Marrying the Billionaire (Bishop Brothers Book 2)

by Allie Winters

  I wipe clear my expression. I’ve never been good at hiding reactions. I think the only reason I got it past Archer Saturday night was because he was paying more attention to his phone than me.

  “Oh… yeah.” Not a good liar either. Time to deflect and change the subject. “Do you have an iron? Some of my clothes are wrinkled.”

  “I’ll take care of that for you.”

  “Okay.” It seems Lori is definitely an extra perk to marrying. Despite Dad’s money, he never shelled out for any kind of cleaner or housekeeper for me.

  We talk a while longer about food, and she even makes some new hummus for me with avocado mixed in, but I have to stop myself from gorging to save room for my lunch date with Archer. At least, I’m telling myself it’s a date. He probably considers it a business meeting.

  An hour later, I step off the elevator on the fiftieth floor of Bishop Industries, receiving a few curious stares as I make my way to the reception desk, where I’m directed to Tracy, Archer’s private secretary, down at the end of the hall.

  A perky brunette makes eye contact with me as I near her, grinning from ear to ear. “Shut the front door,” she says excitedly as I stop in front of her desk. “You’re really here.”

  Um, yes? I’m not sure how she wants me to respond.

  “I just can’t believe Mr. Bishop was in love with you this whole time,” she gushes, apparently not needing a response from me. “When I saw him declare himself like that, I nearly fell off my bed.”

  “Your bed?”

  “Oh, yeah. Someone was live streaming it.”

  Wonderful. There’s probably already some meme floating around out there about the three of us at that altar.

  “Anyway, he’s just so stoic here at the office, so it came as a huge surprise. But then when I read Gabriel’s editorial this morning in the Manhattan Herald… Wow, what a revelation.”

  What’s this now about an editorial? That wasn’t part of the marketing packet.

  I paste on a smile, unsure how to answer her. “Is Archer available?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course. Here I am, just gabbing away.” She picks up the phone on her desk, murmuring, “Mr. Bishop? Your wife’s here to see you.” Your wife she mouths to me, giving me a thumbs up. Did she mix energy drink in her coffee this morning or something?

  She hangs up, continuing her one-sided conversation fluidly. “Anyway, you two are just the cutest couple. You’re so gorgeous, and Archer, well, you’ve seen him. A total fox, right?”

  She pauses a beat, then seems to realize what she said. “Don’t tell him I said that, okay? Oh God, I’d die if he knew I was talking about him like that. Anyway, he’ll see you now.”

  I cautiously tread past her, half expecting for her to jump into another monologue, but she simply smiles at me.

  The furniture in Archer’s office is eerily similar to the living room at home, all black and silver, and he glances up at me briefly as I enter. “I’ll be a few minutes,” he says brusquely, turning his attention back to his monitor. “I’ve been putting out fires since last night with my stupid outburst Saturday.”

  “No rush.” Well, at least I know now why he never came out of his office again yesterday. I thought he might have been avoiding me.

  But I wish he wouldn’t say stepping in like that was stupid.

  I take a seat on the couch against the window and pull out my phone, curious about this editorial Tracy mentioned.

  The first search engine result links me to the Manhattan Herald’s site, a photo of me and Archer exchanging rings at the top of the article. And the author is listed as Gabriel Bishop. What in the world?

  Serena Montague and I had a whirlwind courtship - there’s no denying that. We rushed into an engagement blindly, not realizing how wrongly suited we were for one another, but it was too late by the time I realized it.

  As we planned the wedding, I could sense the growing friendship between her and my brother, happy they were getting along even as the ease between them confused me. I didn’t recognize it for what it was, how much better the two of them fit together. But Serena and Archer were too honorable to act upon the connection.

  At the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding, I finally admitted to myself that Serena and I had rushed into this impulsively. What had been an initial spark was only that - a small ember that had already fizzled. But between her and Archer? That was a steady flame.

  There was mutual respect there. Laughter from her I’d never been able to replicate. A happiness from my brother I’ve hardly witnessed in the nearly thirty years I’ve known him. But most of all, an attraction they refused to acknowledge out of deference to me. And I couldn’t be the one to deny them that. So I stepped aside.

  Now, please don’t call me some kind of martyr. I should have done it earlier. I shouldn’t have selfishly thought things would be fine. But looking into Serena’s eyes at the altar, I knew I could never make her as happy as Archer could.

  I wish them both a lifetime of happiness. They are two of the finest people I know.

  My phone drops in my lap, surprised at Gabriel’s words. They’re obviously fake, but parts of it hit closer to home than he knows. It’s true he could never make me as happy.

  On the other hand, if all Archer and I have is a pretend marriage for the next however many years, could having unrequited feelings end up being worse than the indifference Gabriel and I shared?

  “Sorry about that,” Archer says, standing and buttoning his suit jacket. “It was time sensitive.”

  I nod, surreptitiously eyeing the way his shoulders fill out his suit as he rolls them back, how handsome he is, how powerful.

  No, I’ll never regret marrying Archer instead of Gabriel, no matter how it turns out.

  An aura of quiet authority surrounds him as we head out of his office and toward the elevator, the people we pass giving deferential nods or murmuring, “Mr. Bishop,” with respect in their tones.

  There’s something exciting about being by this man’s side, his long legs striding confidently down the hall like he owns the place. Well, I guess he does in a way. Or will one day as his father’s successor. And from what I can gather, it wasn’t just a vanity appointment to his current position as CFO solely because of who his father is.

  He jabs the elevator button as we reach it, his thumb tapping restlessly against his leg for a moment before he sticks his hands in his pockets, and the metal doors slide open, a heavyset man already inside. “Mr. Bishop. Mrs. Bishop.” He nods, stepping aside to make room for us.

  Full body chills race over my skin at his reference to me as Mrs. Bishop. No one has called me that yet.

  I glance over at Archer to see if he caught it too, but he’s concentrating on the elevator’s digital readout descending methodically.

  Today’s mission is to figure out a way to break through his reserve. Discover things we have in common. Make a connection.

  No pressure.

  For now, I enjoy standing close to him, inhaling the subtle spice of his cologne, and as we exit the elevator, a tingle of electricity rushes through me as he gently presses his palm against my lower back.

  I shouldn’t read anything into it, but I can’t help but savor it all the same.

  The stares are even more obvious as we pass through the lobby of the building to his waiting town car downstairs, and if it’s this bad here, it’s sure to be worse at Evergreen. Expensive, exclusive, and frequented by the elite of New York, the marketing packet listed it as a prime location for paparazzi.

  He scrolls through emails on his phone as the driver takes off, and I rack my brain for something to say, unwilling for any private time we spend together to be in silence. We’re supposed to be connecting, not ignoring each other.

  “I read that piece Gabriel wrote for the Manhattan Herald. Or did the PR team write it?”

  “What?” he asks, only half paying attention.

  “The editorial about us.”

  His thumb pauses in its scro
lling before he carefully sets his phone down on his lap. “What are you talking about?”

  “Tracy told me…” I fumble in my purse for my phone, praying I still have the article up in my browser. “You mean it wasn’t part of the strategy?”

  “No.” The single word sends a shiver down my spine.

  I hand him my phone, his face impassive as he reads through his brother’s explanation to the world.

  “Well, this will help squash the rumors we’ve been going behind his back,” he finally says.

  People are actually saying that about us? I’ve deliberately avoided social media the past few days.

  “Has your dad seen it yet?”

  “I’m sure I’ll hear about it,” he mutters as the car comes to a stop.

  He grips my hand as we step out, keeping it in a loose hold as we enter the restaurant, a few whispers and curious glances circling us as we pause at the hostess podium and then continue on to a private table in the corner. I choose the seat facing away from the other patrons, pretending they aren’t actively staring at us.

  After the server takes our orders, I pull the marketing packet out of my purse, smoothing it out in front of me. “Should we come up with a game plan for the next few days?”

  He nods, folding his hands in front of him. “Do you have any events you planned to go to?”

  “No, just work.”

  He frowns. “You work?”

  “I run a nonprofit. The Montague Animal Foundation.” Although, maybe I should change it to Bishop now that Dad refuses to fund it. “I sit on the boards of a few other local nonprofits too, but I’m not as involved with them. We only meet once a month at most.”

  “Oh.”

  Why does he sound surprised? “Did you have something in mind to attend?”

  He adjusts his silverware in front of him, aligning it with the edge of the table. “There’s a benefit I’m expected to go to tonight, actually. It’d be easy to add you as my plus one.”

  I internally grimace. Small talk with people I don’t know? Terrible vegetarian options? Just please let it not be one that has dancing too.

  “Sounds great,” I say, pasting on a smile. “Who’s it for?”

  “American Heart Association. No, lungs. Wait… kidneys?” He shakes his head after a moment. “One of those. Dad bought a table and wanted me to make an appearance.”

  “Will he be there?” I’d rather avoid Mr. Bishop’s cold air of disapproval if possible.

  “No. He’s stepped down from attending a lot of these kinds of things over the last couple years.”

  “And you go in his place?”

  He nods, his lips twisting. “Well, Gabriel did most of it. But now I guess he won’t.”

  “And you don’t enjoy going?”

  He stills. “What makes you say that?”

  My hand flutters up to my face. “You made this expression…” Crap. I shouldn’t be admitting how closely I’m watching him.

  He sighs, realigning the silverware. “It’s not that I’m unwilling to help - I’ll donate all day - but I don’t see how me sitting in a ballroom with a bunch of other suits is going to make a difference.”

  I take in the expensive cut of his suit, the heavy watch on his wrist that screams wealth. The breadth of his shoulders, those piercing blue eyes. But all of that isn’t what makes him so captivating. He has an aura of… power surrounding him. There’s no other way to describe it.

  “You lead by example. Others see you there and realize it’s a worthy cause. People have always followed you.”

  “I… guess I’ve never thought of it like that before. Outside work at least.” He squints at me like he’s trying to figure something out, but our server comes then with our salads and I use the opportunity to look busy so he won’t scrutinize me anymore.

  We decide on a few other places to make our appearances over the next week, each one a necessary evil, but it’s guaranteed time to spend with him. To appear in love. But as our entrees arrive, he utters those dreaded words, “So about some ground rules.”

  I don’t want there to be rules. I want this to be a marriage, or at least like dating. Exploring this new relationship, discovering each other, intertwining our lives.

  Not separating things further.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “For starters-”

  A shadow crosses our table, Archer going silent.

  “Well, if it isn’t the happy couple.”

  Chapter Five

  Archer

  “Harlan.” I nod politely, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at his shit-eating grin.

  “What are the chances I’d run into you right after your big declaration? Congratulations by the way.”

  Serena sinks down the slightest bit in her seat, warily glancing between the two of us.

  He holds his hand out to her. “Harlan Nash. I went to high school with your husband here.”

  “I know,” she murmurs, slipping her small hand in his for a handshake.

  What does she mean she knows?

  “I went there too,” she continues at his quizzical expression. “I was two grades behind you guys.”

  That’s right. I forgot about Gabriel telling me that.

  “My apologies,” Harlan laughs. “You must know my wife, Courtney, then. She’ll be here in just a- Oh, there she is.”

  A brunette struts out of the ladies’ room, with a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses on despite being indoors, and makes her way over to Harlan, wrapping her arm around his waist. “Look who you found,” she says, smiling coquettishly at us. “Serena, I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  Serena gives a half-hearted nod, clearly not enthused with Courtney.

  “Would you like to join this party?” our server asks them, menus in hand.

  “Oh, you don’t have to-” I start, but I’m soon cut off by Harlan’s enthusiastic assent as he takes the seat next to me.

  Wonderful.

  “You have to tell me how you two met,” Courtney says, finally taking off her sunglasses as she sits down. “Was it through Gabriel?”

  There’s a calculating gleam in her eye, her fishing for information obvious. And, unfortunately, I don’t have an answer to give her. Serena and I haven’t got that far in coming up with a fleshed out story. And unlike at the wedding, when I could pawn any busybodies off with the claim that we had other people to talk to, there’s no way I can avoid the question now.

  “We met at Redmond Prep actually,” Serena says, looking down at the table.

  “Really? Do tell.”

  She fiddles with her straw wrapper for a moment before balling it up in her fist. “Well, it was the first week of classes and this big guy bumped into me, knocking me on the floor. My textbooks and notes I was carrying went everywhere. God, it was a huge mess.” She peeks up at me, a shy smile on her face. “And Archer was the one who helped me up.”

  The way she’s looking at me, almost like she’s captivated… Wow, her acting’s top-notch.

  “He asked if I was okay and made the guy apologize, then picked up my books. I never forgot how kind he was to do that.”

  She stares at me for a moment longer before breaking the contact. “We lost touch after high school but reconnected again recently. He hasn’t changed at all. Still kind and honorable. I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”

  I continue watching her, but she won’t look at me, a faint wash of pink on her cheeks. How does she do that so easily? The story seemed so believable, her reactions so natural. Has she taken acting classes?

  “That.” Harlan points at her. “That’s what we need.”

  Serena rears back at Harlan’s finger, eyes going wide. “What?”

  “For the show,” he says to Courtney. “Damn, we should have had the cameras follow us today.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Me, Frank, and Jordan are doing a show. They’re calling it Nash Ville.” He frames his hands wide like the title is supposed t
o impress us. “And you two would be perfect to have on it.”

  Serena sinks further in her seat. Yeah, I’m not crazy about the idea of being on reality TV either.

  “Isn’t there already a show with that name?”

  Courtney makes a noise of derision. “That’s what I said.”

  “No, ours has a space in between it. Because our last name is Nash.”

  “But you don’t live in Nashville. Aren’t your brothers here in New York too?”

  Courtney raises her brows at her husband as if she’s made this same argument, until he finally grumbles, “Fine. I’ll talk to the producers about it.”

  “Anyway,” Courtney picks up, “we’re filming now and would love to have you over for a dinner party. We can plug your app too during the segment.”

  Dad definitely wouldn’t say no to free publicity for ThousandWords. Plus, Serena and I need people to notice us doing things as a couple. But the thought of spending a night listening to Harlan Nash talk about himself is up there with gouging my eyes out. “We’ll think about it.”

  Serena sinks down in her seat even further, hunching her shoulders forward as she takes a bite of her food.

  She doesn’t utter a word as lunch continues on, and when Harlan and Courtney excuse themselves briefly to speak to another couple who just walked in, I gently nudge her.

  “Hmm?” She glances at me, a question on her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She blinks, appearing startled. “Nothing, why?”

  “You’re not talking.”

  “I… I don’t know them.”

  “I thought you knew Courtney.”

  She rolls her eyes. “From ten years ago. And it’s not like she was nice to me back then.”

  Why would anyone be unkind to her? “What do you mean?”

  Picking at her food, she takes a moment before answering. “You don’t remember me from high school, do you?”

  Am I supposed to? “I don’t,” I admit. “But the story you made up was a nice touch.”

  “I didn’t make it up.” She keeps her head down, staring at her plate, nearly empty since she’s had time to eat rather than attend to Harlan’s questions.