Charlie –
Some bimbo has sent me a message meant for someone else. What a joke.
I continue reading and sit up straighter, bringing the phone closer so the men on either side of me can’t read it.
I haven’t had the guts to tell you this, but I’ve met my boss before! I don’t even know if I’ll have a job by the time the weekend comes around because Gerry says he’s taking me upstairs to meet Roscoe this afternoon, and I know he’ll recognize me! It’s that man from the restaurant I told you about!!! The hot + handsome man with the bad attitude. Pray he has a sense of humor about it! I really need this job to save up for my next collection. One good show is all I need and my student loan will be gone. I’ll let you know how it goes. Tess.
I stand up to leave.
“Got an idea to get us out of this pickle?” Franklin asks as I move for the door. “Yes,” I say. “Get Gerry on the phone and tell him to come up to my suite. Thank you, Franklin.”
CHAPTER4
TESS
One hour after I sent the message, Gerry sticks his head around the door. “Tess. Have you got a minute?” I haven’t been on the job circuit before, but even I know those words spell doom and disaster. I plaster a smile on my face, despite it costing me every last ounce of optimism I possess.
“Sure, Gerry.” I join him in the corridor. “What’s this about?”
He shakes his head, and beckons me to follow him saying, “The boss’s son wants to meet you. You might recognize him from the website – Roscoe? He’s Bryson’s eldest son, but he didn’t play the nepotism card to get to where he stands today.” Gerry pushes the elevator button, and continues. “He went to a really prestigious boarding school in Switzerland and ended up parlaying his connections there into forming his own network of business associates. Roscoe’s had his own investment portfolio since he was nine years old. Smith and Poor must be his morning mantra or something. He laughs and stops when I don’t. He looks at me sideways and shrugs. Stepping aside, he holds the doors open for me, but doesn’t follow behind. “Second door on the left. Karl, his personal assistant, is the first door. Bye.”
The elevator doors slide shut.
Looking around, I easily understand why the two offices are on the left. The Financial District in all its glory is on display. If I went to the floor to ceiling windows and looked down and to the left, I would see the Stock Exchange. Only, I don’t. I walk to the second door and knock. I want to get this over and done with. For better or for worse.
He’s perched on the front edge of his desk, waiting for me. He looks relaxed, his expression is neutral. His hands are loosely clasped together between his legs. I forgot how incredibly handsome he is in the flesh. Tall, elegantly dressed and groomed, lean and perfectly muscled. God, he looks good. His cheekbones look like they were sculpted by one of the masters, and those green eyes could make a girl lose her mind if they look at her for too long. I detect a little bit of determined arrogance in the firm thrust of his angular jaw, but as an artist and designer, I detect no flaw.
I stop when I’m about three feet away from him. The room is big enough for this to seem like the most respectful distance. “Hello, Mr. Bridges. Gerry Mannheimer tells me you wanted to see me?”
I’m wearing one of my favorite outfits. I designed it to be worn by the average working woman who wants to show some flair while keeping to a budget. Honestly, it’s one of my best creations, and I’m really proud of it. And even though I walk the subway in flats, I put on my three-inch black stilettos when I sit down at my desk.
“Tess. Are you still angry with me?” He moves over to a leather Chesterfield couch pushed back against the wall, looking over his shoulder to see if I’m following him, which, of course, I am.I have a dream and debts. You bet I’m following you, Roscoe Bridges. I’ll even play nice.
I sit down on the couch, angling my knees toward him so we can speak face to face. I can’t help but notice how close I’m sitting to him. I bite my lower lip because this is going to go one of two ways: he confronts me about the restaurant or about the text message.
The expression on his face is slightly worried. Which only makes my already tight stomach knot tighter. “You can be honest with me because whatever your answer is, I want you to know your job is not on the line.”
Okay. Not where I thought this was going. At all. What’s his angle? I consider my next words carefully. “I want to know what you thought of my actions first, if you don’t mind, Mr. Bridges.”
“Fine.” He sits back and stretches his long legs out in front of him. “It seems that we spent that night listening in on one another’s conversations. Let’s not lie about that. I also got Gerry to pull your file and when he came up here to deliver it, he gave me some background info that he got from Tim and-” he withdraws a phone from his pocket, reads something, and then says, “-your roommate, Charlie. I won’t pretend that fate hasn’t dealt us a challenging hand here.” I nod hard. He’s not going to find me disagreeing with him there. He continues, “So, I know that you need money to pay off your student loan and you recently experienced a conflict with your friend…” another glance down at his phone, “…Sarah Blakely. I notice you’re wearing her spring-summer collection or something very similar, but I’m guessing you’re not going to be getting any financial kickback from your contribution to the designs. Am I correct in saying that?” It’s too soon to talk about it. I look at my hands twisting knots in my lap, saying nothing.
He seems to understand my reluctance to add anything on the subject of Sarah. He shifts his legs and sits up. The restless energy I recognize from the restaurant is back. “You are the only woman I haven’t actually dated who knows about my three strikes rule, Tess. You and my mother…so, I have a proposition for you: I’m willing to suspend the baseball game, because I need you to pretend you’re my fiancée. And you’re the only woman I know who will understand that you’re the exception to my three strikes rule.”
I’m dumbfounded. “You want me to pretend I’m your fiancée?” Now it’s his turn to nod. “Is it for a bet? Did you lose a dare? Why not choose one of your exes to pretend?”
He doesn't beat around the bush. “I need a fiancée to help me close a business merger; I want that fiancée to be you, Tess. All my exes hate me. That’s another thing I don’t have to explain. I’m kind of ruthless. You know, you were there. Women go from love to hate at warp speed when I tell them their three strikes are up.”
I give him a sideways glance under my eyelashes. “So, why don’t you stop? What are you now? Thirty-five? You know you’re going to have to stop that stupid baseball analogy sooner or later.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I’ll stop doing it when I fall in love. And that hasn’t happened yet.” He shrugs. “Tess, I read the message you sent to me accidentally. You think I’m hot. I need you to be my fiancée for as long as it takes to get Mr. Ishida on board. He owns most of the golf club houses and golf courses in Japan and Southeast Asia. I want to bring his brand over here and merge our Southeast Asian office with Ishida Holdings. I shouldn’t even be telling you this, because it will make the stock go up. My dilemma is this: Ishida’s a family man; he doesn’t approve of my unwed status; I told him I wouldn’t be single for much longer because I had a fiancée. Please help me out. It’s not like I’m asking you for the world.”
“You kinda are,” I tell him. “You’re asking me to join my world to yours for as long as it takes to get this merger done.”
He raises one eyebrow. “And your point being? Look, I’ll pay you anything you like. I'll tell you what. Just do it for this one evening, and then I make up some bullshit about you leaving for Europe or something. Just one evening, Tess, and I’ll pay off your student debt and sponsor your next six collections. That’s three years of sponsorship. You can’t say no.”
He is right. I would be a complete fool to say no to him. But he’s confusing a sucker for a fool, because though I’m no fool, I’ve always been a bit of a sucker for someone in a tight spot. “Mr. Brid-” I begin to say. “Call me Roscoe…Tess,” he interjects. I smile and nod. “Right then. Roscoe. Seeing as you are being so nice about not mentioning our awkward first meeting at Sergio’s and not throwing that misdirected text message in my face, how about I do this for you for free? After all, it’s only one night.”
I see the relief in his face and get all warm inside.