"I can." I wrap my arms around my little sister. She works so hard. She deserves it.
"But we can't afford this. Not unless they're offering a full ride. And NYU doesn't do that. It's not like if I got into Columbia."
"We'll find a way to afford it."
"Will we?" She stares back at me, studying my expression. It must be obvious I've got nothing, because she sighs and crushes the letter into a tiny ball. "I still have Stanford and USC. And there are bunch of SUNYs."
And other schools far, far away. "We'll find a way to cover your tuition."
"It's not the end of the world. The school in Albany is great and only a few hours on the train." She moves towards her bedroom. "It's okay, Kat."
My heart sinks. It's not okay. Nothing about it is.
One of us is going places.
One of us is destined for great things.
Lizzy is going to the best school she gets into. Period.
"There's a way. We just haven't figured it out yet." I'll do whatever it takes.
Blake is sitting in my section.
He's in another designer suit.
His blue eyes are still icy. Impenetrable.
He still looks like a guy who can snap his fingers and get anything he wants.
He's here. That makes him yet another rich customer. I can handle that.
I make my way to his table. I'm a little slower than normal. My ankle is still aching.
He looks up at me. "Did you ice your ankle?" His voice is cool, but there's something in it. Compassion.
"And rested all day yesterday." Not that it's any of his business. "Can I get you something?"
"Whiskey. Rocks."
"You'll get that faster at the bar."
"I prefer here."
"Sure. I'll have that right up." I step back with my best customer-service smile.
His lip corners turn down.
His eyes go to his watch. Then to his cell phone.
Okay…
I guess he doesn't like smiles. Fair enough. I don't like smiling at assholes all day either.
I punch his order into the Aloha and stay busy rearranging salt and pepper shakers. The place is dead this time of day. There are only a few other people here.
And Blake is looking at me.
There's something in his eyes. Like he wants something from me. Like he's sure he's going to get it.
I head to the bar, grab his drink, and drop it off. "Enjoy."
"Wait." His voice is demanding. Sure.
"I have—"
"I'm the only person here." He pulls out the chair next to him. "Have a seat."
"This isn't Hooters. Waitresses don't sit with customers."
"Should I have a word with your manager?"
"And say?"
"That you're kind enough to sit to help a poor, confused patron navigate the lunch menu."
"Yeah? Do you not know the difference between filet mignon and ribeye?"
"Say I don't."
"Okay." I swallow hard. That chair is inviting. My ankle is killing me. And his gaze is intoxicating. "I only have a few minutes."
He nods.
I take a seat. Cross my legs. Smooth my black jeans.
"How's your ankle?"
"Fine." It will be fine. Eventually. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't need your help."
Those piercing eyes find mine. "You don't know how I can help."
His voice is low and deep and impossible to read.
I'd ask who the hell he thinks he is, but he's a tech mogul. He knows exactly who he is.
His hand brushes mine. "I have an offer for you."
"What kind of offer?"
His fingers curl around my wrist.
It feels so good.
I want that hand everywhere.
I want his touch everywhere.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.
This guy has a sway over me. I don't understand it. But I'm not going to give into it.
Not right now.
He draws his other arm over the side of his chair. "You were interviewing for a job the other day."
I clear my throat. "Keep that to yourself."
He nods. "Is this a profession you enjoy—waiting tables?"
"We can't all be tech CEOs."
"True." He leans a little closer. Those piercing eyes find mine. "You're a very beautiful girl."
There's a flutter in my stomach. Then somewhere below it. "Thank you."
"And polite."
"Uh… Thanks?" What's he getting at?
"I'm looking for someone like you."
What? "For…"
"It's a job. Unorthodox—"
"I'm not a whore."
"And I'm not a john. I don't pay for sex."
"What? You'd pay for the time and we'd happen to sleep together? I wasn't born yesterday. I know how this goes."
His grip around my wrist tightens. "No."
The word stops me in my tracks. It's strong. Confident. Sure. I feel it in my bones.
No. He doesn't want to pay me to sleep with him.
I shouldn't believe him, but I do.
He stares back into my eyes. "I want to fuck you, Kat. But I'm not going to pay you for that. It's going to be because you want me."
My cheeks flush. "I…"
"It wasn't a question." He lowers his voice to a whisper. "That other restaurant is a nicer place. You'd make more."
I nod.
"You need money?"
"You could say that."
"I have money." His voice lifts. Back to that confident, unshakable tone. "And I want you. For six months. A year maybe."
"You want me to what?"
"I want you to marry me."
Chapter Three
I want you to marry me.
What the fuck?
What the actual fuck?
I stare back into Blake's eyes.
They're still beautiful and blue and dead serious.
I fold my arms over my chest. "You don't even know me."
"I need a wife. And I want it to be you."
"But…"
"We'd start dating, get engaged, get married. After a few months, we'd divorce and go our separate ways."
"Why?"
His eyes turn down. "I can't explain."
"Then I can't agree."
"I'm willing to meet your price. Whatever that means. Think about it. You could grad
uate college debt free. You could buy an apartment in the Village. You could spend the next ten years in Paris." He pushes himself to his feet. "Whatever you want, I can make it happen."
"I… I've never even had a boyfriend." I press my lips together. "I don't know how to be a girlfriend, much less a fake wife."
"It's like your job. You smile and convince people you like them."
So he does know something about the service industry.
Blake pushes himself to his feet. "Think it over. Call or text me anytime. I need someone soon, and I want it to be you." He pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, places it on the table, and leaves.
At home, I pour my thoughts into my sketchbook. It's an old habit. One I've ignored for a long, long time.
It feels good putting pen to paper. Even if my drawing is only okay.
I need practice. And training. Art school isn't cheap.
But if I have a blank check?
That could be the end of the mortgage.
It could be Lizzy's tuition.
It could be anything.
God, the thought of destroying the mortgage, of being free of that monthly obligation…
Blake may be an ax murder. He may be a jerk. He may be criminally insane.
But he's not lying about being a billionaire tech mogul.
There are pictures of him in a few dozen news articles. He made quite the stir when he founded Sterling Tech as a teen. He turned down a few million dollars for his company then.
Now, it's worth a thousand times that.
And he owns a lot of it. It's not clear how much, but it's enough that he could pay off the mortgage and finance Lizzy's degree.
But marrying him?
It's ridiculous.
I hide his card in my desk drawer.
For a week, I ignore Blake's card. I go to work. I hustle my ass off. I smile at assholes who leer at my chest and hint that they're staying nearby.
Sunday, I get home late. And lacking tip money.
My shower fails to wash away the tension of the day. Usually, I'm good at grinning and bearing it. But now that I'm considering the possibility of not waiting tables…
Of being able to breathe?
I find Blake's card.
If he's really willing to make all my problems go away…
That must be worth six months of my life.
I have to ask.
Kat: It's Kat. I'm considering your offer but I'm not particularly negotiable.