Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
“Exactly,” Nick nods, reading my misery.
“We’ll figure it out. There has to be another way. Besides, Paige wasn’t even interested. And I’m not sure we could ever keep some random chick quiet long enough to seal the deal.” I shake my head, dumbfounded that I’m even entertaining this insanity. “Plus, if word ever got out that I hired a fake fiancée to con some old man into dealing with us, that’s a kiss of death.”
“That’s what nondisclosure agreements are for,” Nick says. “Jane Nelson works in accounting. She’s bubbly and gets along with everyone. I’m sure she’d be willing.”
“Who?”
“Sandra Nelson’s granddaughter.”
“Again, who?” I stare.
“The old blond lady who used to give us oatmeal cookies when we started here with Grandma. Gah, you’re lucky I’m the people person around here.” He stabs his thumb at his chest proudly.
The original accountant. Right. But I don’t follow.
“Why would I fake an engagement to her granddaughter?”
“She’ll keep her mouth shut for Grandma, if nothing else. She’s got family roots at the firm.”
I can’t picture this girl. I don’t even know who she is. I’d rather drink decaf for a solid month.
“Nick, this is more batshit than faking it with Paige.”
It’s also infinitely less exciting, but of course I don’t say it.
He grins. “Yeah? I wonder why, brother.”
“Forget it.” I roll my eyes. “Let me figure this out. We’re not getting anywhere by lying about marrying some poor girl.”
Nick shrugs. “Pay her well. She won’t be poor then.”
Before I can rip into him, there’s a soft tap at my door.
Nick stalks over and opens it.
Speak of the gorgeous devil.
Paige comes strolling in, deliberately avoiding my eyes. She’s still fuming about yesterday.
Without missing a beat, she sails to my desk, but she leans too far forward.
“You’re wearing stilettos again.” It slips out of me before I can stop it.
I don’t need to look.
“I read the entire dress code front to back, three times,” she says, folding her arms. “There’s nothing against heels in there.”
“Whoever wrote it expected people who couldn’t walk in stilettos not to wear them.” I meet her eyes with a blaze.
“Well, I’m code compliant.” She drops a slab of files on my desk, flips one open, and puts her finger above a line. “You’ll want to sign this one. It’s due by noon, Mr. Brandt.”
My fist tightens.
I shouldn’t hate that we’re back to Mr. Brandt so much.
“What are you so mad about now?” She sighs, her brows knit together as she rests a hand on her hip.
“No idea what you mean, Miss Holly,” I growl back.
“Shit. I already believe you’re married,” Nick mutters, waving his hand in the air and chuckling as he closes the door behind him on his way out.
Paige keeps looking at me with those bright-green, all-too-expectant eyes.
“What? The shit Nick said yesterday was all on him,” I grind out.
“Yes, you made that very clear. Oh—wait, I think you actually blamed me for it.”
“I didn’t mean—it was just—an inappropriate suggestion,” I try, hating how easily she knots up my tongue.
“Can’t disagree with you there, Warden. As soon as you scribble your signature, I’ll get this sent out.”
I pick up a pen and slash my name across the contract. “We had a truce.”
“We still do. I didn’t even forget your coffee this morning.”
She’s right.
She’s doing her job. She didn’t poison me with a blob of sugar. She’s acting like a pro.
So why am I so enraged about it?
Bah.
“Change your shoes,” I order.
“Yeah, no. It’s inappropriate to wear slippers in the office. When I’m on the clock, I’d rather be completely professional, including my attire.” She shrugs. “I mean, unless I’ve had a glass of wine before the art museum. Then I’m—what’s the word?—oh, yeah...fireable.”
“Paige.” I stand, ready to grab her if I need to, and talk some goddamned sense into her.
Even if I’m well aware I’m fooling myself, and the only person in this room who deserves a dressing down is me.
Too slow.
Before I can round my desk, much less say a single word, she grabs the signed file and storms out.
Grandma adjusts her hospital bed so she’s sitting up, a striking silhouette even when she’s down for the count.
“I thought you’d forgotten me,” she jokes.
I smile. “Grandma, you know that’s not possible.”
Someone knocks on the door.
“Food services!”
Before I can move to open it, the door opens and a cart rolls in.
“Lunch is served,” a lady behind the cart says before rushing out the door again.
“Hm. Lunch,” Grandma says, as if she has some doubt what they’re serving is edible. “Now, if one of you were visiting me in the middle of the workday, I’d expect Nick. What’s wrong?”
My eyes meet hers slowly.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” I ask, remembering how impossible it is to hide anything from this silver whip of a woman.
“It isn’t obvious?” She cackles. “You’re not working, Ward. How’s the weather in Hades, anyway? I’m a bit worried it’s below freezing.”