Chapter Seventeen

“What the fuck was that?” Roark asks as I take a seat at my desk, pushing my smoothie to the side, because even though I enjoy Charlee’s smoothies, I really need a pastry at this moment.

What the fuck was thatis a very good question, because honestly? I don’t know.

Marry me?

Where the fuck did that come from?

Actually, I know where it came from and I’m too embarrassed to even admit it. Charlee is to blame. This is all Charlee’s fault. Not because of the way she looked absolutely stunning this morning despite a fraction of red to her eyes from crying, or how for some reason, seeing her upset does something weird to me. I just dropped every rule I’ve ever made for myself and allowed myself to do and say stupid things.

This has nothing to do with seeing Charlee this morning and wanting to take her into my arms and make everything better. No, this is all a product of that stupid, godforsaken romance novel I was reading last night and early this morning on my drive to the office.

Marriage of convenience. It was on replay over and over in my head and by the time I got to my office, it simply popped out of my mouth. And of course, when she asked who she should marry, I immediately became jealous with anger and couldn’t tolerate Charlee marrying anyone but me. Overbearing I know, but it’s how I felt. Since I apparently have no filter, I asked her to marry me. Well, I guess she asked me and I said yes, but I suggested it. I’ve blacked out at this point. Something happened and now we’re engaged . . . because of a romance novel.

And for the record, nowhere in that book does the heroine call the hero a bridegroom. I make a mental note to look that up later.

And maybe, yeah, the way I’ve started to feel about Charlee might have had a hand in pushing me to tell her to marry me. The need to touch her, hold her, take her hand in mine, kiss her. The urge became too overwhelming and I snapped like a goddamn flimsy twig. The idea, ridiculous at that, became so real, so vivid in my head in the matter of seconds that NOT marrying Charlee wasn’t an option. And let’s not even start thinking about how soft her skin was beneath my fingertips. How I wanted to taste her lips and not just her cheek . . .

“Are you going to answer me?” Roark asks, looking far too amused.

“Where did what come from?” I try to be casual. “You called it. I was totally boning my assistant.”

“Yeah, I don’t believe that for a second. I might have joked about it, but I know you.” He studies me. “Did you patch things up with Bram?”

“Yes,” I say, turning on my computer and opening my emails. “He came over, we talked it out, everything is fine.”

“So ‘marrying’ Charlee,” he says, using air quotes, “has nothing to do with Vanessa coming to Bram and Julia’s wedding?”

“No,” I say firmly, even though that might not be the whole truth.

The marriage idea came about to help Charlee, to give her the opportunity to make her grandma happy. It wasn’t until I thought about how it could be helpful to me that I even considered Vanessa. It’s just an added bonus that I won’t have to go to the wedding alone. Having Charlee at my side will make the event much easier.

“You’re telling me that in a matter of what, two months maybe, you fell in love with this woman and now you’re getting married?”

“Yup,” I answer, clicking on an email from one of my top fundraisers.

“Dude,” Roark says, leveling with me. “Come on, stop fucking with me, what’s this really about?”

The thing about Roark is, he won’t ever let shit go, especially when it comes to his friends. A few weeks ago, when we picked our players for our fantasy football league, he was adamant about finding out why I was color-coding my notes in my notebook—since I’ve never done it before—he wouldn’t drop it until I finally told him Charlee got me into it. So, I was teased for the rest of the night. I’m nervous if I tell him the truth, he’s not going to be able to keep his mouth shut.

Then again, he’s not going to leave this office without getting to the bottom of it either so it doesn’t look like I have much of a choice.

Glancing over his shoulder, I make sure the door is shut and then I lean back in my chair and say, “Her grandma is sick, man.”

“Oh fuck,” Roark says, understanding crosses over his features. “Is it bad?”

I shrug. “No one is really sure and the grandma isn’t saying much. It’s a long story, but Charlee has one wish, that her grandma sees her walk down the aisle in her grandma’s dress.”

Roark nods in understanding. “So, you’re letting that happen.”

I pick up my pen and start to twirl it through my fingers. “Yeah. It’s beneficial to me with donation season just around the corner and finding that sympathy donation from the wives and/or female executives.” Roark nods his head in understanding. “And I don’t know, man.” I grip the back of my head. “She’s been really fucking upset and her grandma adores me. I figured it’s an easy solution and works in both of our favors.”

“Yeah, I can see the benefit.” Leaning forward he says, “But what happens when you can’t hide your feelings for her anymore, you’re married, and you actually start falling for her? What happens when she wants to get that divorce and you’re head over heels for the girl?”

“Not going to happen.”

Roark scoffs. “When did you become so fucking delusional, man?”

“I won’t allow myself to fall for her.”

“Yeah, okay.” Roark rolls his eyes. “Good luck with that, let me know how it turns out. The way I see it, that lass already has you wrapped around her pinky. She doesn’t know it, and you don’t know it but when you both figure it out, shit is going to hit the fan and I’m going to be sitting back with a goddamn smirk on my face ready to tell you, I told you so.”

Annoyed, I say, “Were you here for any other reason than busting my balls?”

He shakes his head. “Not really, other than the pastry.” He looks behind him. “When do you think she’ll return?”

“You know you have millions of dollars and people who work for you. Get your own goddamn pastries.”

“They don’t taste as good as when I steal them from you.”

I toss my pen at him. “Get the fuck out of here, you dickhead.”

“Are you ready for this?” I ask Charlee, who’s nervously bouncing her leg up and down in the car.

She’s been oddly silent ever since the proposal. She’s kept to herself, done her work, and has only checked up on me once rather than the usual three times in the morning. I even tried striking conversation with her when I went to take care of my morning dishes, but she quickly dismissed me and picked up the phone.

She’s having second thoughts. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world that she changes her mind. I know I only gave her one chance to say no, but I’m a pretty good guy, and giving her one more out seems like the right thing to do . . . even though throughout the morning I’ve come to appreciate the notion of a marriage of convenience.

If she says no, I can’t lie and say I wouldn’t be disappointed, because I would. I have completely convinced myself that this is a good idea, that I will prove Roark wrong and make him eat his own words.

She looks out the window, at the stone wall with the iconic lettering plastered over the door. I’m sure I could have found a jeweler who would custom design a ring for her, rather than taking her to Tiffany’s but we’re short on time, especially if we plan on telling her grandma tonight.

Sighing, I say, “Charlee, if you don’t—”

She shakes her head and says, “You already gave me an out, I said no. We’re going through with this.”

“I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

She turns toward me finally and softly smiles. “Rath, I was the one who proposed to you. I think if anyone is pressured, it’s you, because who really wants to say no to a girl proposing?”

“Yeah, about that. We’re not telling people you proposed to me.”

Her brow creases. “Why the hell not?”

“Because, I’m the one who proposed, and that’s how it’s going to work.”

“Rath, women can do whatever they want in this day and age. If we want to propose, we will.” With an extra pep in her step, she whips the door open and charges toward the door.

“Wait up,” I say, getting tangled up in the seat belt and nearly falling flat on my face right on the disgusting New York City sidewalk.

When she turns to see me nearly eat it, she giggles and covers her mouth.

Standing tall, I straighten my jacket. “Glad I could amuse you.”

“It would have been funnier if your shoe dipped into the sidewalk water.”

I take her hand in mine and say, “I’ll try harder next time.”

She pauses, halting my progress and she stares at our hands. “Is this the new normal?” she asks.

“Yes,” I answer without giving it second thought and lead her into the store.

I take in the countless glass jewelry cases strategically placed throughout the impressive, open space. Polished wood paneling decorates the walls, while marble inlets highlight ostentatious-looking potted plants. The place screams money, and I’m about to drop some.

“Mr. Westin,” a man greets me. “My name is Albert. Thank you for coming in. Shall I show you to the back?”

I take the man’s hand and give it a hearty shake. “That would be great. Thank you, Albert.”

“The back?” Charlee whispers as we follow Albert.

“It’s where all the abhorrently expensive rings are.”

“I don’t need abhorrently expensive, Rath. We just need a diamond.”

I ignore her and follow Albert, holding on to her hand tightly as she tries to point out rings along the way—rings that are not worth my time.

Albert takes us into a private room lined with black velvet walls and violet uplighting. There’s a table in the middle with at least ten different ring selections laid out on velvet padding.

I pull out the chair for Charlee and she shakes her head. Leaning into me, she whispers, “These are too big, Rath.”

Whispering back in a stern tone, I say, “Take a seat, Charlee.”

Detecting the tone, she takes a seat and I follow next to her, keeping her hand in mine the entire time.

Albert starts listing off the different rings in front of us, and I spot three that would be acceptable for Charlee to wear. One of them isn’t the biggest diamond out of the ten there, but it’s the most intricately designed, and is my favorite. But this isn’t my ring, this is Charlee’s, so I say to Albert, “Would you mind giving us some time alone?”

“Only because you’re a reputable man who I know would not do anything suspicious.”

Yeah, because stealing rings is what I want to do to destroy my reputation.

I give him a curt nod. “Thank you.”

Once the door is shut, I pick up the three rings and place them in front of her. “Which one do you like?”

“You have got to be kidding me, Rath.” Still whispering she says, “We’re in a back room. The only reason they make rooms like this is so people can drop an obscene amount of money.”

“Can you stop focusing on the money? The cost doesn’t matter to me.”

“It matters to me.”

“Charlee,” I say, pressing my fingers to my brow. “Do you understand I have money?”

“Yes, we all know you’re wealthy.”

“No, Charlee, not wealthy. Rich. Rich beyond anything I could spend in a lifetime. I have more money than I know what to do with. So, stop worrying about the money.”

“But it seems so pointless spending money on a little piece of jewelry. Why not donate that money and get something simple?”

“Fine, pick the ring you want between these three and whatever the price tag is, I’ll match it and donate to a charity of your choice.”

“You’re spending twice the amount? Are you insane?”

“Charlee, you’re starting to make me mad.”

At that, she chuckles. “Uh-oh, don’t want to make my bridegroom mad. Who knows what he’ll do?”

My tongue runs over my teeth. “You think you’re funny?”

“Yes.” She smiles.

Christ. That lift of her lips does me in and I smile too.

She pokes my chest. “See, lighten up, Mr. Crabby Pants.”

“Hard to lighten up when the entire drive here, you acted like you were on your death march. It almost feels like I’m holding a gun to your head at this point to get you to marry me. I’m not a bad guy, you know.”

She sighs and tilts her head. “No, Rath, you’re not a bad guy; you’re a really good guy actually. You’re so good that you’re trying to make this experience as perfect as possible with the big ring, but I don’t need perfect, I just need a moment.”

“And you’ll get your moment, I promise you that.”

Grateful, she takes her hand in mine. “Then let’s make a promise to each other right now. From here on out, if we’re going to do this, let’s have fun doing it. Which means, loosening up”—she shakes my hand—“and enjoying our engagement.”

I chuckle. “You’re going to make this a spectacle, aren’t you?”

“Would you expect anything else from me?”

I shake my head. “Not really, no.” Exhaling, I stare at the rings and then meet her gaze. “Okay, we’ll have fun doing this, but there’s one thing I won’t loosen up on and it’s the ring.”

“Rath . . .”

“Listen.” I lift my hand. “You’re going to be my wife, which means there’s a way of living we have to uphold to.”

“You don’t dress super fancy. You’re pretty average when it comes to a CEO, so why do we have to have a giant ring?”

“Because even though it doesn’t matter to me, or to you apparently, it’s a status symbol. A symbol many people will be checking on. The ring needs to be big because it’s important.”

“But won’t it look like we’re humble if we settle for something small? Kind of like we’d rather spend our money feeding the children in Africa than wearing a giant diamond on my finger?”

I squeeze her hand. “And that’s one of the reasons why you’re so amazing, Charlee, because your mind thinks with generosity rather than selfishness. Unfortunately, the people we’ll be showing the ring to don’t think that way. For them to network with me, with us, they need to know we’re on the same playing field, which means, big rings.” And if I’m truly honest, this is for me too. I want my wife, convenient or not, to have something incredible on her finger. And if anyone deserves this, it’s Charlee. For the fucker who left her in tears at the altar, for the way she’s color-coded and brightened my life, and for the fact that she said yes to me. She deserves this and more. But for now, an extravagant ring it is.

“Ugh, that’s stupid.” She leans back in her chair and stares at the rings. “But I know what you mean. Mr. Danvers was always polishing himself up before big events because he knew he had to put on a good show, even though he lived and breathed for casual Fridays where he could wear his jeans to work.”

“See? It’s not just me.”

“Fine.” She peers at the rings and gives them a good study, picking them up and carefully examining every aspect of them. Once she’s done, she says, “Do you have a favorite?” I nod. “Which one is it?”

“I’m not telling you. This is your decision, not mine.”

“What if I pick an ugly one that you hate?”

“I’ll be sure to never look at your finger.”

Pursing her lips, she gives them one more look before saying, “Okay, let’s point to our favorite on the count of three. And don’t you dare back down. You must point.”

“Okay.”

She looks me in the eyes and counts. “One. Two. Three. Point.”

We both go toward the middle ring, the one with the intricate details and just like that, her face lights up. “Oh my God, we’re already the cutest couple ever. Look at us pointing out the same thing. Hashtag soul mates.”

Chuckling and knowing this is going to be more fun with Charlee than any other person, I pick up the ring, scoot my chair out, and get down on one knee. “This right here, this will be our moment that we tell everyone. When they ask how I proposed, we’ll say I surprised you with a trip to Tiffany’s, where I escorted you to the back room. We’ll tell people we fought over how expensive the ring was, but then I cupped your cheek”—I do just that, reaching for her face . . . and her eyes start watering—“and then I said, ‘You’re worth it, Charlee. You’re worth every penny.’ Then, when their hearts are melting, we’ll add, I got down on one knee and I said, ‘Charlee, you bring so much light into my life and I can’t imagine a day going by without that light shining brightly on me, making me the happiest man on earth. Will you marry me?’”

On a wobbly smile, she says, “And then we’ll tell them how I clasped my hands to my chest”—she does just that—“and nodded yes, as tears streamed down my face.”

“And they’ll ask if we kissed.”

“And we’ll say, it was a watery kiss full of tears and joy.”

I slip the ring on her finger and then sit back in my chair, moving my hand behind her head so I can bring her closer. Carefully, I lower my head to hers, nervous as fuck, but knowing we have to get the first kiss out of the way if we’re going through with this plan. So, with enough courage, I bring my mouth to hers and wait a few breaths, leaving her the opportunity to close the rest of the space.

I hang out there, in the balance, waiting for her to understand the importance of this moment. Her eyes search mine as her breath catches. I hear the distinct sound of her swallowing. Tentatively, she places her hand on my thigh, her hand shaky. I’m right there with you, babe.

Unsteady, nervous, and as I wait for her to make the final move, a wave of apprehension courses through me, wondering if she’s going to push me away. Thankfully my nerves are soothed when she places her other hand behind my neck and reaches up, pressing her lips to mine.

Supple and soft, like she spends at least four hours a day moisturizing them, her lips carefully glide over mine. The kiss is sweet, short, nothing that would blow anyone’s socks off . . . besides mine. Because even though it lasts only a few seconds, it’s within those few seconds that I get my first taste of her. It’s where I get to feel her imprint on my thigh, her lips delicately touching mine, her heartbeat connecting with mine. It’s where I feel myself tip over the edge into falling for this girl.

I’ve had many first kisses. Aggressive, passionate, consuming, but nothing like this. Nothing this sweet, this . . . understanding. Nothing that has ever made me want to drop all my defenses and expose my true self to a woman. And that’s scary.

Terrifying actually.

Because if a kiss this simple can turn my world upside down, what’s going to happen when I feel her tongue against mine, when she kisses me longer, when I get to feel her delectable body pressed against mine?

Was Roark right? Am I screwed?

When she pulls away, she smiles at me and says, “You have really nice lips.”

“So do you,” I say, feeling like I’m in a hazy state.

“Who knew boss man bridegroom was going to be a good kisser?”

Who knew Charlee Bag of Dicks was going to sweep me off my goddamn feet with one simple kiss?