Tansy’s jaw dropped. “That’s—that’s—”
“A crock of antiquated shit?” Gemma snorted. “I know, right?”
Gemma didn’t need a spouse to run the company; she didn’t need a spouse, period. Gemma didn’t need anyone.
Tansy frowned. “I was going to say that’s not very fair.”
Fair? Oh, Jesus. If Tansy still believed the universe gave a single fuck about what was fair, she was in for a rude awakening.
“I mean, is that even legal?” Tansy asked. “Forcing you to get married?”
“Technically, no one’s forcing me to do anything. It’s considered a conditional gift. A reward for embracing the family values my grandfather held most dear.” Gemma rolled her eyes. “I don’t have to accept.”
But she’d be damned if she didn’t seize this opportunity with both hands and hold on tight.
“Why would he do something like that?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Gemma pursed her lips. “My grandfather’s motivations, while a mystery, are neither here nor there. In order to inherit the majority shares and be named president, I have to be married by the annual general meeting on December twenty-second, otherwise Tucker gets handed the keys to the kingdom.” Which was un-fucking-acceptable. Tucker had no practical experience in journalism, and for God’s sake, he complained about his hands getting dirty from newspaper ink. Over her dead body would she let him ruin VDP’s legacy. “And before you ask, no, I can’t marry just anyone. It has to look legitimate. Believable. Like I’m marrying for love, not simply to inherit. The marriage can’t raise any red flags. It’s got to pass inspection.”
And inspected it would be. Her grandfather had named his dear friend and the chairman of the board of directors of VDP the executor of his will, and therefore judge, jury, and executioner of Gemma’s fate.
Tansy’s mouth opened and shut. “You’re serious. And you want to—you want to marry me?” Her eyes went wide with disbelief. “You don’t even know me.”
Just like Tansy didn’t know her. All the better that they didn’t know each other. How’d the saying go? Familiarity breeds contempt? Hell, that was probably the primary reason most of Gemma’s relationships, few and far between as they’d been, had gone belly-side-up, with people thinking they knew her only to realize they didn’t—and leaving once they did.
Gemma shrugged a shoulder. “What’s there to know? You’re eligible, according to your little lie everyone now believes we’ve been dating for the last six months, and while it’s not a prerequisite, the fact that you’re easy on the eyes certainly doesn’t hurt.”
Tansy’s blush returned with a vengeance, sweeping up the sides of her jaw before overtaking the lower half of her face. “Are you drunk?”
Gemma laughed. “I just paid you a compliment and you ask me if I’m drunk? I think the words you’re looking for are Thank you, Gemma. I’d be delighted to marry you.”
Tansy offered up a flat glare.
“All right, fine, I might be a teensy bit tipsy,” Gemma conceded with a smile. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at weddings? Get a little drunk, have a little fun, bag yourself a bridesmaid?”
Tansy scoffed. “Trust me, I’m no bridesmaid. Madison and Tucker would’ve rather eloped than have me in the wedding party.”
Ah, but she’d said nothing about being bagged. Gemma grinned. “Only because you’re so pretty.” Gemma let her left hand drift, reaching out and toying with the topmost button of Tansy’s sweater, tempted to undo it and see what she was hiding under there. She refrained, exercising restraint. For now. “Even in that sweater, you’d overshadow her in all the pictures.”
Tansy frowned down at her sweater. “What’s wrong with my cardigan?”
Gemma snorted.
Tansy continued to glare.
“Oh, you were serious? Aside from it being ugly as sin and belonging at the bottom of an incinerator?” Gemma shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose.”
“I happen to like this sweater.” Tansy scowled. “It’s vintage and I got it for a steal. And I get cold, okay? Some of us aren’t currently operating with a blood alcohol level high enough to dilate all of our blood vessels and—and activate our thermoreceptors.”
“Mmm, that’s nice. I like it when you talk nerdy. Is that something you do often?” Because Gemma could really get behind that. And on top of it. All over it. Unf.
A rosy blush bloomed along the crests of Tansy’s cheeks. Damn, that blush was adorable. If Gemma didn’t know better, she might’ve called herself smitten. Good thing she did, in fact, know better. “I—I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Sounds to me like you need someone to warm you up.” Gemma grinned. “I volunteer as tribute.”
“Oh sweet Jesus,” Tansy murmured. “You’re completely plastered, aren’t you?”
Gemma threw her head back and laughed. Not quite. “Look, in the morning I’ll be sober, and I can guarantee I’ll still want to marry you.”
“Holy shit,” Tansy whispered. “You’re—you’re actually insane. You’re not just drunk, you’re certifiable.”
Okay, fair. Who married a total stranger, proposing in the first five minutes after having been introduced, the circumstances behind said introduction less than forthright to begin with? Nobody, that’s who, but Gemma was nothing if not a trailblazer. A very, very desperate trailblazer. “That didn’t sound like a no.”
Tansy balked. “I wasn’t aware I’d been asked a question.”
Oh, the girl had some brass after all. Gemma grinned. “You want me to get down on one knee? Propose?” Gemma leaned close, lips brushing the shell of Tansy’s ear. “Say yes now, and later, I’ll spend as much time on my knees as you want.”
Tansy’s breath stuttered, and Gemma smirked.
“Marry me and no one has to know none of this was real. No one has to know about your lie.” Gemma leaned back, looking Tansy in the eye. “Marry me and I can promise pathetic will be the last thing anyone calls you.”
Tansy’s eyes flitted over Gemma’s face, a tiny crease forming between her brows as she weighed Gemma’s words. Her vows. “This is crazy.”
Crazy as this all certainly was, the alternative—Van Dalen Publishing falling into the hands of her cousin—was unconscionable.
“I can’t—I can’t marry you. I don’t know you.”
“You’ve got a picture of me saved on your phone. I’m sure you know enough.”
Tansy’s face fell, but Gemma was distracted by the head of silver-streaked hair cutting through the crowd toward them. Aw, hell. Her father had radar, some fucked-up sixth sense, an ability to smell fear, and Gemma . . . Gemma probably reeked of eau de desperation. It hadn’t exactly been her brightest plan, claiming to be engaged to a stranger, putting all her eggs in one basket, betting on a girl she didn’t know, a gambit if there had ever been one, but Tansy—shit. Gemma didn’t even know her last name.