by Nicole Snow
Before I can respond with a snarky, Nick and me, it’s Nick and ME, a brilliant businessman should at least use proper grammar, the phone pings again.
We can work out the details, Paige. I promise you I’m trying to be fair.
Forget about his grammar. My mouth drops.
Holy crap. I didn’t even give him an official answer, and yet he’s already taken it as a screaming yes.
Like he just knew. Full steam ahead. No stopping now.
I frown. Maybe I should back out of this madness?
Actually, every rational thread of me says I should back out of this cray.
Before I know what’s happening, I grab the phone and panic-dial.
“Hey, Paige.” Brina picks up on the first ring.
“Oh, thank God. You have time for me today, right? I need you to talk me out of something stupid.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I can hear her sunny, teasing smile over the phone, and then a sigh. “Let’s hear how stupid this thing you’re planning is.”
“I can’t give any details because I’m sworn to secrecy, but...I’m sorta in the process of possibly faking an engagement.”
“Oooh, mysterious! Why?”
“Again. I can’t say. I just...help me, Brina,” I whimper, pulling a hand over my face.
Brina laughs like a hyena with its tail caught. “So, wait, girl. I’m supposed to talk you out of getting fake married, but I can’t ask any questions? Not fair.”
“Um, basically.” I realize how stupid this sounds.
“What kind of relationship are we talking? Is there a certain raging bossasaurus involved?”
“Um...” I cough into my hand while I say the next word. “Yeah.”
For a heavy second, she’s quiet.
“Riddle me this, if you think it’s stupid, why do it?”
“Money. A lot of it,” I answer quickly.
She laughs. “Yeah, don’t do it then. You’re not broke enough to need the money and you’ve got plenty of pride to bruise.”
“No, Brina, like a lot of money. The kind that makes you want to stuff your ego in a little box and bungie it shut.”
“Oh. So, you’re afraid of the windfall making you stupid? Why?”
“Because...” I trail off.
Because it’s as pathetic as it sounds. I don’t want Wardhole thinking he owns me, and that’s just scratching the surface.
Let’s be real for a second. The first time I saw him, I wanted his number. When he brought me home that night, if I wasn’t so loopy and my ankle wasn’t twisted, I would’ve jumped him.
If I have to get fake engaged to him, it might suck when it’s over.
“It’s just so much like Austin. Being a placeholder for some guy to use, without really loving me,” I say, closing my eyes. “Of course, I’d be agreeing to it this time. There’d be no cruel surprises. But I just...yeah. Advice?”
She pauses long enough to weigh my greed against my beat-up heart. What are best friends for?
“You really want my two cents, Paige? I say, go for it.”
I open my eyes and blink.
That was...not what I expected.
“For real? I’m kind of surprised you’d support it.”
“It’s a win-win. If it doesn’t work out, well, then you’ll have a nice fat cushion to find a new job. And you know I’m not here to push you into anything you’re not ready for, but this might be a good way to forget all about that little prick. It was years ago, Paige. You can’t keep beating yourself up, and the dating app duds aren’t doing you many favors.”
True.
She falls silent, and I roll the idea over, wondering if she’s right.
“Well...”
“Try to have some fun with it, okay? I know you can pull a rich guy’s tail just as well as I do. I don’t care what the agreement says, you’re not letting him walk all over you, right?”
“Never!” I throw back.
She giggles. “That’s the spirit. Look, I don’t think you’ll regret it, and if you do you, well, blame me.”
“Crap, you’re right. I gotta go. I need to give him a 'challenge accepted.'”
“Good luck, lady,” she tells me. “Get paid. I want to see you hawking your art out of your own studio like a badass in a year,” she says.
“We’ll see,” I throw back, eating my own smile. “Later!”
Sabrina’s a mind reader. She knows exactly what I want and she also reminds me that this could actually work.
A few months in thrall to Ward Brandt could open doors that seemed chained shut for the next decade.
One point five million dollars means I’m free from Warden’s BS and anyone else’s.
I can slay on my own terms.
I can call my own shots.
I can even find a normal man to ring me one fine day—if normal dudes still exist.
God.
I’m also not in peril. I’m confident I won’t get bulldozed by the bosshole, so I channel that grit into the fun flirty facade I’ve been keeping up all night when I grab my phone and text back.
When and where, mister?
His reply comes instantaneously. My property in Highland Park. Should I send Reese, or do you want to drive? Fair warning, it’s not the easiest place to find for good reason.
I roll my eyes.
Of course the office beast has his very own modern Gothic castle tucked behind a wall of manicured trees, a medieval gate, and hugging prime Lake Michigan shore. The cliché forms in my mind so vividly it hurts.
When you’re his kinda rich and hilariously anti-social, you get to brood in style.
For a second, I wonder if he wants to lock me up in luxury and toss away the key.
I’d accuse him of playing the part of a jerkwad fiancé too well, but he’s a protector at heart. That night we met, he made sure I had food, water, and pain pills before he left.
I was a complete stranger at the time.
He’s not out to hurt people. Not deliberately.
“Stupid chivalrous Wardhole,” I mutter with a small laugh, then punch at my phone.
Yeah, send Reese. I’ll be there ASAP.
Twenty minutes later, my chest is a stone as I slide into the Lincoln’s back seat.
“Lucky lady! He never invites anyone to his Highland Park place,” Reese says as she greets me. “Any hint why you’re having clandestine meetings with our fearless leader at his Batcave?”
“Umm—” That’s a good question, and one I’m not sure I can answer.
Wardhole, you should have given her a reason instead of leaving me to lie.
“Big project! It’s the Winthrope deal, you know, and Wardhole that he is, he wants a late-night strategy jam.” Can she hear me clearly through clenched teeth?
Reese laughs. “What? The Highland Park place is supposed to be like, his personal retreat. He never mixes business there. The penthouse downtown is where he crashes during the week and entertains folks from the office.”
Her eyes flash me a skeptical look in the mirror.
“Oh, I don’t know then. Won’t it be fun finding out?” I say.
Dear Lord. I’m going to have to get better at lying to pull this fake engagement off.
“Right-o. If it’s classified, you could’ve just said so,” Reese says with a wink.
I throw back an awkward smile, inwardly licking my wounds.
Yeah, make that I’m going to have to get a lot better at fibbing, and fast.
Highland Park is farther away than I realize, even though it’s supposed to be roughly half an hour from the downtown center. Ward’s house is actually on the outskirts, the last property in a huge, otherworldly row of mega-mansions peaking through the trees and wrought-iron fences.
The road is dark and winding, and I’ve never been here before. It could only be more appropriate with lightning lashing through the sky.
“Thanks for picking me up, Reese. It would have been hard to see out here.”
“Do yo
u wear contacts?” Reese asks.
“No, but my night vision isn’t perfect. Especially when I just want to...stare.”
She throws back her head and laughs. “Yeah, the homes are gorgeous. It’ll take you a little time to get used to them.”
While I’m remembering to breathe, she pulls through a soaring gate and crawls up a long twisty driveway a good distance from any other houses. The dark outlines of what look like cornstalks dot the skyline on one side.
“Ward has a farm?” I ask in disbelief.
“It’s not any farm I’ve ever seen, but it is rustic.” The mile-long driveway finally ends, and she pulls up to a three-story white stone house, every bit the modern castle I expected.
“Dang. Gotta hand it to him, it’s beautiful,” I say.
“Just wait until you’re inside,” she says with longing.
Holy Hannah. Inside with my “fiancé.”
The reality of what I’ve tentatively agreed to whacks me so hard I’m dizzy.
I have to focus on opening the door and planting one awkward foot on the ground.
“If you need a ride back, call me,” Reese says.
“Will do! Thanks.” I step completely out of the car.
I’m standing in a white circle drive with a freaking koi pond in the middle. The pond has a three-tiered fountain blooming over a pylon of black stacked rocks that look like they were dropped here from Hawaii. My parents are well-off, but this makes them look like beggars.
I swallow the anxious lump in my throat and turn to the large ornately carved double doors.
Okay. Deep breath. Go time.
Squaring my shoulders, I start up the magnificent slate staircase. If I’m going to fake being engaged to a billionaire for the next few months, I have to get used to this luxury.
I ring the doorbell and a man in a black suit answers. He bows slightly, so I wonder if I should curtsy.
Instead, I just wave. “Hi, I’m—”
“You’re expected, Miss Holly. The gentlemen are in the front foyer waiting for you. Allow me to show you the way.” He opens the door fully and waves his hand, welcoming me in.
Jeeves leads me to a large dim room that looks like a cross between a library and a living room. The back wall is lined with shelves of thick books from floor to ceiling. A worktable with four green-cushioned chairs stands in front of the shelved books, and a large black sectional stretches across the room closer to us.
“Hmm.” The butler pauses, scanning the room. “They were in here a minute ago. I’ll notify Mr. Brandt of your arrival. Do make yourself comfortable. Can I get you a coffee or a sherry?”
“Sherry?” I actually have no idea what that is. “No. No, thanks.”
Hoping I don’t sound annoyed, I realize I should get the awkward introductions over with. This guy’s someone I’ll probably be dealing with for the next three months.
“I’m Paige Holly,” I say.
“I’m aware,” he reminds me.
“And you are?”
“Oh, of course. I’m Grayson, the valet.”
“Why does a single guy need a butler?” I catch myself. “You don’t have to answer that. Sorry, I was just thinking out loud.”
“I’m really more of a property manager. Mr. Brandt is only here a couple days each week. I alternate between the three properties he owns, ensuring they’re ready for him per his preferences.”
I blink. What have I gotten myself into?
“Oh. I see,” I say with a nod.
I actually don’t see anything.
“I’ll go find Mr. Brandt and let him know you’ve arrived.”
“Umm—are there lights?” My voice comes out weak and pathetic.
“Certainly. Delphi, turn the lights on,” he calls, and the room brightens.
I feel like a fool for not guessing he wouldn’t have this place rigged to the nines with every piece of smart home technology.
Grayson exits and leaves me in this pristine abyss of a room by myself. A Picasso replica hangs over the fireplace. At least, I think it’s a replica.
In a billionaire’s house, you can’t be sure.
I move closer to the wall to investigate, but get sidetracked by pictures of a young Ward.
The “Brandt boys” as kids are adorable. Ward stands out immediately even though he’s roughly the same size as Nick until their teen years. Interspersed between pictures of the boys together are photos of them with their grandparents, scenes of Ward with a younger, stylish Beatrice and an older man hanging over him, plus intermittent works from Picasso’s blue period which happens to be my fave.
But why are there no pictures of his parents?
Weird.
I slowly scan the walls a second time, looking for the Brandt brothers, or at least Ward with a couple younger than his grandparents.
Nothing. Evidently, my fake fiancé doesn’t have a single picture with his folks.
He’s a Wardhole and a workaholic, but he cares intensely for his grandma and little brother. He’s a family man at his core, so the absence is striking.
What’s going on with the Brandts?
There might be things about Ward I just don’t know. But I know him well enough to be sure he’s not the type to just write family off without good reason.
The painting over the fireplace is so detailed, it could easily be authentic. With Ward taking his sweet time, my curiosity gets the best of me.
I climb up on the rock ledge in front of the empty fire, hoping to get closer to the signature.
I’ve seen enough Picassos in school to take a fair guess if the signature is original. Even standing on the ledge, it’s still too far above my head to inspect. I stretch up on my toes, putting my arms out at the side to hold my balance.
I know what to do.
Crossing the table, I pull a chair over to the fireplace. Then I try to get all four legs settled on the stone ledge, but when it’s obvious that’s not working, I settle for two. The other legs are almost-but-not-quite on the very edge of the platform.
Risky, yes, but I’m dying to know.
I scramble up on the chair, inching closer, straining my eyes.
In the corner of the painting, it’s there. Thick black letters, but a good replica might also reproduce the signature exactly.
Picasso was one of the few artists lucky enough to make his signature worth something during his lifetime. I lean forward for a closer look.
The chair wobbles.
Eek! I throw my arms out, trying to rebalance, but—
The chair teeters back and forth once. Back and forth twice.
Then I’m falling, weightless for a split second before my back crashes against an unforgiving wood floor. “Ow!”
Where’s my dark knight when I need him?
12
Ninety Damn Days (Ward)
Thump!
“Ow!”
The walls of the house are pretty solid, but I could hear a human body falling from a town away.
“Paige is here,” I say glumly.
Nick looks up, his eyes darting around.
The door to my study creaks open. “Mr. Brandt?”
I nod. “I’ll be right there, Grayson. Go check on her, please, and see if she needs an ice pack.”
“Yes, sir.” Grayson closes the door.
“Ice pack?” Nick echoes.
“That sound was her falling.”
He stares at me.
“How did you miss the thud followed by the scream?” I grumble, slapping his shoulder. “Pay attention!”
“I just assumed it was a pipe or something.” He shrugs. “But why would Paige go falling over the second she shows up?”
“Because no matter how many pairs of sensible shoes I force on her, she still insists on wearing something horrible she can’t walk in,” I growl.
Not to mention something that’s pure torture to look at. Those demon heels summon every bad thought I shouldn’t be having about my soon-to-be fake fiancée.
&nb
sp; Nick laughs. “I’m starting to get why you finally agreed to this.”
“Don’t start.” I glare at him.
He tries wiping the grin off his face, and not very well.
“We’ve got the terms down pat. As soon as she signs, we’re golden,” he muses.
“We hope.”
I should make sure Paige hasn’t broken a bone, or worse. I push my chair back and stand.
“We can’t fuck this up, Ward,” Nick warns. “We’ve got to get this into the news cycle the right way if we want anyone buying it.”
“We won’t. I’m a Brandt and an independent billionaire. That alone should draw plenty of eyes. But if it doesn’t, I’ve got the balls to make a scene if I need to.”
Nick nods. “We’re counting on you.”
Don’t I know it? Fuck.
“Hey, if you treat her real well, maybe you’ll land a wife to keep. Bonus, right?”
I glower at him.
“Right. Well, I’m heading back to the city if you’re sure about this contract,” he says.
“If you’re planning your latest debauchery, try to keep a low profile. We can’t have anything overshadowing this, Nicholas.”
He gives me this silent, shit-eating grin.
“For once, I’m not in the spotlight. Your turn, bro.”
An exasperated groan slips out of me. “Just don’t do anything stupid. Don’t make our reputation worse while I hire a would-be bride to rinse us.”
“Scout’s honor.” He holds up crossed fingers.
“You were never a Boy Scout and neither was I.” I walk out the door.
I need to make sure Paige isn’t hurt.
In the foyer, she has both hands on a heavy wooden chair that’s toppled on its side, missing a leg, trying to right it.
Grayson stands behind her. “Allow me, Miss Holly.”
“It’s fine. I’m the klutz who broke it. I’ll clean up my own mess.”
“Do I even want to know?” I ask.
She visibly bristles at my voice.
Apparently, I’m the Wardhole she keeps insisting I am.
Paige lets go of the chair and meets my eyes. “Before you lay into me, no, I don’t have a good excuse. I wanted to see Picasso.”
“Try me.” I hold in a chuckle.
