I nod, my heart about to beat right through my chest. I take a step back and then another until I’m at my desk and he slowly closes the door.
Exhaling, I grip my forehead and wonder what the hell I just agreed to.
Marrying Rath Westin. I hate to admit it, but a bud of excitement blossoms in the pit of my stomach. I’m going to be Mrs. Rath Westin.
Holy. Shit.
Chapter Seventeen
RATH
“What the fuck was that?” Roark asks as I take a seat at my desk, pushing my smoothie to the side, because even though I enjoy Charlee’s smoothies, I really need a pastry at this moment.
What the fuck was that is a very good question, because honestly? I don’t know.
Marry me?
Where the fuck did that come from?
Actually, I know where it came from and I’m too embarrassed to even admit it. Charlee is to blame. This is all Charlee’s fault. Not because of the way she looked absolutely stunning this morning despite a fraction of red to her eyes from crying, or how for some reason, seeing her upset does something weird to me. I just dropped every rule I’ve ever made for myself and allowed myself to do and say stupid things.
This has nothing to do with seeing Charlee this morning and wanting to take her into my arms and make everything better. No, this is all a product of that stupid, godforsaken romance novel I was reading last night and early this morning on my drive to the office.
Marriage of convenience. It was on replay over and over in my head and by the time I got to my office, it simply popped out of my mouth. And of course, when she asked who she should marry, I immediately became jealous with anger and couldn’t tolerate Charlee marrying anyone but me. Overbearing I know, but it’s how I felt. Since I apparently have no filter, I asked her to marry me. Well, I guess she asked me and I said yes, but I suggested it. I’ve blacked out at this point. Something happened and now we’re engaged . . . because of a romance novel.
And for the record, nowhere in that book does the heroine call the hero a bridegroom. I make a mental note to look that up later.
And maybe, yeah, the way I’ve started to feel about Charlee might have had a hand in pushing me to tell her to marry me. The need to touch her, hold her, take her hand in mine, kiss her. The urge became too overwhelming and I snapped like a goddamn flimsy twig. The idea, ridiculous at that, became so real, so vivid in my head in the matter of seconds that NOT marrying Charlee wasn’t an option. And let’s not even start thinking about how soft her skin was beneath my fingertips. How I wanted to taste her lips and not just her cheek . . .
“Are you going to answer me?” Roark asks, looking far too amused.
“Where did what come from?” I try to be casual. “You called it. I was totally boning my assistant.”
“Yeah, I don’t believe that for a second. I might have joked about it, but I know you.” He studies me. “Did you patch things up with Bram?”
“Yes,” I say, turning on my computer and opening my emails. “He came over, we talked it out, everything is fine.”
“So ‘marrying’ Charlee,” he says, using air quotes, “has nothing to do with Vanessa coming to Bram and Julia’s wedding?”
“No,” I say firmly, even though that might not be the whole truth.
The marriage idea came about to help Charlee, to give her the opportunity to make her grandma happy. It wasn’t until I thought about how it could be helpful to me that I even considered Vanessa. It’s just an added bonus that I won’t have to go to the wedding alone. Having Charlee at my side will make the event much easier.
“You’re telling me that in a matter of what, two months maybe, you fell in love with this woman and now you’re getting married?”
“Yup,” I answer, clicking on an email from one of my top fundraisers.
“Dude,” Roark says, leveling with me. “Come on, stop fucking with me, what’s this really about?”
The thing about Roark is, he won’t ever let shit go, especially when it comes to his friends. A few weeks ago, when we picked our players for our fantasy football league, he was adamant about finding out why I was color-coding my notes in my notebook—since I’ve never done it before—he wouldn’t drop it until I finally told him Charlee got me into it. So, I was teased for the rest of the night. I’m nervous if I tell him the truth, he’s not going to be able to keep his mouth shut.
Then again, he’s not going to leave this office without getting to the bottom of it either so it doesn’t look like I have much of a choice.
Glancing over his shoulder, I make sure the door is shut and then I lean back in my chair and say, “Her grandma is sick, man.”
“Oh fuck,” Roark says, understanding crosses over his features. “Is it bad?”
I shrug. “No one is really sure and the grandma isn’t saying much. It’s a long story, but Charlee has one wish, that her grandma sees her walk down the aisle in her grandma’s dress.”
Roark nods in understanding. “So, you’re letting that happen.”
I pick up my pen and start to twirl it through my fingers. “Yeah. It’s beneficial to me with donation season just around the corner and finding that sympathy donation from the wives and/or female executives.” Roark nods his head in understanding. “And I don’t know, man.” I grip the back of my head. “She’s been really fucking upset and her grandma adores me. I figured it’s an easy solution and works in both of our favors.”
“Yeah, I can see the benefit.” Leaning forward he says, “But what happens when you can’t hide your feelings for her anymore, you’re married, and you actually start falling for her? What happens when she wants to get that divorce and you’re head over heels for the girl?”
“Not going to happen.”
Roark scoffs. “When did you become so fucking delusional, man?”
“I won’t allow myself to fall for her.”
“Yeah, okay.” Roark rolls his eyes. “Good luck with that, let me know how it turns out. The way I see it, that lass already has you wrapped around her pinky. She doesn’t know it, and you don’t know it but when you both figure it out, shit is going to hit the fan and I’m going to be sitting back with a goddamn smirk on my face ready to tell you, I told you so.”
Annoyed, I say, “Were you here for any other reason than busting my balls?”
He shakes his head. “Not really, other than the pastry.” He looks behind him. “When do you think she’ll return?”
“You know you have millions of dollars and people who work for you. Get your own goddamn pastries.”
“They don’t taste as good as when I steal them from you.”
I toss my pen at him. “Get the fuck out of here, you dickhead.”
“Are you ready for this?” I ask Charlee, who’s nervously bouncing her leg up and down in the car.
She’s been oddly silent ever since the proposal. She’s kept to herself, done her work, and has only checked up on me once rather than the usual three times in the morning. I even tried striking conversation with her when I went to take care of my morning dishes, but she quickly dismissed me and picked up the phone.