“It’s a marriage of convenience,” Maxwell explains matter-of-factly. “Three months, just enough time to clean up your image, get the case dropped, and move on with your life as the golden boy of theManhattan Mayhem.”
I take a deep breath and give him a small nod. My brothers are going to lose their shit when they hear about this.
It doesn’t sound tooterrible. A little unorthodox, sure, but it’s not like I’ll be stuck with this woman forever. I'll have some serious explaining to do with my mom, and I'm sure I won't hear the end of this for years to come, but if it's my only option what choice do I have?
The real question is what woman in their right mind would agree to marry me temporarily to fix my reputation?
“Who’s the woman? Does she know about this deal?” I ask.
Maxwell doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he gestures to the door at someone waiting outside.
“Come on in, Rosie. We’re ready for you.”
The door opens, and I swear to God, nothing could’ve prepared me for what I see next.
Dark blonde curls are piled high in a loose bun, with a few tendrils framing her pretty, high-cheek bones and face. Soft pink lips, and warm brown eyes with the tiniest bit of smokey makeup on her lids.
She’s wearing a tailored navy suit. It’s sharp, professional, and conservative. Except for the way it hugs her figure, a figure I knowverywell.
Her lips are painted a bold red, and when our eyes lock, it’s like I’ve been sucker-punched by the memory of that night ten days ago.
The faerie.
That night. The strip club. The night I left in the past because it was a one-time thing that my teammates dragged me into.
“This is Rosie, your new wife,” Maxwell says with a proud look on his face.
I look at Rosie then back at Maxwell, completely in disbelief.
“You want me to marry astripperto save my reputation?” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them because I'm so incredibly shocked that she’s here and that she’s who they expect me to wed.
The room goes dead silent for half a second before Maxwell Prescott’s face turns a shade of red that I didn’t know was possible.
His brows crash together, and when he finally speaks, his voice booms across the room, each word hitting me like a slap.
“Did you just call mydaughtera stripper?”
Chapter 7: Rosie
This isexactlywhy I don’t let my dad spring surprise meetings on me anymore.
If there’s one thing about Rosie Anne Prescott, it’s that Ialwayscome prepared. But today’s meeting in his office where he told me I was gettingmarried…Well, that was an ambush. A moment of weakness that I don’t plan to repeat.
No, I didn’t know that the man my father was pushing me into a marriage with to become senior partner was the same man from the strip club ten days ago.
A single, wild,stupidnight of letting loose in Hoboken.
If I’d have done my homework and researched him like I alwaysdo, maybe I could have handled things differently.
Would I have found a different junior partner interested in making senior to marry him? Of course not. But I might’ve at least given my new client—a.k.a. BoonefreakingTremblay, hockey star extraordinaire—a heads-up that I amnot, in fact, the stripper he encountered in the bar that one stupid, completely unplanned, night.
Even though I’m not prepared for Boone to be my new, fakehusband, I forced myself to appear unaffected and professional despite this revelation. I might be a bit of a fumbling mess in every other area of my life—not that experienced sexually, terrible at friendships, and even worse at romantic relationships—but when it comes to my career, I thrive under pressure. I can think on my feet.
And no matter what wrench has been thrown into my plan for today, I’m going tomake this work. For my career. For my future. And for the day I can tell my children thatMommy made senior partner at just twenty-nine years old.
I think I’ll leave out the part that it required me to marry a complete stranger who called me a stripper in front of my father.
I swear you could hear a drop of dust settle in this conference room right now.
