Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
That’s all it takes to send my heart climbing up my throat.
“You’re scaring me, Mr. Rory,” I say.
I definitely mean it as he sighs and slowly fixes his gaze on me again.
“I just need you to act like we’re engaged.”
I squint at him, wondering if I heard that right.
But he doesn’t correct himself.
What. The. Actual. Hell?
I push back from the table like he’s brandishing a knife.
See, I knew it.
This dude isn’t just your run-of-the-mill rich, handsome jerk—he’s psycho.
He is actually insane, and if this is some kind of convoluted ploy to ask me out or take advantage of me—or… or—
I’m out of ideas.
There’s no other earthly reason why he would possibly want us to be pretend engaged. It’s beyond illogical.
Rory also stands, shoving his chair back so fast it almost falls and holding up his hands. “Look, I know what it sounds like. Batshit crazy, but hear me out—”
“Hear you out?” My voice is high-pitched and grating. “Why the crap should I? I’m not qualified for this and you need help, sir.”
“Miss Winkley, it was an accident. A catastrophic slip of the tongue. A fucking brain fart, if you will.” The exasperated way he says it makes me laugh. Then he sighs again. “Frankly, my business prospect loved your desserts more than my ideas. He practically made it a condition of moving forward with a very large real estate deal. I told him I could make it happen, I had connections, one thing led to another and—and then I blurted out a white lie like a complete jackass.”
“White lie? That’s an understatement. You told him we’re engaged?”
“Yes.” He swipes a hand over his face.
Holy hell.
“And what? You think I should just play along?”
Would it kill you? his face says, but he holds his tongue.
“What else do you want me to say?” he growls, the softness gone. “I told you, it was a massive slip. A runaway fuckup in a high-pressure meeting. We need this deal, Miss Winkley.”
“Oh, okay. That totally sounds like something that really happened and not a cheesy rom-com plot bunny from the nineties.” As excuses go, it’s pretty terrible.
Surely he doesn’t expect me to believe him.
Except he’s looking at me with desperation in those dusky-blue eyes, and that tells me one of two things. Either he’s going to stuff me in the trunk of his car or he really did do something this unbelievably stupid.
“Oh my God. You’re serious,” I huff, fanning myself in the summer heat. “Okay. Okay, I think we just need to calm down for a minute. Let’s think this through…” I run my hand through my hair, twisting it into a makeshift bun at the back. “So, you’re ready to sign on to a boatload of stuff you hate if I pretend to be your fiancée?”
“Fake fiancée.” He nods gruffly. “You’ll think about it, then?”
I grit my teeth.
Absolutely not.
Except I can’t tell him that. Not when he’s clearly unhinged and even if he is… I do need the money.
I’m well aware of the fact that we don’t even know each other. Even if this was real, it’s not something a mentally sound person would do.
And even if we did, there’s no way I could agree and let it go public.
Nana’s been on a mission trying to marry me off, and one almost-engagement breakup was bad enough.
She’d never get over another one, no matter how fake or flimsy it might be.
“Mr. Rory, this is weird, but I’m flattered. I guess,” I lie, trying to let him down easy. “Honestly, I am. And I’m willing to try out this pilot delivery if you’d still like to move forward. But I just—I can’t be your fiancée. My family, they… they wouldn’t be comfortable with it at all.”
Although, if she ever found out, Nana would be at the head of the marriage train, blasting the horn to all my nosy cousins.
I wince at the thought. Pure torture.
Nope. Not a chance.
Last I checked, it’s ninety degrees and muggy, which means hell is far from frozen over.
They’d never let me live it down, and the fact that he’s got a cologne model’s dark hair and piercing blue eyes and cheekbones that look menacing just makes this whole thing worse.
“I’m sorry,” I say more firmly. My apron feels too tight and the knot at the back seems stuck when I tug at it. Being trapped in an apron while turning down a fake engagement really sucks. God, why can’t I get it off? “I don’t want to be the reason that your deal falls through, but this is too weird for me. Never mind unprofessional.”
I half expect him to argue, to throw a tantrum, to hurl his coffee across the room.
Honestly, it wouldn’t be the worst thing when I’m used to dealing with angry, explosive assholes all the time.
He looked desperate enough to unleash some fury a minute ago, but now he’s eerily calm again, and he watches my sad attempts to undo the knot with deflated curiosity.