by Erika Rhys
Jack laughed. “Ava sounds like the kind of girl your father and stepmother would pick out for you.”
“They’d prefer an heiress, but in every other respect, Ava fits the bill. And a spoiled society princess is out of the question. Way too high maintenance.”
“But you think Ava could pass Veronica’s inspection?”
“That’s the genius of it,” I said. “I think she could. If we agreed to live separate lives and file for divorce when I turn thirty-five, getting married could actually work.”
“Time out,” Jack said. “If you’re serious about this, we need to talk pros and cons. There’s one huge pro—fifty million bucks—and a hell of a lot of cons. You and Ava would have to fool Veronica, which means that the marriage would have to look real. Ava would need to move in with you. You’d have to live with her for two years.”
“My condo’s big enough to give us both plenty of privacy,” I said. “And I don’t think Ava would be a difficult roommate.”
“That’s a plus,” Jack said. “What about your sex life?”
“I always use hotel rooms, anyway.”
“What about her sex life?”
“That’s a good point,” I said. “We’d both have to agree not to bring anyone home.”
“I assume she’s not seeing anyone serious at the moment,” Jack said. “But we’re talking two years. What if she meets someone?”
“According to Cara, Ava’s not looking for a relationship. She broke off an engagement with some douche named Brian two years ago, and since then, she’s been focused on her work.”
“What would be her motivation to marry you?”
“A check big enough to save her floral-design business from going under,” I said. “The business is based in Dumbo, and it’s just her. She didn’t strike me as the greedy type, either. I doubt she’d ask for more than a hundred grand or so, but I’d offer her a million.”
“That’s generous,” Jack said.
“I’d be asking for two years of her life. If she carries off a fake marriage for that long, she’s earned it.”
Jack’s expression turned serious. “I don’t want to push you into anything—but I hate the thought of laying off half our workforce. We’ve spent years recruiting the best people, and losing them can’t help but set us back.”
“So you think I should do it?”
“It’s your decision—and I’ll support whatever decision you make. But if you marry Ava and tap your trust fund within the next sixty days, that would give us the cash to get the company through this rough patch—and the business would be able to pay you back when the Asian contracts start paying off next year.”
“I need to think about it more,” I said. “But if I decide to go forward with marrying Ava, I’ll need your help with drafting an agreement for us both to sign.”
“You’ll also need to talk Ava into it,” Jack said. “Didn’t you say that she thought it was a crazy idea, too?”
“She did,” I said. “It’s more than likely that she’ll turn me down, at least initially. But I can’t see any other way of putting my hands on the amount of money we need. And Ava’s reliable—Cara’s known her for ten years. If I convince Ava to marry me, and we sign an agreement, she’ll uphold her end of the bargain.”
Jack rose from his chair. “When you come to a decision, let me know.” He pointed at the contract sprawled across my desk. “And get that back to me no later than two o’clock with whatever changes you want. OK?”
“No problem,” I said as Jack headed toward the door of my office. “I’ll get it done.”
After he left, I resumed my work on the contract, but as I marked the pages with edits and corrections, a single thought kept circling through my mind.
How could I convince Ava to marry me?
6
AVA
Two days after my bizarre evening with Cara and her brother, I sat at my desk at Oasis, scanning job descriptions on FlexJobs.com. My latest idea was that given my existing commitments, maybe I’d have better luck applying for short-term or flexible positions.
I was scrolling through a job description for a part-time photo editor, wondering if my Photoshop skills were decent enough to apply, when my mail application dinged, and a notification popped up on my screen, announcing the arrival of an e-mail from my accountant. With a sigh, I minimized my browser and opened my e-mail. Not that receiving my tax bill was a surprise—I’d been expecting it for the past week. But given my financial circumstances, knowing what was coming couldn’t make writing that check to the IRS any less painful.
Then I saw the number, and my blood froze. Eight thousand dollars? How was that even possible? My accountant, a mild-mannered, middle-aged man named Barry, had led me to expect a bill for less than half that amount. For a long moment, I just stared at the number on my screen, and as I did, my anger grew. Either Barry had fucked up the estimate, or he’d fucked up my tax return. This was outrageous, and after the week I’d had, I wasn’t about to let his incompetent ass off the hook.
I grabbed my phone and dialed Barry’s number.
“I need to speak with Barry,” I said when his receptionist answered. “No, it’s not a question you can answer. Tell Barry it’s Ava Walker from Oasis Floral, and get him on the line.”
When he picked up, I lit into him. “What the hell, Barry? This tax bill is more than twice your estimate!”
He floundered through a half-assed explanation that only added fuel to my rage, and when he started blathering about deductions and amortization, my last shred of patience went up in smoke.
“Cut the bullshit, Barry. It only makes you look even more unprofessional than you already are! The truth is that you screwed up somewhere, and because the return has to be filed by the end of the week, I don’t have time to figure it out. File a six-month extension, and file it today. I’ll expect an e-mail copy tomorrow.”
And with that, I ended the call.
Adrenaline racing through my veins, I jumped to my feet and paced back and forth in front of my desk. Barry’s initial estimate had seemed low, but I was no tax expert, and truth be told, I’d wanted to believe it. Filing the extension would put off the tax bill for six months, but in October, I’d have to write the IRS a check for $8,000—$5,000 more than Barry’s initial estimate.
How could I possibly save Oasis, when everything was stacked against me? Not for the first time, the irony of my business name struck me. When I’d come up with the name, I’d envisioned my little business as a flower-filled haven of creativity and fulfilling work, but what had it become? A financial quagmire that grew deeper with every passing day.
Tears of frustration crept into my eyes, and I brushed them away angrily. Getting emotional wouldn’t save my business. The only thing that would was a way to make serious money, and if I didn’t find it soon, my dream of running my own business would die—together with the piece of my heart that had gone into it.
Just then, a knock sounded against the door.
“Come in,” I called as I hurried to the door. While the knocker was likely building management or one of my neighbors, it could also be a prospective client. Since my business focused on events, I didn’t get many walk-ins, especially this late in the day, but it was always a possibility.
The door opened, and Ronan Kingsley stepped inside. As on the evening I’d met him, he wore a beautifully tailored dark suit, and he carried an expensive-looking leather briefcase in one hand. Despite the emotion that still simmered inside me from the bad news I had just received, I couldn’t help but be struck by how handsome he was. His broad shoulders and powerful chest tapered to a trim waist, combined with his height and dark good looks to give him a commanding presence. As he glanced around the room, taking in my renovated space and repainted thrift-store furniture, I realized how dingy and shabby it must look to him.
“Hi, Ava,” he said. “Can I have a few minutes of your time?”
“Of course,” I said. I gestured toward the red bucket
chair in front of my desk. “Let’s sit down.”
As we walked toward my desk, questions flooded my mind. Why was he here? It couldn’t be about a floral job—or could it? I usually dealt with event coordinators—not CEOs like Ronan—but maybe the fact that we had met through Cara made him feel that he should speak with me personally. But even then, why wouldn’t he call, instead of crossing the river from Manhattan to Brooklyn?
When we were seated, I closed my laptop, pushed it aside, and faced Ronan. “How can I help you?”
He cleared his throat and met my gaze. “When we had dinner, you impressed me as someone whom I can trust. With that in mind, I’m here to propose an arrangement.”
A suspicion entered my mind, but I dismissed it. When I’d had dinner with him, his rejection of Cara’s marriage idea had been very clear—no less so than my own.
“What kind of arrangement are you looking for?” I asked.
“I need a wife within sixty days,” he said. “And I want her to be you.”
My jaw dropped. Was this some kind of joke? But the expression on Ronan’s face was stern and unsmiling. His gaze was direct, and his lips were set in a resolute line.
I looked down for a moment to collect myself, before looking up to face him. “Two days ago, we enjoyed a pleasant dinner together, during which we agreed that Cara’s idea is ridiculous. Why on earth would you change your mind? You can’t possibly be serious.”
“I couldn’t be more serious,” he said. “You know what’s at stake.”
He wasn’t joking. Ronan Kingsley wanted me to marry him.
“I sympathize with your situation,” I said. “You know I do. But I’m no actress, and I’d make a terrible fake wife.”
“I disagree,” he said. “Cara was right. You’re perfect for the job.”
The irony of his words didn’t escape me. Perfect for the job. Words I’d longed to hear, after the polite rejections that had filled the last few months. Words that would have lifted my mood into the stratosphere—if the job in question hadn’t involved a two-year commitment and a marriage license.
“You’re talking about two years of our lives, Ronan,” I said. “Two years.”
He leaned back in his chair and gazed at me. “What are you planning to do with those two years, Ava? Find Mr. Right? Start a family?”
“No—at least not yet. I do want those things someday, but first I want to build my business into something sustainable. I want to support myself doing work that I love.”
“Then you should consider my offer,” he said. “With what I’m prepared to pay you, you’ll not only be able to keep the lights on but also have extra cash to invest in your business. In your future. To sweeten the deal, if you agree to marry me, I’ll use my connections to help you. For example, what could a few well-placed magazine articles do for Oasis?”
Stunned into silence, I just stared at him. The visibility from even one magazine article about Oasis could change everything for me—and he knew it.
“Am I getting through to you?” he said.
He was—but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. After strolling into my office and dropping this mother of a bombshell on me, he didn’t deserve to know my every thought.
“I’m more than a little surprised by all this,” I said. “I need time to think.”
His face relaxed. “I understand. But what you need to understand is that time is running out.” He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a thick folder, and placed it on my desk. “Today’s a busy day, and I need to run, but the document inside this folder contains the specifics of the arrangement I’m proposing. My contact information is inside, and I’ve also enclosed a digital copy that you can e-mail to your lawyer. For obvious reasons, aside from talking to your lawyer or my sister, Cara, I need you to keep this discussion and the agreement confidential.”
“OK,” I said. “I’ll consider your offer. I don’t have a lawyer, but in lieu of a lawyer, I want to discuss your offer with both Cara and one other close friend, Mimi, who’s also completely trustworthy.”
“That’s reasonable,” he said. “The most important thing is that you read the agreement carefully, and consider all its provisions.”
I nodded. “I’ll do that.”
He stood. “I need to get back to my office before five. Let me know when you’ve arrived at a decision.” He turned away and strode toward the exit. When he reached it, he turned back toward me.
“Think quickly, Ava. The offer’s good for forty-eight hours.”
And with that, he was gone.
7
AVA
After Ronan left, I opened the agreement and began reading. When I reached the section that detailed my compensation, my head spun.
A million dollars?
I stared at the numbers. Fifty thousand on signing. Two hundred thousand on marriage. A quarter million in monthly payments spread over two years. And a lump-sum payment of half a million dollars at the end of the two-year contract.
I shook my head to clear it. In the space of an hour, I’d gone from stressing over an $8,000 tax bill to trying to wrap my head around an opportunity to become a millionaire.
With the initial payment, I could keep Oasis and invest in building and advertising my business. With the second payment, I could consider moving the business to a more high-profile location in Manhattan, a move that would bring me closer to my target clientele. In combination with the media exposure that Ronan had promised, the money he was offering could secure my business—and my future.
There was no doubt about it—a million dollars could change my life. Permanently. If pulling off two years as Ronan’s fake wife was even remotely possible, I needed to find a way to make it work.
I flipped the pages of the agreement to the section that listed my obligations and read them over again. While I would need to leave my Bushwick studio apartment and move into Ronan’s East Village condo, I would have my own bedroom and bath. I would need to attend an occasional social event as his wife, but the agreement stated that he would be responsible for all related expenses. We would announce our engagement immediately and get married in early May—two months from now. While I would need to play a role in the wedding preparations, after the wedding, most of my time would be my own. Beyond sharing an apartment with him, marrying him, and attending an occasional event on his arm, our lives would remain separate.
Ronan’s list of requirements made his intentions clear. He expected no more than the minimum necessary to create the appearance of a real marriage, and he was prepared to compensate me generously for the time and effort involved. But his proposal also left me with a hell of a lot of questions. Could his proposed arrangement actually fool his father and stepmother? What were the risks involved? And what would living with him be like?
I didn’t even begin to know how to answer these questions. But Cara would. I picked up the phone to call her and then hesitated. This had been Cara’s idea from the beginning, and her enthusiasm for it was clear. Before raising her hopes, I needed to ground myself in the reality of the commitment I was considering.
With that in mind, I got up from my desk and headed next door to talk to Mimi. When I stepped inside her jewelry studio, she was seated on a stool at her workbench, hunched over several small pieces of silver with a soldering iron in her right hand.
“Do you have a minute?” I said. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
She rested her soldering iron on its stand, wiped her hands on her leather apron, and shoved a stray tendril of her curly red hair from her face as she turned to me.
“I can spare a few minutes,” she said and gestured at a nearby stool. “Have a seat.”
I sat down facing her. “I’m not sure where to begin.”
Her face brightened. “You’ve met a man, haven’t you?”
“In a way, I guess I have.”
She beamed at me. “I’m so happy for you, Ava. You’re a gorgeous young woman
, you’ve been alone far too long, and you deserve all the happiness in the world.”
“It’s not like that,” I said. “It’s complicated.”
“How?” She furrowed her brow. “Don’t tell me he’s married.”
“No—he’s single.”
“If he’s single, then what’s the problem?” she said. “Who is he?”
“His name is Ronan.”
“Ronan,” she said. “I like it. Tell me, is Ronan as sexy as his name?”
“He’s very handsome, but—”
“Girl, you haven’t gotten any for two years. If he’s single and good looking, what’s stopping you? I know you’re stressed about money, but you only live once. Seriously. Even if you and Ronan aren’t destined to get married and live happily ever after, what the hell? Live a little. Have some fun.”
“This isn’t about fun,” I said. “It’s about business.”
“So that’s the complication,” she said. “You met Ronan through work, and you’re concerned that starting a relationship could make the two of you look unprofessional.”
I took a deep breath and then put it out there. “No. Ronan’s my friend Cara’s older brother. And he’s offered me a million bucks to be his fake wife.”
8
AVA
After Mimi recovered from her shock at my revelation and read through Ronan’s contract, she opened the tin of marijuana that always sat against the back of her workbench, rolled herself a thick joint, and lit up.
“Sure you don’t want a toke?” she asked. “I’ve never seen you this stressed.”
I shook my head. “You know I never smoke anything. I tried marijuana once in college, but it did nothing for me.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” she said, leaning back and exhaling a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “This is an Alaskan strain called Manatuska Thunderfuck, and it’s as mellow as a good lay. Not to mention perfectly legal, thanks to the joys of medical marijuana.”
