She pulled out her folio case from where it was tucked under her arm and produced some paperwork. “You can fire me if I miss the deadlines set out in the project plan or if I overspend by more than seven percent. It’s set out there in clause ten.”
I flicked through the contract for services she’d handed me.
“It’s all standard stuff,” she said. “Just sign on the last page.”
Without a contract, I had options. If I signed, I was out of negotiating power. I had no choice other than to sign and worry about it later. “You better be good,” I said, pulling my pen from my inside pocket and leaning the contract on the back of the door.
“I’m better than good. Oh, and just one more thing.”
I dotted the “i” in Wilde and glanced up, waiting to hear what she was going to say—she probably wanted input on layouts or a profit share.
“You have to pretend you’re my boyfriend—serious-about-to-propose-completely-in love-with-me boyfriend.”
I grinned. Was she asking me on a date? “At the wedding?” I asked.
“Yes, at the engagement party and while we’re in Scotland and any other event that comes up.”
I leaned against the door and took her in. “How many events are there?”
Again, her gaze flitted from my shoulder to the dome of St Paul’s cathedral behind me. “I don’t know. There’s the wedding and engagement party as far as I know.”
This must be her way of asking me out. “If you want to make this a real date, you just had to say. You’re an attractive woman, and—”
She sighed. “Don’t be an arsehole. I don’t need a boyfriend. I just need to look like I have a boyfriend.” She snatched the signed contract from me and stuffed it into her bag. “It’s strictly a business deal. Just like this.” She waved the paperwork in front of me. “I just need it to be believable. That’s all.”
It was obviously important to her, but I didn’t get it. “So you want us to pretend when we’re in public but not when we’re alone?”
She tipped her head to the side. “I’m not asking you to be my gigolo, Beck. Everything would be for show.” She rolled her eyes as if I was just the stupidest man she’d ever met. Stella London was a new experience for me. I was used to women flirting. Smiling. Playing with their hair when they spoke to me—not being exasperated like I was an annoying little brother.
“But why?” I got the feeling I was an extra in a daytime soap and hadn’t received all the script.
“Does it matter? It’s part of my terms. Agree or don’t go. It’s as simple as that.”
I wasn’t complaining. It was weird but not a deal-breaker. I just was curious about why she’d make it a condition. “Okay. I’ll make-believe to be your boyfriend.” I wasn’t much of a real boyfriend, but who knew, maybe if I faked it, I’d be better at my next relationship.
“Then you’ve got a deal. Engagement party’s this Saturday.” She turned toward the door. “Pick me up at seven.” Stella headed out of my office.
“Hang on, I need your address. And your number.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You tracked me down at my favorite bar, after all.” The door slammed shut on me feeling like I might be on the losing end of this deal.
This woman was going to give me a run for my money. But, for ten million quid, my future business and the chance to right the wrongs of my past, I’d put up with it.
Eight
Stella
This was what a brave face looked like, I told myself as
I looked in the mirror. For once, I’d managed to put on false eyelashes without looking like a hooker. And the tinted moisturizer I’d bought on sale was living up to its promise to even out my skin tone. I hoped it would cover up the hives I was bound to break into any moment at the thought of being within a ten-foot radius of Matt and Karen. Couldn’t they have eloped to Tasmania or something?
“Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up? It’s on my way,” Florence said.
“No, Beck is coming over.” I glanced at the time. He was due any minute. He’d emailed me exactly two hours after I’d left his office earlier in the week telling me he’d found my email, mobile phone, and home address. He’d probably had it already but making him work for it—and him figuring it out—felt good. With Matt I’d always been the one to pick the restaurant, make sure his suit was dry cleaned, and the cab was booked. And look where it had gotten me.
Florence sighed. “It was a genius idea of making him your boyfriend for wedding season, even if I do say so myself.”
“Pretend boyfriend. But yeah. It makes the idea of tonight and the wedding slightly less horrifying.”