Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 202(@200wpm)___ 161(@250wpm)___ 134(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 202(@200wpm)___ 161(@250wpm)___ 134(@300wpm)
The billionaire’s brow quirked.
“Do we have a deal?”
My fingers tightened around the check and didn’t want to let go. The cash could change everything. God, I didn’t think I could say no. So I didn’t. I bit my lip. And before I knew it, the answer was out.
“Okay.”
That wolfish smile showed itself again.
“I knew you would see things my way, Margaret Lake.” Then he turned, one hand on the door knob before stopping. “Be ready at eight o’ clock tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.”
What? Oh my god! Everything was moving so fast. This man, the check, and now actually going out with him someplace.
“Wait, but why are you doing this?” I asked in a trembling voice, fingers gripping the paper so tight that my knuckles showed white. “Why do you need a fake fiancée?”
The dark man merely smiled again.
“You’ll see,” he rumbled. “You’ll see when you meet my dad.”
I was meeting his parents tomorrow? What in the world? Couldn’t be. So my brain rewound to one of the few things that it could process.
“But you don’t know where I live!” I called again to his departing back. “You know nothing about me.”
He stopped, turning to flash a brilliant smile over one shoulder.
“Then I guess we’ll have to change that, won’t we?” was his amused drawl. “See you at eight.”
And with that, Mr. Lincoln was gone, long legs striding to the exit, sure and confident. And even as my cheeks flared, excitement took root in my breast. Because suddenly everything seemed to sparkle, the world going Technicolor. It shouldn’t have been this way, and yet … I wanted to see how the next chapter unfolded.
4
Evan
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. Everything looks really good.”
“I’m glad.” The woman who’s been cooking for me for years, finished arranging two place settings on the table and passed me to go back into the kitchen for a vase of flowers.
Flowers?
Please. This is a bachelor apartment. I’ve got the giant entertainment system, the man cave out back, and a cook and household staff. I’m a single guy living in the lap of luxury.
But Mrs. Jones wanted to make things nice for my lady guest, bustling this way and that, fussily arranging things.
But it’s fine because Maggie’s going to play a key role in my life. For the next couple months at least.
After I left the pet store, I thought about taking her to dinner at my parents’ place. That’s what I was paying her for after all. To pull the wool over my dad’s eyes so that he relinquished control of the company. But common sense told me to chill and get to know Maggie before embarking on the grand tour.
Because Henry and Evelyn aren’t exactly dumb. My dad runs a billion dollar conglomerate and my mom’s led a couple charities in the last decade or so. So they’re not idiots, and bringing a new girl over without prepping her was full-on suicide. It’d never work.
So yeah, I needed to get to know Maggie first. And damn, but I was kinda looking forward to it. The girl’s easy on the eyes, and she’s got a sweet personality to boot. What could be so bad about this?
Savory smells filled my nostrils. Yum. Mrs. Jones went all out, making lemon butter salmon on a bed of risotto, along with some homemade sweet breads, rum punch, and a chocolate cake displayed nice and elegant in the center of the table. Oh yeah, all the stops were being pulled out tonight.
I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes to eight.
My driver left to pick up Maggie about an hour ago, so she’d be here soon. And like a fussy idiot, I even leaned forward and straightened the napkins before my hands jerked away.
What the fuck?
I don’t do place settings. I don’t do flower arrangements.
And yet my fingers were itching, dying to make things perfect. What the hell? What the fuck was wrong with me? But at that moment, Mrs. Jones came out of the kitchen with her coat on and her purse on her arm.
“Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Lincoln. If you need anything else, please call.”
As long as I’ve known Penny Jones, she’s acted like a fifties sitcom mom, always smiling and always with delicious food to share. And after fifteen years together, she was more like a mother than a housekeeper, even if we did call each other Mr. and Mrs.
I nodded approvingly.
“Thanks for your help, Mrs. Jones. I appreciate that you did this on such short notice.” Of course, Penny was getting a big bonus for rushing the dinner. After all, everything smelled and looked good enough to be from a five star restaurant, just the way I liked.
And right on time, my phone buzzed.
“Excuse me,” was my polite nod.
As expected, it was my driver, Trevor, telling me Maggie was on her way into the building. Perfect timing.