* * *
The overpowering scent of curry and fried takeout smacks me in the face when I enter her building, and the stairway to the third floor is poorly lit and narrow—clearly not up to code. I check the email on my phone once more, ensuring I have the right place, and then I turn the corner at the top of the stairs.
My gaze lands on the crooked number five at the end of the hall, and I straighten the knot of my tie before clearing my throat and proceeding.
This woman hates me—literally hates me—and I’m about to ask her an enormous favor. But it’s precisely the reason she’s perfect for this.
Three knocks on her door a moment later fail to elicit an answer, so I try again. And again. This building is noisy and busy, but I swear I hear someone shuffling around on the other side of the door.
She stormed out of my office earlier this morning, and while the question has been lingering on the tip of my tongue for hours now and I’m not accustomed to taking “no” for an answer, I figured I should give her some time and space before approaching her again.
“I know you’re in there. Open up,” I call through the door, knocking yet again. “Seriously, I don’t have all day, I—”
The door swings open and my future fiancée stands on the other side, a hand on one curved hip and her sultry, hooded blue eyes glaring in my direction.
“What are you doing here?” she asks with the raspy, Scarlett Johansson voice that’s driven me wild since the day she waltzed into my office in a tight little pencil skirt and an almost-transparent white button-down.
Peering over her shoulder, I glance into what is clearly a studio apartment approximately the size of my walk in closet. Furnished with flea market finds and a garish color scheme that makes zero sense, it immediately makes my skin crawl, but I shake it off because I didn’t come here to critique the way she designs her living space. Besides, she’s going to be living with me soon enough, and this place will become all but a distant memory.
“We weren’t able to finish our conversation earlier.” I straighten my shoulders, peering down. She’s dressed in tight black leggings and a pink t-shirt that stops just beneath her navel, leaving her midriff slightly exposed. My cock pulses against my slacks. “May I come in?”
Her nose wrinkles, but her Midwestern manners won’t allow her to slam the door in my face. Sighing, she steps back, letting the door open a little wider, and I step inside.
“Thank you, Mari,” I say.
“Wait. So you do know my name.”
“Of course I know your name. I’m not an imbecile.”
“So why’d you always—”
“—I have my reasons.” I offer a haughty smirk. “It creates interpersonal distance, which I find is ideal for workplace relationships. An assistant should never get too close to her employer. Or too comfortable. I also wanted to test your patience, see how well you worked under frustrating circumstances.”
She lets out a sarcastic huff. “Mission accomplished, Hudson. Bravo. Well done.”
I glance at the stove several steps behind her, where she appears to be making ramen.
“Are you hungry, Mari?” I ask.
The timer beeps, and she grabs a nearby bowl, dumping the boiling water and soggy noodles in one fluid movement. It lands with a wet plop.
“Yeah,” she says, eyes squinting. “But I’ve kind of got a handle on that right now, so please. Say what you came here to say because I’m about to eat my dinner, catch up on some Game of Thrones, and pretend like today wasn’t one of the most annoying days of my life.”
Mari takes a seat at a makeshift island barely big enough to accommodate two small bar stools and wraps her noodles around her fork, blowing on them with her full, cherry lips before taking a bite.
I chuckle. “All right. Fine. I came here because I want you to marry me.”
She begins to cough, her hands covering her mouth, and I go to her, placing my hand on the small of her back.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods, trying to catch her breath. Reaching for a napkin, she wipes her mouth before crushing it in her hand.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she finally responds. “I would never marry you.”
“Here’s the deal,” I say. “We’re approaching summer, which, in the Rutherford family, means wedding season and a four-week mandatory stay at the family estate in Montauk. I’m turning thirty next month, and my parents have a sort of agreement with the Sheffield family that if I’m not married by thirty, I’ll be promised to their daughter, Audrina. Our mothers have literally been counting down the days since we were babies, chomping at the bit to plan the wedding of the century.”
“No one can force you to marry someone you don’t want to marry.”
“Ah, maybe that’s so for most, Mari. But not in my family. My parents have ways,” I say. “They won’t hesitate to make my life … difficult … if I don’t adhere.”
“So you want them to think you’re already engaged? What happens when the jig is up and you’re still thirty and unmarried?”
“This is why I’m offering you three million dollars,” I say. “For the next three months, through wedding season and the family month at Montauk, I want you to play the part of my dutiful, head-over-heels in love fiancée. You must be convincing—we must be convincing. At the end of the three months, you’ll receive half of your payment.”
She lifts a brow. “Okay, so how would I earn the rest?”
“By marrying me.” I clear my throat. “On paper.”
Her expression falls. Clearly the idea holds zero appeal.
“Until Audrina finds some other poor schmuck to shackle herself to, I need you to be my wife. Legal wife. You don’t have to live with me after this summer. In fact, you don’t have to see me ever again. You simply have to be the name on the marriage certificate that assures my parents that I’m one hundred percent off the market.”
“What if she takes years to find someone? What if she never finds someone? I’m just supposed to put my life on hold?”
“Kind of,” I say with a gentle wince. “I know it’s not ideal, but that’s where the other half of your payment comes into play. In the meantime, you’ll be free to date as you please. You’ll be free to fall in love. You just won’t be free to legally marry until we’re able to quietly dissolve our arrangement.”
“What about holidays? Won’t your family wonder where I am at Christmas?”
“My parents go to Aspen for Christmas. I hate skiing, so I never join them. Our month at Montauk each summer is about the extent of our family togetherness. I’d be happy to make excuses for you in the coming years. Anyway, I don’t anticipate Audrina will be on the market very long. She’s been holding off for me, but rumor has it she’s got a short list of waiting suitors in her back pocket, and she’s got baby fever something fierce.”
She pushes her half-eaten bowl of ramen away, resting her head in her hands and staring blankly ahead as if she might actually be contemplating this.
“What? What are you thinking?” I ask.
Her brows lift. “That this entire thing sounds insane. And that you’re insane.”