The Two-Week Arrangement

by Kendall Ryan

  “You know what? You smell like . . . pancakes!” I snarl into Emilia’s neck, who screams with excitement.

  Lacey’s eyes grow wide. “Pancakes!”

  Pancakes, it is.

  The rest of my morning will consist of making pancakes the way my mother taught me—one at a time, with a little butter in the pan. After breakfast, I’ll spend a good twenty minutes wiping maple syrup off their chins and fingers. Then when I take them to the park, Emilia will inevitably find some way to hurt herself. But that won’t be a problem, because I’ll carry her home.

  After that, we’ll eat lunch. Mac and cheese, their favorite. Then it’ll be board games and a nap before dinner, and finally story time. Something about a princess, I’m sure.

  It’s another full day of just another kind of work. But I wouldn’t trade it for all the free time in the world.

  Chapter Eight

  Presley

  Poking her brush at the paper, Bianca mutters, “This looks like ass.”

  I glance at her perfectly decent watercolor landscape. “Hey, you’re doing better than me. My trees clearly have some kind of disease.”

  She’s always been the more artistic one. It was her idea to spend our lazy Saturday afternoon sipping cheap wine at a nearby painting studio that offers classes. Not that I objected—after the week I’ve had, the instructor’s hypnotically calm voice is more than welcome, and the act of painting is also soothing, despite how much I suck at it. Plus, Bianca’s mother bought her a gift card here last Christmas, and so this little excursion doesn’t hurt my pocketbook.

  We mix and dab in comfortable silence for a while before Bianca asks, “So how’d your first week at the new job go?”

  I hesitate, the tip of my brush hovering over a lumpy cloud. “Actually . . . something weird happened last night.”

  “Why were you working so late? I thought you were going out for a drink.”

  “I wasn’t working. Well, I sort of was, just not at work.”

  “You can start making sense whenever, y’know.” Her brush drips paint on the carpet, but no one seems to notice.

  I take a deep breath. “I saw Dominic at the bar, and he said . . . he needed somebody to go to a business dinner with him. The person he invited ditched him.” I probably don’t need to mention the detail about how he hires women for sex. “He offered me five-hundred dollars, so I went.”

  Now it’s Bianca’s turn to pause. She stares at her painting, her brow furrowing deeper and deeper, then she looks at me. “Your boss paid you to be his date.” Her tone is dead flat.

  I pause to listen to the instructor’s next instructions before replying. “O-okay, I get how that sounds bad, but it wasn’t really a date, per se, he just—”

  “Asked you to dinner?” she says icily.

  “It’s not like we were alone together. There was an investor—the point of everything was to try to impress him. Strictly business. I would have done it for free, the money was just because it was such short notice.”

  She purses her lips, then makes a low, grudging noise. “Well . . . as long as this isn’t some gross sexual harassment thing, I guess I don’t have to kill him.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not.” No matter how much I sometimes wish it were, except there’s nothing gross about Dominic Aspen. “Anyway, I think it went well. The investor seemed happy. I hope it was enough to convince him that Aspen is a worthwhile bet.”

  “Great, but I’m still skeptical about whether this was the best idea,” Bianca says.

  “I know it’s . . . unorthodox. But I figured, hey, I can make a little extra money for Michael’s school stuff, learn more about business, and get extra access to the CEO. I’m competing with three other highly qualified interns, so why not take advantage of a chance to push ahead?”

  “Those are all good points.” Bianca smirks. “And I’m sure that you having the hots for Dominic has nothing to do with your decision.”

  I almost knock over my cup of paint water. “W-what? Of course it didn’t.” Then I realize what I just admitted to. “I mean, I don’t.”

  “Bullshit, honey, you talk about him nonstop. And now you’re gunning for—how did you put it—extra access?” She bounces her eyebrows.

  “Please shut up,” I say on a groan.

  But she plows ahead with her teasing anyway. “I guess I should be glad you’re dating. I think you’d be more relaxed about work and money if you got laid once in a while.”

  “I told you it wasn’t dating, and nobody is getting laid!”

  As she cackles at my pain, my phone rescues me with a chime. It’s a text from Austin.

  Hey, I’ve been thinking about you. Still want to get drinks soon?

  I have to think for a second before I remember who that is. I have his number saved, so—oh yeah, the guy from the coffee shop who liked Delinquent Story. How could I forget? My life’s been so crazy lately, all the chaos just shoved the memory of meeting him right out of my brain.

  I show my screen to Bianca. “See? This is what a date looks like. Not the weird fantasy you’re inventing about me and Dominic.”

  “It’s not just in my head, but hey, whatever you need to believe.” Before I can argue back, she asks, “So you’re gonna go out with this Austin dude?”

  “Sure, why not? He’s cute, and he seemed nice.” And I really need a distraction right now. A date with Austin will be a welcome dose of normality. Wouldn’t it?

  Bianca snorts. “That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic compared to how you talk about—”

  “Oh my God, B, enough already. We’re just going out, not getting married. I don’t have to be crazy about him right off the bat.”

  “That’s fair. I guess I’ve accepted dates for dumber reasons.” She takes a sip of wine.

  While the instructor demonstrates the next part of the painting, I text Austin back.

  I’d love to. How about Wednesday, maybe seven-ish? You pick the place.

  Only a couple of minutes later, my phone blinks with his very positive response. This man doesn’t play games . . .

  I add another point next to his name on my mental scoreboard.

  • • •

  Early on Monday, someone knocks on my cubicle wall. I turn in my chair, expecting Jordan or one of the other interns, only for my heart rate to spike at the sight of Dominic.

  Dominic in a dark navy suit looking so fuckable, I have to swallow down a wave of lust.

  “Good, you’re here,” he says. Before I can wonder where else I’d be, he asks, “Do you have a moment to talk?”

  “O-oh, of course, please come in.”

  He’s the freaking CEO—I’d make time for him no matter what I was in the middle of. I can only hope this isn’t the bad kind of we need to talk. I fold my hands attentively in my lap, trying not to wring them.

  His dark blue eyes flick back and forth. “I meant privately. In my office.”

  My nerves flare with a mix of excitement and trepidation. What does he want?

  The part of my brain that’s been living in the gutter ever since I met Dominic is laser-focused on the prospect of being alone with him. Every other part is panicking over whether I’m about to be fired. But if that were the case, would he seem so strangely on edge?

  Well, no matter what’s going on here, I have to face it like a professional. I save the document I was working on and get up to follow him.

  Dominic leads me through a short maze of halls to his corner office, opens the door, and gestures for me to go first. As I enter, I admire the lavishly appointed room, which boasts a huge, polished cherrywood desk, a matching bookcase packed with volumes of business books, and plush leather chairs around a smoked-glass coffee table for meeting VIPs. It smells like coffee and a hint of Dominic’s spicy cedar cologne. I wonder whether the furniture remained from when his father occupied this office, or if Dominic picked it out himself when he took over.

  He closes the heavy oak door behind him. All the noise of the bustling
workplace beyond it cuts off, leaving us wrapped together in dense silence. “About last Friday night . . .”

  My stomach tries to leap out of my body.

  Chapter Nine

  Dominic

  I thought dinner with Presley would be manageable, that spending more time with her would somehow numb me to her presence. I hoped coming into work on Monday would be normal and uneventful. Maybe my exhaustion from a weekend with the girls would be enough to keep me tethered to reality.

  I thought wrong.

  It’s like all my senses are on cocaine. Everything is magnified around Presley. The smell of her wafting around me as we made our way toward my office. The sound of her heels on the floor, poking tiny holes into my façade of professionalism. Her slight frame keeps pace with mine from the corner of my eye.

  When I first asked her to talk in my office, she froze. But then a soft blush bloomed on her cheeks, and her eyelashes fluttered with a short blink. Was she embarrassed? Nervous?

  Regardless, that has to be my favorite of her expressions.

  “Of course,” she said. I can still hear her voice bouncing needlessly around my head, though nearly half a minute has passed since we stepped into my office and I shut the door.

  “About last Friday night . . .”

  Presley’s lower lip trembles, and her wide blue eyes latch onto mine.

  Or maybe that’s my favorite.

  She’s so determined, so earnest, even when everything’s about to change between us.

  “I think we should talk,” I say.

  Presley nods, her gaze moving past me to examine my space. Although she’s been in my office before, I suppose this is the first chance she’s had to really take it in. I kept her pretty preoccupied with assignments her first week, and she tackled them like a pro.

  She touches the edge of a frame on the wall that holds an award Aspen Hotels collected the year I began as CEO. She always has this inquisitive look on her face, as if she’ll learn everything about me just by scanning the contents of my desk and walls.

  “I really do like your office,” she says softly, almost to herself.

  I pause, letting the silence stretch on. “Thank you.”

  The space is old-fashioned, but humble. I keep everything in order. While my apartment is littered with chewed-up crayons and miscellaneous toys, not a single thing is out of place here at work.

  What’s strange is how well she fits in here. Her dark wool skirt and white button-up complement her sharp heels. She’s a picture of classic and modern in one petite, hotter-than-hell body. The way she stands in my office, one hand on her hip . . . she looks like she could be running this place herself.

  Shit, that’s hot.

  I try not to acknowledge the way everything below my belt perks up at that thought.

  Not fucking now.

  “Please, sit,” I say, gesturing to the wingback chair that Ollie so often lounges in.

  She moves to the chair, placing one delicate hand on the armrest. Her fingernails are trimmed short, filed into a tidy square-ish shape and painted the palest pink.

  “Are you going to?” she asks, pausing beside the chair.

  “I’d rather stand.”

  It’s easier to hide how jittery I am around this woman when I’m not trying to sit still. Besides, if I sit, there will be a desk between us. Whether I’m conscious of these micro-decisions I’m making or not, I don’t want there to be any obstacles between us. Messed up, I know.

  “Then I’ll stand, too.” She rests one hand on the back of the chair. Her knuckles grow white with her grip, but her gaze is steady.

  Why is she scared?

  “You’re not in trouble. The opposite,” I say, wanting to reassure her. It must be terrifying to be called into your boss’s office first thing Monday morning after the Friday night we shared. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Her lips quirk up as she considers this.

  God, that mouth. I could do bad, bad things to that mouth.

  Focus, Dom.

  “I need someone reliable. Someone I can count on to be by my side during the next couple of weeks of negotiations. And the appearance that I’m in a steady relationship could help my cause, if I’m being honest. It paints me as dependable, trustworthy.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Presley murmurs.

  “Outside of working hours, for the next two weeks, I’d like you to pretend to be my . . . plus-one.” I almost say girlfriend, but then decide we’re not sixteen anymore.

  “A two-week arrangement,” she says, her brow furrowed. “We would be coworkers, nine to five. And then, after hours, we would be a couple. I understand that much.” She pauses, her gaze darting away from mine. “I guess I don’t understand what’s in it for you. Why now?”

  “It’s Roger.” I cross my arms over my chest. The gray dress shirt I’m wearing pulls tight across my muscles, a sight that apparently doesn’t escape her, because I catch her gaze drift over my broad shoulders. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “He’s a traditional guy, if I’m being polite.”

  “And if you’re not being polite?”

  “He’s a good ol’ boy with no trust or understanding of how business works in the digital age. He does everything in person without any executive help, all by himself. And knowing him, it’ll take about two weeks to iron out all the details of our agreement.”

  “Okay, sure, but I still don’t understand. How do I factor in?”

  “He likes you,” I say, and she scoffs at that, as if I’ve said something totally absurd. “What? It was obvious. During dinner, he paid more attention to you than he did to me.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Don’t apologize. You’re more fun to talk to.” There’s that blush again. “He’s going to expect you at our meetings in the future, as my steady girlfriend.”

  “Why?” she asks, a bewildered look in her eyes.

  I don’t blame her. To me, this is obvious, but to Presley it must seem far-fetched.

  I’ve known Roger since I was a kid. I remember the late-night business dinners at my childhood home. My mother would tuck Teddy and me away for the night and join the men downstairs for a nightcap. That’s when the negotiating would begin. My father would lay out the deal and my mother would serve as moderator between the two, pointing out pros and cons, luring Roger in with her intelligent opinion. It was a beautiful game of cat and mouse, and one that worked every time with several clients. It’s a formula I’m very familiar with.

  Unfortunately, I’m missing a vital element of that formula since I’m a single, twenty-six-year-old CEO.

  “Roger is very aware of how young I am to be the head of Aspen Hotels. I need to convince him that I’m serious. We need to. And if he sees me in a committed relationship with a bright, intelligent woman, he’ll take me more seriously.”

  To Roger, I’m still that kid, peeking into his father’s study to eavesdrop on the adults. He doesn’t see me as much more than a child wandering the halls of his father’s grand enterprise.

  “By dating?”

  “By pretending to date. It won’t affect your work here at all.”

  “How could it not?” Presley asks with a little incredulity in her voice. Her cheeks are slightly flushed and her gaze is focused.

  I applaud her on her wariness going into an unfamiliar deal. She’s handling it just as I would—with an open mind and a touch of good old-fashioned skepticism. Smart girl.

  “It won’t,” I say, hoping to reassure her. “It’s all laid out in the contract.”

  “Contract?”

  I hand her a single-page document from the top of my desk. It probably wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, but it would give us both peace of mind in the meantime.

  She scans the page, quickly reading the terms, which are basically what I’ve already spelled out. It’s purely a business arrangement, strictly platonic. All costs will be covered. Meals, travel, and accommodations, if required
. And just like the first night she accompanied me, I’ll pay her five-hundred dollars for each appearance we make together. Which will probably be several. Roger never comes into the office; it’s always dinners or drinks out with him.

  “So, what do you say?” I can almost see the thousands of thoughts and uncertainties racing through her beautiful brain. I bet she didn’t think this would be part of Aspen’s internship program.

  I can’t say that I did either.

  “Can I think about it?” she asks after a beat.

  “Of course.”

  She walks toward the door, and I follow. Together, we pause there, me with my back pressed against the door frame. She’s waiting for me to move aside, but I don’t.

  Why don’t I? Because apparently I’m a fucking sadist and need to be close to her despite all the reasons I should keep this professional. Exhibit A, the contract I signed stating that our work would be entirely platonic, both in and out of the office.

  Yet here I am, my back glued to the door. Presley is maybe a foot away from me. I haven’t been this close to her since I kissed her hand Friday night. I could count her goddamn eyelashes if I wanted to.

  “So it is true.” Her eyes blaze directly into mine, eradicating any bullshit I may have left to offer.

  Fuck. I thought I already addressed this.

  “Never mind,” she says, shaking her head and looking at the floor.

  “No, say it.”

  Her eyes flash back up to mine, holding me there like a hot hand on my throat. “That you like to pay for it.”

  My hands curl into fists as if I can hold my faltering calm together with a tight enough grip. Anger bubbles up from the vault of emotions I keep securely locked at all times. I thought I’d been so careful. I never, ever disclose this part of my life to anyone who can’t be trusted.

  Then who the fuck is spreading this rumor? Oliver? I thought I could trust him. Maybe that’s not the case, after all.

  All burning frustrations immediately subside as Presley takes the smallest step toward me, leaving only inches between us.