The marketing budget alone could save us.
More than save us—it could transform everything.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch.But there are conditions."He leans forward slightly."This needs to remain confidential until the official launch.The testing process will require significant cooperation from you and your staff.And..."
"And?"
"And I'll need to be hands-on during implementation.Which means I'll be here.A lot."
My heart skips a beat or two."You'll be here."
"Most weekends for the next two months.Possibly some weekdays."His voice is low, smooth, and way too calm for the panic party happening in my bloodstream."Will that be a problem?"
It should be.It absolutely should be.
But the idea of Luke here—tall, handsome, maddeningly composed Luke—occupying space in my inn, brushing past me in narrow hallways, fixing his glasses while critiquing my WiFi...
My thighs clench reflexively.My body has clearly decided this is the worst—and most exciting—idea I’ve ever entertained.
I think about the Luke Sterling in Derek's Instagram photo.The one who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else than rubbing elbows with Seattle's tech elite.
Then I think about the Luke Sterling who helped me chase a goat at midnight, who sat in my kitchen at dawn making dry observations about small-town marketing conspiracies.
"No," I say finally."That won't be a problem."
"There's one more thing."His expression shifts, becoming almost cautious."The media attention from last weekend.It can't happen again.This needs to be strictly professional."
"Of course."My fingers fold together on the table."Strictly professional."
"I mean it, Miss Winters.No more Instagram posts.No more 'Sterling Romance' breakfast specials.No more small-town matchmaking conspiracies."
"I didn't—" I start to protest, then stop.
Because I did.
Maybe not the Instagram post or the breakfast special, but I started this, by hacking his dating profile to lure him here."I understand."
"Good."He extends his large hand across the table."Then we have a deal?"
I stare at his hand for a moment, knowing I should tell him the truth.About the hack.About my desperate plan to attract an investor.
About how his profile mysteriously matching with mine over and over wasn't exactly a technical glitch.
Instead, I reach out and shake his hand, his grip firm and warm and somehow steadying.
"We have a deal."
His grip is warm, firm, and lingers just long enough to cross intowhy-is-this-starting-to-feel-like-foreplayterritory.
Those lashes—too long, too pretty for someone so infuriating—drop briefly as he studies our joined hands, and for a heartbeat, the air between us hums with something that has nothing to do with contracts.
And everything to do with the way my breath catches.
"I'll have my legal team draw up the formal contracts," he says, releasing my hand and gathering his documents."We can start implementation next weekend if that works for you."
“Next weekend."I try to remember this weekend’s calendar, but it’s impossible when my neurons have been fried by just one handshake.I nod."Sure.What's one more disaster?"
