“So . . . this would be like a business deal then?”
“Yeah, a marriage of convenience. We both get something out of it. You get your walk down the aisle in your grandma’s dress, I get a charming woman on my arm to help me with the upcoming donation season. The holidays are right around the corner, people have money to spend, and I want Westin Enterprises to be who they donate to.”
“You think I’m charming?”
I awkwardly fluff my hair to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t lighten up at all. He grows more serious. “You know I think you’re charming.”
Oh God, those eyes. I know what eyes those are. Those are promising eyes, the type that make you weak in the knees. And guess what, they’re doing just that.
Wafting my shirt a bit because yeesh, it’s hot in here, I say, “What about, you know, all the intimate stuff? We’re going to have to kiss and touch each other.”
“That won’t be a problem on my end,” he says with such confidence that it makes me wonder, has he thought about touching me before? Kissing me? He does find me attractive but how far has he run with that attraction in his imaginative mind?
“And what about your employees?” I ask, feeling I need to flesh out all the details.
“What about them?”
“Well, I thought you had a thing with your assistant before. Are you afraid they’re going to think you hired me just to marry me?”
Without even showing a tick of worry, he says, “I pay them well, I treat them nicely, I am one hell of an employer. I don’t care what they think, as long as they do their job.”
Ohh-kay. There goes that theory.
“Living arrangements. If we get married, we’ll have to live together.”
“Your point?” He lifts an eyebrow as if there’s no point at all.
“I’m a beast,” I say, really reaching. “I’m unpleasant when I wake up, I hog the bathroom counter space, and I always forget to refill the coffee pot. I wake up looking like a wooly mammoth who had a rough night out, and I refuse to have to hold in my farts. They’re going to happen. It’s life.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Is that what this is really about? You’re concerned about farting in front of me?”
“No,” I say louder than I want. “This is about me, your assistant, marrying you, my boss. We . . . we’re not romantically involved.”
“I’m aware. That’s a minor concern.” Oddly, the more we talk about this, the more he grows confident in his suggestion. At least that’s what it seems like from the outside. Who knows what’s going on inside that gorgeous head of his?
What’s even more disturbing than his conviction is how I almost think this might be a good idea. With his casual presentation, as if it’s no big deal, just a suggestion he throws down every once in a while on Mondays.
To be honest, it’s not that terrible of an idea. Be married for a few months, pass it off as an epic fling, and then amicably separate. He gives me his Hampton’s estate, I give him my bin of color-coded pens—done and done.
Could I really do this? Could I really marry Rath Westin?
He’d be easy on the eyes, that’s for sure. He’s also fun, my grandma adores him, he likes historical romances, and even though I know he will deny it to the day he dies, I know he talks to the plants I’ve put in his office. They are thriving too much, there’s no way he’s ignoring them.
But marry him? Would we have pastries every morning over a cup of coffee? Would he make room for me in his closet? Would we share the same bed? Would he—gulp—have sex with me? Would he even be able to pretend we’re a couple?
That’s the biggest question. When I jump into something, I go all in. I always have. So, if we did this, I’d be 100 percent in, which means my acting would be top-notch. There would be touching and nicknames and kisses and hand holding. Could he touch me as if he truly found me attractive?
There’s only one way to find out.
Wanting to test him, I take a few steps forward until there’s about a foot between us. He doesn’t move an inch as he leans against his desk, his hands gripping the edge.
“You really think you could do this? Be married to me?” I take another step forward and hoist on my big girl pants as I lay my hand across his chest. Rock-hard muscles meet my palm and I try not to show an ounce of surprise as I move my fingers over the patch of skin that’s exposed by his open shirt. “You think you could be okay with me being this close?” I close the space between us until our bodies are lightly touching. His eyes stay trained on me, his body unwavering. “You think you could go to these events, hold my hand, and introduce me as your wife?”
My fingers play with the neatly trimmed hair on his chest.
Instead of answering right away, he lifts one hand and slowly moves it to my back. His touch is light, almost as if he’s unsure . . . until he applies more pressure and moves his hand to the small of my back, just above the curve of my ass.
I suck in a sharp breath when his fingers toy with the globe of my rear but never fully moving all the way down.
In a deep voice, deeper than I’ve heard before, he says, “I would be honored.”
Crap.
I’m pretty sure my bra just popped open from my “heaving bosom.”
He’d be honored. What a response. The kind of response that would normally make me drop my pants and offer up the goods, but I’m trying to hook this man into marrying me, not scare him away.
Well, technically, he’s trying to hook me into marrying him.
Hell, the lines are so blurred at this point with the raging thoughts of him shirtless floating through my mind and the pressure of his hand on my back, that I really have no idea what’s happening.
That’s why, as I bend down in front of him, his crotch at eye level, I wonder if I’m about to propose or attempt a blowie on my boss?
Grandma is getting to my head.
“What are you doing?” Rath asks, looking concerned but also intrigued at the same time.
It’s now or never. I either take him up on his opportunity or I don’t. And with my grandma’s sickness weighing heavily on my mind, I do the one thing I never thought I’d do. I take a knee in front of my boss . . .
“Rath Westin, my boss, my commander in chief, my Gucci Governor—”
“I don’t wear Gucci.”
“Go with it.” I wink, feeling the wobble in my leg, the nerves bubbling up in the pit of my stomach. “Mr. Big Shot, Barking Britches, and Irritable Ira—”
“Jesus . . . Christ.” He rubs his hand down his face and I think I might be losing him, so I hurry it up before I lose confidence and finally come to the understanding that what I’m doing might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
“Will you do me the great honor . . .” I wobble to the side and quickly clutch his hand for support. “Will you . . .” Oh my God, why am I getting emotional? My eyes are watering. I shouldn’t be getting emotional, but this is a big moment in a girl’s life and hell . . . I’m proposing. I’m allowed to be emotional. “I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before.”
“I sure as hell hope not,” he mutters.
“And I didn’t think I’d get emotional either.” From the scared look on his face, I’m thinking he didn’t think I’d get emotional either. But hey, this was his idea, so he’s going to have to deal with my craziness. “Will you do me the greatest honor of all time and be my bridegroom?”