Chapter 7 Rosie
This is exactly why I don’t let my dad spring surprise meetings on me anymore.
If there’s one thing about Rosie Anne Prescott, it’s that I always come prepared. But today’s meeting in his office where he told me I was getting married… Well, that was an ambush. A moment of weakness that I don’t plan to repeat.
No, I didn’t know that the man my father was pushing me into a marriage with to become senior partner was the same man from the strip club ten days ago.
A single, wild, stupid night of letting loose in Hoboken.
If I’d have done my homework and researched him like I always do, maybe I could have handled things differently.
Would I have found a different junior partner interested in making senior to marry him?
Of course not. But I might’ve at least given my new client—a.k.a.
Boone freaking Tremblay, hockey star extraordinaire—a heads-up that I am not, in fact, the stripper he encountered in the bar that one stupid, completely unplanned, night.
Even though I’m not prepared for Boone to be my new, fake husband, I forced myself to appear unaffected and professional despite this revelation.
I might be a bit of a fumbling mess in every other area of my life—not that experienced sexually, terrible at friendships, and even worse at romantic relationships—but when it comes to my career, I thrive under pressure. I can think on my feet.
And no matter what wrench has been thrown into my plan for today, I’m going to make this work. For my career. For my future. And for the day I can tell my children that Mommy made senior partner at just twenty-nine years old.
I think I’ll leave out the part that it required me to marry a complete stranger who called me a stripper in front of my father.
I swear you could hear a drop of dust settle in this conference room right now.
I step forward, smoothing my blouse and plastering on my most professional smile.
“Hi. Rosie Anne Prescott, Junior Partner at Prescott and Associates.” I extend my hand to Boone—hockey bad boy, muscled athlete, apparent chaos magnet, and the man no law firm on the East Coast will touch except my father, who never met a scandal he didn’t want to monetize.
Boone takes my hand, his grip firm, but his eyes are all suspicion and heat.
Meanwhile, my dad looks like he’s two seconds away from imploding, my brother’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head, and the Mayhem team owner—the guy who I assume runs the entire show, Caleb King—looks like he’s deciding whether to throttle Boone in the throat or send him into an early retirement.
But I can’t let that happen. Not yet. I need Boone to keep his job if I want my promotion.
If I want any of this to work, I need to play the peace maker and salvage this entire interaction.
We have to save his reputation, get this case dropped and fast before my moonlighting as Rose, the dancer, catches up to me.
I take a deep breath, shove aside the absolute train wreck this morning has turned into and prepare to do what I do best—fix shit I didn’t mess up.
Much in the same way that I’d tried to fix my parent's marriage as a child and almost succeeded until my mom ran away with her love. But this time, I'm older, wiser and know what works.
Boone’s still holding my hand shaking it, and when he squeezes it to get my attention on him, I swear for a moment the world tilts slightly on its axis.
His hand practically swallows mine whole. It’s broad, calloused, and warm. It’s the kind of hand that could crush a puck mid-air if it wanted to.
Funny, considering he hadn’t touched me that night in the club, so I didn’t notice. He’d followed the rules to a T, keeping his hands planted firmly at his sides. And now I’m really glad he had because these hands are enormous. Like hockey-stopper mitts.
Now that I think about it, is that what they're called? Puck stoppers? Puckers? Catchers?
I'm getting off track. If he ever decided to switch positions and play goalie, nothing would get past him with these paws. Not even a snowflake.
He raises a brow as if he’s reading my mind.
To be fair, I don’t blame him for the confusion that’s etched across his admittedly handsome face dusted with dark beard hair, a mustache to match and smooth skin. And I don’t fault him for his outburst either.
This situation is bizarre. One minute, we’re strangers meeting in the shadows of a club in New Jersey, and now we’re sitting across from each other, learning names and exchanging social security numbers.
We’re about to enter into a legal marriage with no clue who the other person really is.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s awkward.
And yet, it’s not the worst thing in the world. This is a strictly PR relationship. We’ll hardly even interact.
At least he’s easy on the eyes.
I let my gaze flicker over him, taking in the mahogany-colored Henley that’s stretching over his broad shoulders and a pair of black dress pants that do nothing to hide his powerful frame.
It’s snowing outside, but there’s no coat, hat or gloves in sight. Typical hockey player, I guess—used to the cold. I don’t know much about the sport other than the fact that most players live and breathe the ice. But I’ll learn.
His brown eyes are warm despite the palpable tension that’s in the room. And his dark hair—chin-length and slicked back—could use a trim, but it works for him.
Then there’s the scar on his upper cheek, faint but noticeable, like maybe he caught a puck there once. It only adds to the whole rugged, down-home boy, charm. And the jawline? It could cut glass.
He’s tall, too. Even in my five-inch heels, he towers over me. Six-four, at least, maybe even a bit more when he’s not leaning across the table to shake my hand.
“Boone Tremblay…” he says, trailing off like he’s still trying to figure out if this is real life.
And now it’s time to act.
A laugh bursts out of me, light and easy.
It’s the one that I perfected years ago for smoothing over awkward situations with clients or diffusing my dad’s temper.
It’s the same laugh I used back in high school when my best friend and I got caught sneaking into the house after spending the night in the treehouse instead of my room.
We hadn’t been doing anything bad—God forbid I ever break the rules—but my dad had been pissed anyway.
He always said that my laugh reminded him of my mom. It would soften the bite of whatever I told him despite her being the woman who broke his heart. She’s the one person he’s ever truly loved even to this day.
And though it’s probably wrong to weaponize my laugh in a moment like this, I do it anyway.
“You know,” I say with a forced wink dropping his hand, “I’ve been mistaken for a stripper before in New York City. Guess I’ve either got the face or the body for it. Or maybe I have a doppelganger out there dancing her nights away. Sounds fun, doesn’t it, Dad?”
I glance at my father, watching his face transform from rage to mild annoyance as he grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “No daughter of mine would ever be a stripper.”
“I believe they prefer the title dancer,” I say playfully.
Without missing a beat, I turn back to Boone, pulling out my tablet and notebook with purpose, and take a seat directly across from him at the table.
I don’t say another word, just fight to hide the smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. If Boone’s confused now, he’s in for a hell of a ride working with my dad and brother.
The room is quiet for a beat, the tension stretching taut until my father finally sighs, sinking back into his chair as if he’s just aged five years.
“Boone, I don’t know what clubs you’re hanging out in, but now that you’re a married man—on paper only—keep that shit under wraps for the next three months.
No more strippers, no hookers, no… whatever else you’re doing with women.
It’s a marriage of convenience, but don’t disrespect my daughter by sleeping around publicly. ”
I hear Boone clear his throat from across the table. His gaze is still fixed on me. I can feel it despite refusing to look at him. It’s practically burning a hole into the front of my face.
I’m sure he’s attempting to gauge my reaction to his comment, but I refuse to give him anything.
My eyes stay glued to my tablet, my fingers aimlessly scrolling through the screen like I have something of grave importance to review when really, I'm just looking at gifts to buy my niece for Valentine’s Day.
Fuzzy little teddy bears, adorable baby lambs with oversized eyes. I wonder how mad my brother would be if I bought her a live kitten?
“Yes, sir. I apologize, sir, Maxwell, for the, um, mix-up,” Boone says, his deep voice cracking just a little.
“That won’t ever happen again. I’d never, uh, disrespect your daughter in any way.
And, um, calling her a stripper isn’t disrespectful because that’s, uh, a very respectable career.
So that wasn’t a diss. You know, when I asked, it was just…
I guess I was just in shock. She really must have a doppelg?nger out there.
Not that I hang out at strip clubs—I mean, I’ve gone, like, one time. And it was with the team—”
“Boone. Will you please shut the fuck up,” the Mayhem team owner hisses.
I bite back a laugh, hiding my smile behind my tablet while Boone stumbles through his attempt at damage control.
This is pure gold. A little uncomfortable, but the most excitement I’ve had since that night in the strip club. My sister-in-law Rhiannon would kill to be a fly on the wall right now.
“Your manager’s right. You really need to learn when to shut up,” my father mutters with another weary sigh, rubbing a hand down his face as if he’s questioning his decision to branch out into sports law.