Mrs. Brodie beamed, clearly pleased with herself. “It is. Thank you, both of you. And Kathleen, call me Josephine.”
As we left the hospital, the weight of what I’d just agreed to started to settle in. I turned to Topher as we reached the parking lot. “Exactly how big is your mom’s house?”
Topher hesitated, a slight grimace crossing his face. “Small. Very small.”
I frowned. “How small?”
He sighed, clearly dreading this as much as I was. “Small enough that we’ll have to share a bedroom.”
5
Topher hadn’t liedabout how small his mom’s house was. It was a classic New Orleans shotgun house, tidy, with just enough space to get by. Cozy, some would call it, if they were trying to be polite.
Despite its size, the place had charm. The walls were covered in eclectic art: bright, bold pieces that gave the space a lively feel. Each room was a burst of color, from the deep blues and greens in the kitchen to the warm yellows and reds in the living room.
Topher, all six feet four inches of him, looked almost comically out of place in the living room, like a giant trying to fit into a dollhouse. He had changed out of his suit but was still dressed for the office, sporting crisp slacks and a button-down shirt that looked far too polished for the task at hand. He was crouched under a table, his broad shoulders nearly wedged into the cramped space as he fiddled with the internet router.
“I just fixed the internet,” he announced as he stood, brushing off his hands with the same precision he probably used after closing a big deal. “It was down because Mom plugged an old toaster in next to the router. Completely fried the signal.”
I coughed. “Wait, plugged a toaster next to the router?”
“Yeah, I’m guessing that there aren’t enough outlets in the kitchen.” Topher sighed. “I’ll have to explain to her that Wi-Fi doesn’t mix well with kitchen appliances, especially ones that have a habit of short-circuiting.”
As I looked around the room, my eyes landed on a wall entirely covered with magazine covers. Fortune, Forbes, GQ, Vanity Fair, even some obscure business mags I’d never heard of.
Each one featured a ridiculously good-looking man in a designer suit, striking that classic billionaire pose: chin tilted, smolder dialed to ten, staring off like the meaning of life was hiding just out of frame.
I walked closer. They all looked vaguely familiar. Then it hit me.
They were all Topher. Every. Single. One. Some had him mid-laugh with supermodels. One had him in front of a private jet with “Brodie” emblazoned on the wing in gold lettering.
When I first saw him at the airport—and later at the hospital—I hadn’t recognized him at all. He was just another arrogant guy in a suit, someone who got under my skin. But now, seeing these magazine covers, it clicked. This wastheTopher Brodie, the hometown boy who somehow made a gazillion dollars doing... well, something with money. I wasn’t entirely sure what, but apparently, he was good enough at it to end up on the cover of every financial magazine known to man. The pieces were finally falling into place, and I couldn’t help but wonder how I hadn’t connected the dots sooner.
I cleared my throat. “So, what exactly does your company do?”
Topher’s eyes lit up, clearly thrilled to elaborate. “We strategically hedge against potential market volatilities through a complex series of predictive algorithms. Then, we leverage these insights to invest at exponentially higher interest rates. We acquire undervalued debt portfolios, which we then dynamically reposition within the market using a proprietary blend of quantitative easing and fiscal alchemy. Pretty fascinating, don’t you think?"
I squinted. “I’ll take your word for it.” Crossing my arms, I glanced at the magazine covers again. “Didn’t know I was dealing with the world’s most eligible bachelor. Should I be asking for your autograph?”
He shot me an annoyed look. “My PR team’s in charge of those. I’d never even talked with half of those women before the shoots.”
“Right,” I said, still trying to wrap my head around being in a fake relationship with a billionaire.
He cleared his throat, and when he spoke, he sounded a bit weary. “It’s all part of the image I’m selling. Looking the part is half the job.”
I glanced back at the wall of magazine covers, and a wave of unease washed over me. Here was this guy, looking like he’d just stepped out of a fashion shoot. And then there was me. I was definitely not a supermodel, and not a high-powered businesswoman by anyone’s definition. My resume was a patchwork of jobs I hadn’t even managed to hold onto. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of inadequacy.
Who was going to believe thatIwas datinghim? The math wasn’t mathing. It was like adding two plus two and ending up with a potato. How in the world was I going to pull this off?
The reality of the situation was settling in. “Where are we supposed to sleep?” Staying here with him in such close quarters…kind of made me want to throw up.
Topher walked to the only closed door in the house. “This is my childhood bedroom,” he said, giving the handle a tentative jiggle. The door didn’t budge. He frowned, applying more force.
With one final push, the door popped open with a loud creak. Before we could even take a step inside, a cascade of holiday decorations burst out like an overstuffed closet finally giving way. A string of tangled Christmas lights flew at us, wrapping around my arm like some sort of festive snake, while a deflated Santa hat drifted lazily to the floor.
“Oh, well, hello,” I murmured, trying to untangle myself from the lights as a plastic Easter egg rolled out and bounced off my shoe.
Topher stood there, wide-eyed, as a few more holiday items tumbled out, including a glittery Valentine’s Day heart smacked him right in the chest, and a Halloween witch on a broomstick landed at his feet with a cackle that echoed through the tiny hallway.
