CHARLEE
“Good morning,” I say to Rath as he steps off the elevator, looking fine as hell in a tailored navy-blue suit with a white shirt and tan shoes. It’s casual business attire for him, an outfit I’m sure he didn’t put much thought into, but to me, it’s an aphrodisiac.
This past week has been an emotional roller coaster not just because of my grandma, who refuses to tell me any information about her health, but because of the man standing in front of me, wearing a charming smile on his face—a smile I didn’t experience until this past weekend when he melted any kind of shield I’d tried to keep around my heart.
Not only did he visit me once last week, but twice. He came to my apartment concerned, full of compassion, and showed me a side of him I’d never seen before.
He held me while I cried.
He listened to me while I sobbed.
He made me laugh when I was least expecting it.
And of course, he charmed the pants right off my grandma . . . and me. Literally, when he left, she shucked her pants and said she needed a cigarette from just being around him. Is it odd to say I felt the same exact way?
Saturday night I went to bed with a huge smile on my face. I didn’t see it at first. I thought he was a robot, someone who didn’t know how to feel an ounce of emotion, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Renita said he was a nice guy, but she missed the mark. He isn’t nice, he’s amazing.
He made me feel things I haven’t felt in a really long time, or maybe ever. He made me question my sanity every time he laughed, he made me swoon when he smiled, and when he was leaving, he made me feel like I couldn’t take another breath if he didn’t kiss me right then and there.
I couldn’t stop myself from touching him, from pressing my finger to his rock-hard chest, from giving him small hints here and there that if he wanted to pull me in by the waist and ravish my mouth with his, I would let him.
But he didn’t and as he walked away, I dug deep and forced myself to breathe. To let go of the feelings coming at me full force.
That was until he walked off the elevator.
Rath gives me a quick once-over and then studies my eyes for a few breaths. “You were crying this morning.” Not a question, but a statement. “Why are you here?”
Always observant, a quality I find incredibly sexy. No one sees me like he does.
“Because I want to work. I need to get out of the apartment.” Together we walk to his office. “My grandma is slowing down more and more and it’s startling, so I needed some time away.”
“Then you can leave at noon so you can be with her.” He sets his briefcase on the floor next to his desk but doesn’t take a seat. He sits on the edge of his desk, arms crossed, and faces me.
I felt the shift in our relationship when he came over to check on me, when he pulled me onto his lap and cradled my head to his chest, stroked my back. When he stopped by on Saturday, I continued to feel the shift from business only to getting mixed up into each other’s personal lives. I thrived off the shift, loving the way he relaxed and showed an unexpected layer of depth.
Coming into the office this morning, I was nervous that shift would go back to what it used to be, but from his body language, his casual posture, his concern, I can proudly say, the shift held.
“That’s not necessary. She’ll only be sleeping at this point. I’d rather be here, helping you. I know it’s hard to understand, but I truly do love this job, and the distraction is nice. Just this morning, I caught her looking through her wedding album and crying into her handkerchief.” I get choked up myself. “I can’t be there, have the constant reminder of what’s to come and what’s not to come.”
“I can understand that.” He pushes off the desk and takes a step forward. Reaching out, he pushes a piece of hair behind my ear. “Were you crying this morning because of the album?” The touch is intimate, loving, and when I want to push my face into his hand, he pulls away, clearing his throat, almost like he’s chastising himself for reaching out.
I nod. “Yeah, just too raw.” I sigh and flippantly say, “Hell, at this point, I’d randomly marry someone just to give her what she wants before anything happens to her . . . you know?”
When I look up at him, I watch as his brow pinches together. Does the idea of randomly marrying someone not meet his approval?
He looks off to the side, deep in thought. I wish I could be inside his head, hear all his thoughts, rather than trying to guess what he’s thinking about. Turning back to me, he scratches the back of his neck and says, “Why don’t you do that? Get married?”
Wow, I was not expecting that.
“Oh, okay.” I laugh. “Yup, let me go pick out a guy from the hundreds lined up at my door. Not to mention, marrying someone is serious.”
“What if it didn’t have to be?” he asks, his eyes running wild now, as if he’s come upon a reasonable solution. “A marriage of convenience.”
Oh Rath. I chuckle and shake my head. “You know, I think you’ve been reading too many historical romances. You’ve sort of lost it, boss man romantic pants.”
“I’m serious,” he says, looking me square in the eyes, in earnest. “You can get married, wear the dress for your grandma and then later, get an annulment. At least she’ll have her moment.”
“Under false pretenses,” I argue and wonder if he’s lost it. “Plus, who on earth would sign up for that farce? She would never believe I’d marry any random person.”
“Doesn’t have to be a random person.” He pauses, his chest rising and falling faster than before. Time stretches between us as his eyes bore down on mine. It feels like ten minutes pass before he finally licks his lips and says, “Marry me.”
The room stills and only the light hum of his computer fills the silence as I try to comprehend what he just said.
Marry him?
He can’t be serious. From the shocked look on his face, I’m not the only one stunned from his suggestion.
“What?” I whisper.
Taking a deep breath, he pushes away and paces his office, one hand pushing through his hair. Finally, with his head tilted down, he glances at me and says, “Marry me.”
That’s what I thought he said, but I still can’t quite understand why he would suggest such a thing. Why he’d want to fake a marriage with me. I know he likes my grandma, but that much?
And why does he look so serious, as if he’s given this great thought, as if this is one of the wisest decisions he’s ever made?
And why does the suggestion flip my stomach in nervous but excited knots?
Marry Rath Westin. The idea is so far-fetched, so unbelievable, and yet, I know one person who would believe it, one person who would be incredibly happy over the entire prospect.
“Rath . . .”
“It would help me out too,” he says quickly. “A wife, a fiancée would assist me with a few upcoming events.”
“What upcoming events?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.
“Fundraisers,” he answers quickly. “The people with the bigger pockets have wives; they’re more receptive to donating if I show a softer side of myself.” He points at me. “That would be you.”
He does make a valid point. I’ve been to those events with Mr. Danvers and noticed how easily he racked up the donations and deals because of how entertaining his wife was. And when Rath and I were in Miami, including when speaking to female executives, having someone by his side who could maintain and execute business conversation was a definite bonus. Mind you, some probably wished I wasn’t by his side, given how close they tried to get to him. Unsurprisingly . . .
“So . . . this would be like a business deal then?”
“Yeah, a marriage of convenience. We both get something out of it. You get your walk down the aisle in your grandma’s dress, I get a charming woman on my arm to help me with the upcoming donation season. The holidays are right around the corner, people have money to spend, and I want Westin Enterprises to be who they donate to.”
“You think I’m charming?”
I awkwardly fluff my hair to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t lighten up at all. He grows more serious. “You know I think you’re charming.”
Oh God, those eyes. I know what eyes those are. Those are promising eyes, the type that make you weak in the knees. And guess what, they’re doing just that.
Wafting my shirt a bit because yeesh, it’s hot in here, I say, “What about, you know, all the intimate stuff? We’re going to have to kiss and touch each other.”
“That won’t be a problem on my end,” he says with such confidence that it makes me wonder, has he thought about touching me before? Kissing me? He does find me attractive but how far has he run with that attraction in his imaginative mind?
“And what about your employees?” I ask, feeling I need to flesh out all the details.
“What about them?”
“Well, I thought you had a thing with your assistant before. Are you afraid they’re going to think you hired me just to marry me?”
Without even showing a tick of worry, he says, “I pay them well, I treat them nicely, I am one hell of an employer. I don’t care what they think, as long as they do their job.”
Ohh-kay. There goes that theory.
“Living arrangements. If we get married, we’ll have to live together.”
“Your point?” He lifts an eyebrow as if there’s no point at all.
“I’m a beast,” I say, really reaching. “I’m unpleasant when I wake up, I hog the bathroom counter space, and I always forget to refill the coffee pot. I wake up looking like a wooly mammoth who had a rough night out, and I refuse to have to hold in my farts. They’re going to happen. It’s life.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Is that what this is really about? You’re concerned about farting in front of me?”
“No,” I say louder than I want. “This is about me, your assistant, marrying you, my boss. We . . . we’re not romantically involved.”
“I’m aware. That’s a minor concern.” Oddly, the more we talk about this, the more he grows confident in his suggestion. At least that’s what it seems like from the outside. Who knows what’s going on inside that gorgeous head of his?
What’s even more disturbing than his conviction is how Ialmost think this might be a good idea. With his casual presentation, as if it’s no big deal, just a suggestion he throws down every once in a while on Mondays.
To be honest, it’s not that terrible of an idea. Be married for a few months, pass it off as an epic fling, and then amicably separate. He gives me his Hampton’s estate, I give him my bin of color-coded pens—done and done.
Could I really do this? Could I really marry Rath Westin?
He’d be easy on the eyes, that’s for sure. He’s also fun, my grandma adores him, he likes historical romances, and even though I know he will deny it to the day he dies, I know he talks to the plants I’ve put in his office. They are thriving too much, there’s no way he’s ignoring them.
But marry him? Would we have pastries every morning over a cup of coffee? Would he make room for me in his closet? Would we share the same bed? Would he—gulp—have sex with me? Would he even be able to pretend we’re a couple?
That’s the biggest question. When I jump into something, I go all in. I always have. So, if we did this, I’d be 100 percent in, which means my acting would be top-notch. There would be touching and nicknames and kisses and hand holding. Could he touch me as if he truly found me attractive?
There’s only one way to find out.
Wanting to test him, I take a few steps forward until there’s about a foot between us. He doesn’t move an inch as he leans against his desk, his hands gripping the edge.
“You really think you could do this? Be married to me?” I take another step forward and hoist on my big girl pants as I lay my hand across his chest. Rock-hard muscles meet my palm and I try not to show an ounce of surprise as I move my fingers over the patch of skin that’s exposed by his open shirt. “You think you could be okay with me being this close?” I close the space between us until our bodies are lightly touching. His eyes stay trained on me, his body unwavering. “You think you could go to these events, hold my hand, and introduce me as your wife?”
My fingers play with the neatly trimmed hair on his chest.
Instead of answering right away, he lifts one hand and slowly moves it to my back. His touch is light, almost as if he’s unsure . . . until he applies more pressure and moves his hand to the small of my back, just above the curve of my ass.
I suck in a sharp breath when his fingers toy with the globe of my rear but never fully moving all the way down.
In a deep voice, deeper than I’ve heard before, he says, “I would be honored.”
Crap.
I’m pretty sure my bra just popped open from my “heaving bosom.”
He’d be honored.What a response. The kind of response that would normally make me drop my pants and offer up the goods, but I’m trying to hook this man into marrying me, not scare him away.
Well, technically, he’s trying to hook me into marrying him.
Hell, the lines are so blurred at this point with the raging thoughts of him shirtless floating through my mind and the pressure of his hand on my back, that I really have no idea what’s happening.
That’s why, as I bend down in front of him, his crotch at eye level, I wonder if I’m about to propose or attempt a blowie on my boss?
Grandma is getting to my head.
“What are you doing?” Rath asks, looking concerned but also intrigued at the same time.
It’s now or never. I either take him up on his opportunity or I don’t. And with my grandma’s sickness weighing heavily on my mind, I do the one thing I never thought I’d do. I take a knee in front of my boss . . .
“Rath Westin, my boss, my commander in chief, my Gucci Governor—”
“I don’t wear Gucci.”
“Go with it.” I wink, feeling the wobble in my leg, the nerves bubbling up in the pit of my stomach. “Mr. Big Shot, Barking Britches, and Irritable Ira—”
“Jesus . . . Christ.” He rubs his hand down his face and I think I might be losing him, so I hurry it up before I lose confidence and finally come to the understanding that what I’m doing might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
“Will you do me the great honor . . .” I wobble to the side and quickly clutch his hand for support. “Will you . . .” Oh my God, why am I getting emotional? My eyes are watering. I shouldn’t be getting emotional, but this is a big moment in a girl’s life and hell . . . I’m proposing. I’m allowed to be emotional. “I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before.”
“I sure as hell hope not,” he mutters.
“And I didn’t think I’d get emotional either.” From the scared look on his face, I’m thinking he didn’t think I’d get emotional either. But hey, this was his idea, so he’s going to have to deal with my craziness. “Will you do me the greatest honor of all time and be my bridegroom?”
His nose scrunches up. “Why did you say it like that?”
“Did I not do it right?” Sheesh, I thought it was a good proposal. Did he want me to wax him poetic beforehand because I mean, I could go into detail about the way he’s really good at sneering at things he doesn’t approve of. “See, I knew I was doing something wrong.”
He shakes his head. “No, why did you say bridegroom?”
“Oh, well, that’s what you’d be.” Has he not been paying attention to the terminology in the historical romances I’ve been providing him? Bridegroom is a classic term for the hero. Duh. “You see, that’s what they used to call men who were soon to be married . . . a bridegroom. But then somewhere along the way they shortened it to groom. But if you marry me, I’d give you the great dignified pleasure of retaining the honorable title, bridegroom.”
“Don’t call me bridegroom.”
“Boss man bridegroom?” I smile brightly.
With a roll of his eyes, he pulls me to my feet and continues to hold my hand. “You don’t need to propose to me, Charlee.”
“Well, someone needs to propose to someone if we’re going to do this.”
“Is this what you want? You want to marry me?”
What a loaded question. Do I want to marry him? Before this weekend, I would have thought I was crazy, proposing to a man who sneers at me more than smiles, but I’ve seen a different side of him. A loving, caring side, a side that I immediately became addicted to. He’s protective and a fixer and that’s what he’s trying to do: fix this giant problem I have.
I always thought when I married someone, I’d marry them because they’re my soul mate, the person I can’t live without. But then again, I thought that about Chris and he chose the honeymoon over me.
Maybe marriage isn’t this grand idea of being in love. Maybe sometimes, it’s a convenient option to accomplish something. My inner, romantic self is telling me what a load of crock that statement is, but the girl who witnessed her grandma cry this morning over a wedding album, she’s agreeing.
“I mean, isn’t it what you want?”
Still holding my hand, he cups my cheek gently and says, “I want you—”
“Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to walk in on something . . .”
I snap away from Rath to find Mr. McCool standing at the threshold of Rath’s office in a black suit and black button-up shirt. His sinister gaze blazes through the both of us as he plays with the cuffs of his shirt.
“Uh, wh-what are you doing here?” Rath asks, sounding less like himself and more like a teenage boy being caught by his dad.
“Just came to see how my friend is doing.” He walks farther into the office. “Security let me up.” He takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of Rath’s desk. “Wanted to catch up.” He smiles. “Wanted to see if you made up with Bram.” He searches Rath’s desk. “Wanted to steal a Danish.” He scans us both, and I know he can see how bright red my face is. Motioning between us with two fingers he says, “What’s going on here?”
Tongue twisted, I lose my ability to form words. I want to say nothing. I want to help Rath out and let his friend know that there’s nothing at all developing between us, but the words don’t fall past my lips.
Instead, Rath lowers his hand around my waist, sending a wave of goosebumps across my limbs. He squeezes my side and stoically says, “We’re getting married.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Just like that, he’s going to announce our “engagement” to his friend without even discussing it with me? I mean, he didn’t even say yes to my proposal but now we’re engaged?
A slow smile spreads across Roark’s face as he says, “Bullshit.”
Squeezing me tighter, Rath says, “We are. Tell him, babe.”
Babe?That’s what he’s going to call me? Babe? Not something more endearing like snookums? Sweetie of my life? Sugar nips?
He’s going with babe?
Rath urges me with another squeeze of my hip and robotically I respond. “Yup. He’s my bridegroom.” I thumb toward Rath awkwardly and then pick up his hand and I rub my face against it even more awkwardly. “Just can’t wait to claim these hands as mine. So strong and . . . God, still using Aveeno? It smells like heaven.”
Roark stares at us blankly and then says, “I’m going to need to speak to my friend alone if you don’t mind, Charlee.”
“What you have to say can be said in front of her,” Rath says, being quite the gentleman as I practically make out with his hand in front of his friend. Seriously, Jennifer Aniston knows what she’s taking about.
Pausing the motorboating of his palm, I say, “You know, I have to run and get some more Danishes. Why don’t I do that and then we can all have one together? Toast the engagement.” I laugh nervously and then step away. “Always nice to see you, Mr. McCool.”
“Call him Roark,” Rath says, following closely behind me until we reach his door. Blocking me off from Roark’s prying eyes, he whispers, “Yes.”
Eyes feeling wild, I look around and say, “Yes, what?”
He grips my chin and forces me to look him in the eyes. “Yes, I will marry you, Charlee.”
Oh.
OH.
Ohhhhh . . . crap.
I nervously laugh. “How nice.” If he keeps staring at me like that, holding my chin, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it past today without motorboating his hand again. Unsure of what to do, I ask, “Do you want an engagement ring? I can pick out a big diamond for you, but it’s going to have to go on your tab.”
Hand still gripping my chin, he says, “This afternoon, we’re going ring shopping. Tonight, we’ll tell your grandma, together.”
“Oh, you know, maybe we should just—”
Before I can finish, Rath runs his hand to the back of my neck where he pulls me in close, our foreheads connecting. I suck in a sharp breath from the close proximity, his cologne making me feel dizzy, the lick of his lips making me feel like I might pass out.
“I’m giving you this one chance,” he whispers. “This one and only moment to say no. To walk away and forget I even suggested the idea. This is your out. If you don’t take it, we’re going through with this, no backing out.” Studying me deeply, his mouth mere inches from mine, he says, “What will it be, Charlee? Are you going to be my wife?”
Wife.
The way he says it, so possessively, turns me inside out, making me feel raw and vulnerable and needy. I want to ask him why? Why do this? But deep down, I want that title. I want to claim myself as Rath’s wife even though I’m not sure why. My mind is busy justifying it as a way to make my grandma happy and nothing else. This is not for my own happiness. This is for my grandma, my grandma who wants nothing more than to see me walk down the aisle and live the happily ever after she’s always dreamed of me having.
“What’s it going to be, Charlee?”
Taking a deep breath and a leap of faith, I say, “I’ll be yours.”
And for a brief second, I see a wave of relief wash through Rath’s eyes, right before he bends forward and presses the softest kiss I’ve ever felt to my cheek. Lifting back up, he keeps his hold on my cheek and jaw and says, “Noon, you and me. Got it?”
I nod, my heart about to beat right through my chest. I take a step back and then another until I’m at my desk and he slowly closes the door.
Exhaling, I grip my forehead and wonder what the hell I just agreed to.
Marrying Rath Westin. I hate to admit it, but a bud of excitement blossoms in the pit of my stomach. I’m going to be Mrs. Rath Westin.
Holy. Shit.