Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
“What do you want, then?” Her gaze doesn’t leave mine. “I know people. Not the right people to buy off Governor Mills, unfortunately, but other people. Do you have a loved one with a criminal record?”
There’s an actual pain in my gut. She has to already know the answer to that, and she’s trying to exploit it. But I wouldn’t help him if my life was at stake. Not for anything.
I can’t marry her. It’s insane. Yet…my mind is now running with the question, like someone who has just been granted a wish by a magic genie. What would I want if I could have anything? I’m a millionaire with my dream career, but what’s out of reach for me?
“There it is,” she says smugly. “You do want something. What is it?”
“My brother lives in Minneapolis. He’s twenty-three and he trains eight hours a day with a hockey coach. He’s good, but he didn’t get to play when he was in high school so he never got scouted. If you can get him on a Triple-A team, I’ll do it.”
“Done. What’s his name?”
“Heath Harrison.” I furrow my brow. “I don’t want him to ever know I had anything to do with it and I don’t want it to be our Triple-A team. Can you call in a favor from another owner?”
She considers my request. “He’s good enough, right?”
“Absolutely. And he’ll keep working with the trainer. He’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Okay. I can do that. But it may be Anaheim and I don’t want to hear any bitching about it.”
My heart pounds hopefully. “I’ll take any Triple-A team. Not just for a week or two, though. He gets at least a few months to prove himself.”
“Fuck.” She rolls her eyes. “This is going to cost me. But okay.”
I can’t give my brother my career, but I can give him the shot he deserves. I only wish I could be there when he gets the call he’s worked so hard for.
“I promise you he’ll kill it,” I say. “He wants this really fucking bad.”
She nods. “We have a deal. But listen, you can’t tell anyone this marriage isn’t real. Not even your teammates. I think our story should be that we’ve been sneaking around for a few months and we can’t stand being apart anymore, so…” She waves a hand, looking annoyed with the very idea of romance.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I promise. “How long will we have to do this?”
“I wish I knew, but I don’t. I’ll have attorneys on it, though. We’ll make sure it’s as short as possible.”
“Okay, wifey.” I grin at her.
She glares daggers at me. “Never call me that again.”
Then she extends her hand toward me and I shake it. Her skin is soft and her grip is strong.
I stand up, still not believing this whole conversation just happened. There’s still a shred of me wondering if I just bought into a well-played prank.
“I guess you’ll let me know when our wedding is?” I say lightly.
She puts her dark-rimmed glasses back on and turns to read something on her computer screen. “Talk to Quentin about getting a tux.”
“I have one.”
She looks away from the screen, sizing me up. “It’s not cheap, is it?”
I glare back at her. “You worry about what you’ll wear and I’ll worry about what I’ll wear.”
“Fine.”
“What’s my pet name for you?” I ask.
“What?”
“You know, if we’re in love, what do I call you when we’re alone?”
“Mila.”
She’s as warm as a block of ice. If we’re going to convince people we’re in love, she’s going to have to try harder than this.
“I’ll think of something.”
I leave her office, vowing to come up with the cheesiest pet name ever.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mila
Quentin nudges me and I take my Air Pods out.
“We’re landing in twenty minutes,” he says.
“Already?”
I was listening to a business podcast, our flight from Denver to New York City passing quickly. Quentin and I have two days to plan my wedding and we’re spending Day One in New York City picking out my wedding dress. He’s been furiously phoning vendors and calling in favors to secure food, flowers, and anything else we’ll need.
The ceremony will take place in the evening, as the sun sets, on the rooftop of a beautiful building I’m part owner of. Quentin is arranging for twinkle lights, lantern-like centerpieces, and every single white peony he can get his hands on.
“You’re the best, Cheryl. I’m for sure naming my firstborn after you,” Quentin says into the headset he’s wearing to take and receive calls on the flight.
“Toasted ravioli is a go for an appetizer,” he says to me. “That gives us meats and cheeses, crab cakes, stuffed mushrooms, and toasted ravioli.”
“You’re making me hungry. Let’s stop for food on the way to the dress shop once we land.”
Quentin gives me a judgmental look. “You don’t want to try on dresses right after eating.”