Boss Man Bridegroom

by Quinn, Meghan

  Wafting my shirt a bit because yeesh, it’s hot in here, I say, “What about, you know, all the intimate stuff? We’re going to have to kiss and touch each other.”

  “That won’t be a problem on my end,” he says with such confidence that it makes me wonder, has he thought about touching me before? Kissing me? He does find me attractive but how far has he run with that attraction in his imaginative mind?

  “And what about your employees?” I ask, feeling I need to flesh out all the details.

  “What about them?”

  “Well, I thought you had a thing with your assistant before. Are you afraid they’re going to think you hired me just to marry me?”

  Without even showing a tick of worry, he says, “I pay them well, I treat them nicely, I am one hell of an employer. I don’t care what they think, as long as they do their job.”

  Ohh-kay. There goes that theory.

  “Living arrangements. If we get married, we’ll have to live together.”

  “Your point?” He lifts an eyebrow as if there’s no point at all.

  “I’m a beast,” I say, really reaching. “I’m unpleasant when I wake up, I hog the bathroom counter space, and I always forget to refill the coffee pot. I wake up looking like a wooly mammoth who had a rough night out, and I refuse to have to hold in my farts. They’re going to happen. It’s life.”

  The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Is that what this is really about? You’re concerned about farting in front of me?”

  “No,” I say louder than I want. “This is about me, your assistant, marrying you, my boss. We . . . we’re not romantically involved.”

  “I’m aware. That’s a minor concern.” Oddly, the more we talk about this, the more he grows confident in his suggestion. At least that’s what it seems like from the outside. Who knows what’s going on inside that gorgeous head of his?

  What’s even more disturbing than his conviction is how I almost think this might be a good idea. With his casual presentation, as if it’s no big deal, just a suggestion he throws down every once in a while on Mondays.

  To be honest, it’s not that terrible of an idea. Be married for a few months, pass it off as an epic fling, and then amicably separate. He gives me his Hampton’s estate, I give him my bin of color-coded pens—done and done.

  Could I really do this? Could I really marry Rath Westin?

  He’d be easy on the eyes, that’s for sure. He’s also fun, my grandma adores him, he likes historical romances, and even though I know he will deny it to the day he dies, I know he talks to the plants I’ve put in his office. They are thriving too much, there’s no way he’s ignoring them.

  But marry him? Would we have pastries every morning over a cup of coffee? Would he make room for me in his closet? Would we share the same bed? Would he—gulp—have sex with me? Would he even be able to pretend we’re a couple?

  That’s the biggest question. When I jump into something, I go all in. I always have. So, if we did this, I’d be 100 percent in, which means my acting would be top-notch. There would be touching and nicknames and kisses and hand holding. Could he touch me as if he truly found me attractive?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  Wanting to test him, I take a few steps forward until there’s about a foot between us. He doesn’t move an inch as he leans against his desk, his hands gripping the edge.

  “You really think you could do this? Be married to me?” I take another step forward and hoist on my big girl pants as I lay my hand across his chest. Rock-hard muscles meet my palm and I try not to show an ounce of surprise as I move my fingers over the patch of skin that’s exposed by his open shirt. “You think you could be okay with me being this close?” I close the space between us until our bodies are lightly touching. His eyes stay trained on me, his body unwavering. “You think you could go to these events, hold my hand, and introduce me as your wife?”

  My fingers play with the neatly trimmed hair on his chest.

  Instead of answering right away, he lifts one hand and slowly moves it to my back. His touch is light, almost as if he’s unsure . . . until he applies more pressure and moves his hand to the small of my back, just above the curve of my ass.

  I suck in a sharp breath when his fingers toy with the globe of my rear but never fully moving all the way down.

  In a deep voice, deeper than I’ve heard before, he says, “I would be honored.”

  Crap.

  I’m pretty sure my bra just popped open from my “heaving bosom.”

  He’d be honored. What a response. The kind of response that would normally make me drop my pants and offer up the goods, but I’m trying to hook this man into marrying me, not scare him away.

  Well, technically, he’s trying to hook me into marrying him.

  Hell, the lines are so blurred at this point with the raging thoughts of him shirtless floating through my mind and the pressure of his hand on my back, that I really have no idea what’s happening.

  That’s why, as I bend down in front of him, his crotch at eye level, I wonder if I’m about to propose or attempt a blowie on my boss?

  Grandma is getting to my head.

  “What are you doing?” Rath asks, looking concerned but also intrigued at the same time.

  It’s now or never. I either take him up on his opportunity or I don’t. And with my grandma’s sickness weighing heavily on my mind, I do the one thing I never thought I’d do. I take a knee in front of my boss . . .

  “Rath Westin, my boss, my commander in chief, my Gucci Governor—”

  “I don’t wear Gucci.”

  “Go with it.” I wink, feeling the wobble in my leg, the nerves bubbling up in the pit of my stomach. “Mr. Big Shot, Barking Britches, and Irritable Ira—”

  “Jesus . . . Christ.” He rubs his hand down his face and I think I might be losing him, so I hurry it up before I lose confidence and finally come to the understanding that what I’m doing might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

  “Will you do me the great honor . . .” I wobble to the side and quickly clutch his hand for support. “Will you . . .” Oh my God, why am I getting emotional? My eyes are watering. I shouldn’t be getting emotional, but this is a big moment in a girl’s life and hell . . . I’m proposing. I’m allowed to be emotional. “I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before.”

  “I sure as hell hope not,” he mutters.

  “And I didn’t think I’d get emotional either.” From the scared look on his face, I’m thinking he didn’t think I’d get emotional either. But hey, this was his idea, so he’s going to have to deal with my craziness. “Will you do me the greatest honor of all time and be my bridegroom?”

  His nose scrunches up. “Why did you say it like that?”

  “Did I not do it right?” Sheesh, I thought it was a good proposal. Did he want me to wax him poetic beforehand because I mean, I could go into detail about the way he’s really good at sneering at things he doesn’t approve of. “See, I knew I was doing something wrong.”

  He shakes his head. “No, why did you say bridegroom?”

  “Oh, well, that’s what you’d be.” Has he not been paying attention to the terminology in the historical romances I’ve been providing him? Bridegroom is a classic term for the hero. Duh. “You see, that’s what they used to call men who were soon to be married . . . a bridegroom. But then somewhere along the way they shortened it to groom. But if you marry me, I’d give you the great dignified pleasure of retaining the honorable title, bridegroom.”

  “Don’t call me bridegroom.”

  “Boss man bridegroom?” I smile brightly.

  With a roll of his eyes, he pulls me to my feet and continues to hold my hand. “You don’t need to propose to me, Charlee.”

  “Well, someone needs to propose to someone if we’re going to do this.”

  “Is this what you want? You want to marry me?”

  What a loaded question. Do I want to marry him? Before this weekend, I would have though
t I was crazy, proposing to a man who sneers at me more than smiles, but I’ve seen a different side of him. A loving, caring side, a side that I immediately became addicted to. He’s protective and a fixer and that’s what he’s trying to do: fix this giant problem I have.

  I always thought when I married someone, I’d marry them because they’re my soul mate, the person I can’t live without. But then again, I thought that about Chris and he chose the honeymoon over me.

  Maybe marriage isn’t this grand idea of being in love. Maybe sometimes, it’s a convenient option to accomplish something. My inner, romantic self is telling me what a load of crock that statement is, but the girl who witnessed her grandma cry this morning over a wedding album, she’s agreeing.

  “I mean, isn’t it what you want?”

  Still holding my hand, he cups my cheek gently and says, “I want you—”

  “Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to walk in on something . . .”

  I snap away from Rath to find Mr. McCool standing at the threshold of Rath’s office in a black suit and black button-up shirt. His sinister gaze blazes through the both of us as he plays with the cuffs of his shirt.

  “Uh, wh-what are you doing here?” Rath asks, sounding less like himself and more like a teenage boy being caught by his dad.

  “Just came to see how my friend is doing.” He walks farther into the office. “Security let me up.” He takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of Rath’s desk. “Wanted to catch up.” He smiles. “Wanted to see if you made up with Bram.” He searches Rath’s desk. “Wanted to steal a Danish.” He scans us both, and I know he can see how bright red my face is. Motioning between us with two fingers he says, “What’s going on here?”

  Tongue twisted, I lose my ability to form words. I want to say nothing. I want to help Rath out and let his friend know that there’s nothing at all developing between us, but the words don’t fall past my lips.

  Instead, Rath lowers his hand around my waist, sending a wave of goosebumps across my limbs. He squeezes my side and stoically says, “We’re getting married.”

  Whoa, whoa, whoa.

  Just like that, he’s going to announce our “engagement” to his friend without even discussing it with me? I mean, he didn’t even say yes to my proposal but now we’re engaged?

  A slow smile spreads across Roark’s face as he says, “Bullshit.”

  Squeezing me tighter, Rath says, “We are. Tell him, babe.”

  Babe? That’s what he’s going to call me? Babe? Not something more endearing like snookums? Sweetie of my life? Sugar nips?

  He’s going with babe?

  Rath urges me with another squeeze of my hip and robotically I respond. “Yup. He’s my bridegroom.” I thumb toward Rath awkwardly and then pick up his hand and I rub my face against it even more awkwardly. “Just can’t wait to claim these hands as mine. So strong and . . . God, still using Aveeno? It smells like heaven.”

  Roark stares at us blankly and then says, “I’m going to need to speak to my friend alone if you don’t mind, Charlee.”

  “What you have to say can be said in front of her,” Rath says, being quite the gentleman as I practically make out with his hand in front of his friend. Seriously, Jennifer Aniston knows what she’s taking about.

  Pausing the motorboating of his palm, I say, “You know, I have to run and get some more Danishes. Why don’t I do that and then we can all have one together? Toast the engagement.” I laugh nervously and then step away. “Always nice to see you, Mr. McCool.”

  “Call him Roark,” Rath says, following closely behind me until we reach his door. Blocking me off from Roark’s prying eyes, he whispers, “Yes.”

  Eyes feeling wild, I look around and say, “Yes, what?”

  He grips my chin and forces me to look him in the eyes. “Yes, I will marry you, Charlee.”

  Oh.

  OH.

  Ohhhhh . . . crap.

  I nervously laugh. “How nice.” If he keeps staring at me like that, holding my chin, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it past today without motorboating his hand again. Unsure of what to do, I ask, “Do you want an engagement ring? I can pick out a big diamond for you, but it’s going to have to go on your tab.”

  Hand still gripping my chin, he says, “This afternoon, we’re going ring shopping. Tonight, we’ll tell your grandma, together.”

  “Oh, you know, maybe we should just—”

  Before I can finish, Rath runs his hand to the back of my neck where he pulls me in close, our foreheads connecting. I suck in a sharp breath from the close proximity, his cologne making me feel dizzy, the lick of his lips making me feel like I might pass out.

  “I’m giving you this one chance,” he whispers. “This one and only moment to say no. To walk away and forget I even suggested the idea. This is your out. If you don’t take it, we’re going through with this, no backing out.” Studying me deeply, his mouth mere inches from mine, he says, “What will it be, Charlee? Are you going to be my wife?”

  Wife.

  The way he says it, so possessively, turns me inside out, making me feel raw and vulnerable and needy. I want to ask him why? Why do this? But deep down, I want that title. I want to claim myself as Rath’s wife even though I’m not sure why. My mind is busy justifying it as a way to make my grandma happy and nothing else. This is not for my own happiness. This is for my grandma, my grandma who wants nothing more than to see me walk down the aisle and live the happily ever after she’s always dreamed of me having.

  “What’s it going to be, Charlee?”

  Taking a deep breath and a leap of faith, I say, “I’ll be yours.”

  And for a brief second, I see a wave of relief wash through Rath’s eyes, right before he bends forward and presses the softest kiss I’ve ever felt to my cheek. Lifting back up, he keeps his hold on my cheek and jaw and says, “Noon, you and me. Got it?”

  I nod, my heart about to beat right through my chest. I take a step back and then another until I’m at my desk and he slowly closes the door.

  Exhaling, I grip my forehead and wonder what the hell I just agreed to.

  Marrying Rath Westin. I hate to admit it, but a bud of excitement blossoms in the pit of my stomach. I’m going to be Mrs. Rath Westin.

  Holy. Shit.

  Chapter Seventeen

  RATH

  “What the fuck was that?” Roark asks as I take a seat at my desk, pushing my smoothie to the side, because even though I enjoy Charlee’s smoothies, I really need a pastry at this moment.

  What the fuck was that is a very good question, because honestly? I don’t know.

  Marry me?

  Where the fuck did that come from?

  Actually, I know where it came from and I’m too embarrassed to even admit it. Charlee is to blame. This is all Charlee’s fault. Not because of the way she looked absolutely stunning this morning despite a fraction of red to her eyes from crying, or how for some reason, seeing her upset does something weird to me. I just dropped every rule I’ve ever made for myself and allowed myself to do and say stupid things.

  This has nothing to do with seeing Charlee this morning and wanting to take her into my arms and make everything better. No, this is all a product of that stupid, godforsaken romance novel I was reading last night and early this morning on my drive to the office.

  Marriage of convenience. It was on replay over and over in my head and by the time I got to my office, it simply popped out of my mouth. And of course, when she asked who she should marry, I immediately became jealous with anger and couldn’t tolerate Charlee marrying anyone but me. Overbearing I know, but it’s how I felt. Since I apparently have no filter, I asked her to marry me. Well, I guess she asked me and I said yes, but I suggested it. I’ve blacked out at this point. Something happened and now we’re engaged . . . because of a romance novel.

  And for the record, nowhere in that book does the heroine call the hero a bridegroom. I make a mental note to look that up later.

  And ma
ybe, yeah, the way I’ve started to feel about Charlee might have had a hand in pushing me to tell her to marry me. The need to touch her, hold her, take her hand in mine, kiss her. The urge became too overwhelming and I snapped like a goddamn flimsy twig. The idea, ridiculous at that, became so real, so vivid in my head in the matter of seconds that NOT marrying Charlee wasn’t an option. And let’s not even start thinking about how soft her skin was beneath my fingertips. How I wanted to taste her lips and not just her cheek . . .

  “Are you going to answer me?” Roark asks, looking far too amused.

  “Where did what come from?” I try to be casual. “You called it. I was totally boning my assistant.”

  “Yeah, I don’t believe that for a second. I might have joked about it, but I know you.” He studies me. “Did you patch things up with Bram?”

  “Yes,” I say, turning on my computer and opening my emails. “He came over, we talked it out, everything is fine.”

  “So ‘marrying’ Charlee,” he says, using air quotes, “has nothing to do with Vanessa coming to Bram and Julia’s wedding?”

  “No,” I say firmly, even though that might not be the whole truth.

  The marriage idea came about to help Charlee, to give her the opportunity to make her grandma happy. It wasn’t until I thought about how it could be helpful to me that I even considered Vanessa. It’s just an added bonus that I won’t have to go to the wedding alone. Having Charlee at my side will make the event much easier.

  “You’re telling me that in a matter of what, two months maybe, you fell in love with this woman and now you’re getting married?”

  “Yup,” I answer, clicking on an email from one of my top fundraisers.

  “Dude,” Roark says, leveling with me. “Come on, stop fucking with me, what’s this really about?”

  The thing about Roark is, he won’t ever let shit go, especially when it comes to his friends. A few weeks ago, when we picked our players for our fantasy football league, he was adamant about finding out why I was color-coding my notes in my notebook—since I’ve never done it before—he wouldn’t drop it until I finally told him Charlee got me into it. So, I was teased for the rest of the night. I’m nervous if I tell him the truth, he’s not going to be able to keep his mouth shut.