kutcher and a film crew to jump out from behind an artfully placed bookshelf.
“No, I don’t intend to actually marry anyone.
Ever.” He chuckles, snapping my attention back to him.
He rests his head back against his chair and the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows glances off his stubble, highlighting the warm chocolate tones hidden there.
“I’m proposing a strictly business arrangement where you pretend to be my fiancée, and I use the time we are engaged to maneuver my father out of the picture.
” He waves a hand as if the details don’t matter.
I didn’t realize I had leaned forward in my chair and make an effort to force my shoulders back. “So let me get this straight. You want me to pretend to be your fiancée so that you can take control of your father's company?”
The muscles in his jaw clamp so tightly shut I can see every sinew, and his eyes are the darkest pools of onyx when he tips his head back down. “Yes,” he growls, rolling his chair back a foot so he can stand.
I stare at his broad back as he stalks to the windows, flipping open a button on his collar and slipping the tie from around his neck. He winds it methodically around his knuckles as I try to process. But I keep coming back to the same sticking point.
“And why the hell would I agree to this?” I’m not above admitting that there is a pull toward this man.
But I’m certainly not going to agree to his scheme just to spend more time with him.
Does he think I am some fawning little girl?
The thought turns my spine to cement, anger flaring in the pit of my stomach.
“Well, you’re in the unique position of being able to name your price, Miss Devlin,” he grates, turning to face me. The man I see is burning, a tortured war raging in those night-swept eyes that almost makes me gasp.
“I’m a wealthy man, but if it’s not money you’re after, perhaps there are other ways I can help. Maybe I can use my sway to untangle you from whatever mess landed you in court-mandated therapy?”
He might as well have landed a swift punch to my chest by throwing that one at me.
My thoughts stray to Anthony Sweeney and the delightful letter burning a hole in my kitchen drawer at home.
The inside of my cheek smarts where my teeth work it, evaluating.
Considering. Jesus, am I really considering this?
“How would this…arrangement…even work?” I’m tentatively considering it. Even though it’s entirely insane.
He nods, the corner of his lips pulling down ever so slightly. “Well, we would need to make an announcement. Sign a waiver with HR for a workplace relationship. You would have to move into my place while the arrangement is in play—”
“What?” I gasp, holding my hand up for him to stop. He freezes and then walks to my side of the desk, leaning against the lip with his thighs spread wide and his arms crossed. The way his powerful body strains at the fabric does nothing to quell the sick feeling overtaking me.
“Do you really think it would be believable that a man like me would allow his fiancée to live separately? It’s not the eighteenth century as we say, but I am a traditional man. There are expectations to be met if this is to be convincing.”
The small part of my brain that is still plodding along logical lanes registers that this would solve my current living problem, at least. It’s almost like the universe is conspiring against me.
Backing me into a corner where I have too many reasons to accept.
My palms start to sweat, and I have the insane urge to bolt.
“This is…” I clear my throat, smoothing my hair behind my ears to try and blanket my rising alarm. “This is a lot to consider all at once. Can I have some time?”
“I need an answer from you within twenty-four hours. If it’s not you, it will be someone else, and I’ll need time to find them.”
“Way to make a girl feel special,” I mutter quietly as I stand, unsure of what to do with my eyes.
He chuckles, the warm sound flowing over the tip of my spine like a caress. “This is a business deal, Chloe. Flattery and courtship have no place here. Make no mistake that this will be for show only. If there are any thoughts of a happily ever after behind a white picket fence, get them gone now.”
Irritation flares again and has me meeting his smug smirk head on.
“You’re not that fucking desirable, Zeke.
” I guess if he’s propositioning me to be his fiancée, we’re on first name terms now.
“What makes you think I’m the kind of woman who would settle for being squared away in some little Hampton home while her husband fucks anything with a pulse in the city?
” I hurl the words at him with every ounce of venom I can muster, only allowing for a glimpse of his wicked responding grin before I turn and stalk toward the door.
“Absolutely nothing, mi fuego,” I hear as I slam it shut behind me, so low that I’m not sure if I imagined it.
***
Despite my earlier protests, I am in fact sitting with Tilly nursing a cocktail. Well, if this fruity punch with a sad little umbrella can be considered that.
“He said WHAT?” Tilly squeals, her eyes alight with glee.
“Yup.” I nod, sucking down another watery mouthful through my straw.
“Well, that’s a hell of a week, sis,” she snorts, catching the bartender's eye and holding two fingers up.
“No, no more—I can’t cope with another hangover on top of all this,” I grumble, shaking my head at the pudgy man whose hand is hovered over two fresh glasses. I’m already three drinks deep and feeling a little fuzzy.
“Ignore her, she just hasn’t been laid in months.
We’ll take the drinks.” Tilly beams, her hand shooting out to cover my mouth as I squawk in protest. I shove my tongue into her hand just like I did when we were kids, causing her to swiftly recoil.
“Ew, gross,” she gripes, wiping the palm of her hand on her jeans.
“Thank you for announcing to everyone in this bar that I’ve been going through a dry spell. So kind.” I eye the bald man propped up against the jukebox on one side nursing a long neck beer. He winks and I roll my eyes.
“Look, if you’re about to be engaged, then you need to have one last wild night of freedom.
” Tilly takes the two refills from the bartender and offers him a wink as he slides two shot glasses brimming with black liquid toward us.
I don’t know how she managed to secretly signal him, but judging by the aniseed aroma wafting my way, it was definitely her doing.
“I can’t drink that stuff anymore.” She has the gall to look affronted, like she doesn’t know she’s the reason I puked black sick all over the hood of Dad's truck when we were teenagers.
“Black Sambuca is life,” she asserts, pressing a sticky glass into my hand.
“Who says I’m even going to be engaged?” I sniff tentatively and wrinkle my nose as I’m instantly transported back to that night—Jimmy Wakeman’s sweaty hands groping at the hem of my skirt as his glasses slid down his nose and hit mine while we kissed. Yeesh. Can’t believe I was ever into that kid.
“Oh honey, you’re up shit’s creek without a paddle and McSteamy just offered you a life raft—you’re taking the deal.” She giggles, throwing back her shot and smacking her lips in appreciation.
Plugging my nose, I shoot my own. It threatens to come straight back up again and I have to take a few steadying breaths as the burn subsides.
“How dare you blight the good name of Mark Sloane with the likes of Zeke Guarra,” I rasp.
“He’s less McSteamy and more McConfusing…
McQuarrelsome!” I brandish my finger to the sky with a flourish as I cackle at my own joke.
“He’s McHot and you’re a fool to think anything otherwise.
Even Grandma said she would bang him.” Tilly grins and I groan, sinking my head to the cool bar.
“Text him and tell him,” she demands, hooking my purse off the back of my chair and beginning to rifle through it.
Tampons, lipsticks, a pack of tissues, and my keys all clatter onto the bar without ceremony.
“Werther's Originals, really?” She brandishes a wrapped sweet in my face. “What are you, an eighty-year-old man?”
“They’re sugar free, and I like them,” I grumble, watching her dump more stuff out. “I wonder where Jimmy Wakeman is these days.” I sigh, blowing a strand of hair out of my face.
“Jesus fucking Christ, woman. Don’t you ever clear out your purse? It’s like a fucking ticker-tape para— Why the fuck do you have a potato in here?” She stares at the large potato in her hand with a frown.
I frown too, lifting my head from the bar, wincing as I audibly hear my skin peel away from the sticky surface.
“Huh, I don’t know. Maybe I meant to zap it in the microwave at work for lunch one day.
” She’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“What! A little sour cream, a little cheese, it’s an elite meal. ”
“Dude, it's been in here so long it’s sprouted,” she deadpans.
“My phone is in my pocket, by the way.” I dig into the back of my jeans and pull it out. “What am I saying?” I hesitate as I click on the right chat.
“That you accept.” Tilly shrugs as she starts to fling items haphazardly back into my purse, potato included.
I stare at the screen, and the blinking cursor awaits my instruction. “If I’m going to do this”—oh god, am I really going to do this—“then I need to take control and lay out some ground rules.” Tilly nods as I type.