Page 30 of Line Change

“Sounds about right.”

“Sebastian.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what to say.” My mind whirls with his proposal. This is crazy. Ridiculous.

Me, marry him?

I don’t know if that’s wise.

“Say yes.”

The money I stand to inherit is life changing. I could easily stop working until my child went to school and not have to worry about paying my bills. And even then, I’d have plenty left over. I could buy a house and a new car. Provide a good life for my child. My hand comes to rest on my stomach again, and I rub it gently. I could help Anastasia start over. Greg too if he wanted. Plus, I’d get a hotel chain. I know nothing about running hotels, but I could sell it to one of my father’s competitors, and I’d be even more comfortable financially, and my father would have a shit fit. Last I knew, he was trying to expand down the Eastern Seaboard but was struggling to get into Florida, Georgia, and the Carolinas because of the competition. I could make things even worse for him.

I study Sebastian. Do I go along with his idea? It feels crazy. But what’s the harm? It would be an arrangement, an agreement, a business transaction. A short-term marriage for a lifetime of financial freedom. A tiny voice in the back of my head says that I might fall for him, that feelings could get involved, but I ignore it, as one does.

“Are you sure?” I ask, meeting his gaze. “We’d have to be married for a few months at least so it’s not suspicious, act like we were married in public, prove to my grandmother’s lawyer that it’s real.” I tap my finger on the envelope on the desk. “I’m sure she left detailed instructions to make sure I don’t fake it. The lawyer will probably want to talk to us, ask us questions about each other or our relationship.”

“I’m sure. Let me help you.”

I contemplate his offer. Can it really be that simple? Is this a crazy idea?

“Okay,” I finally whisper, deciding it’d be foolish to turn him down, give up the prospect of getting my inheritance.

My computer beeps, reminding me of the meeting I have in fifteen minutes, and I snooze the reminder. “Can we figure out the details of this arrangement tonight? I need to get to a meeting. I’m sorry.”

“Sure.” He stands. “I’ll pick us up dinner. To celebrate. Text me with what you want to eat. Then we’ll figure this out.” He knocks his knuckles against my desk before walking toward the door.

“Thank you.”

He pauses, peering at me over his shoulder. “Anything for you, love. Anything for you.” And then he’s out of my office, the door closing softly behind him.

His words play over and over in my head until my computer reminds me about my meeting again, and I force myself to focus on the rest of the day and not on what I just agreed to.

Chapter twelve

Sebastian

I pace the living room and kitchen waiting for Sutton to get home from work. Pausing every once in a while to make sure the Indian food I picked up is still warm.

How the hell did I go from realizing this morning during practice that I needed to talk to Sutton and stop avoiding her to offering to marry her?

I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the ends. Something I’ve been doing for the past half an hour as I’ve paced. Finally, the front door opens, and I force myself to stop moving. I don’t need to make her any more nervous than she probably already is because I’m freaking out. I don’t want to give her a reason to back out of this arrangement. It might be crazy, but I’m still going to go through with it.

“Hi,” she greets me when she walks into the kitchen, setting her lunch box on the counter next to her water bottle.

“Hiya, love. Dinner’s here.” I point over my shoulder to the stove where the to-go containers are.

“Okay. I just need a few minutes to get changed,” she says before turning on her heel and walking out of the room.

I can’t help watching the sway of her hips as she leaves. Hips that I want to hold onto as I kiss her, touch her.

“Get a hold of yourself.”

Once she’s out of sight, I grab a couple of glasses from the cabinet and busy myself with getting us both water as well as plates and utensils. I set everything up at the kitchen table instead of our usual spots at the bar. I don’t know why, but it feels like we should have this conversation facing each other.

“I’m starving. Smells good,” she says, walking into the kitchen as she’s pulling her hair up into a bun.

I glance over at her. Does she know what it does to me when she wears Storm shirts? I know she works for the team, and that’s why she has them, but I can’t help imaging she’s wearing one of my shirts. I give myself a mental shake as we take our seats and dig into our food—butter chicken for her, and tikka masala for me.

“So good,” she says, plopping a piece of her naan bread into her mouth.