We thank him, and he leaves.
Max is still staring at me, and the question hangs between us. I’m not sure what to say. I hardly know this guy—should I tell him about my mom? We’ve agreed to do this crazy engagement, but the whole thing could blow up in my face.
Do I trust Max enough to open up to him?
I take a deep breath, looking at him again. His eyes are soft, and he’s waiting patiently for me to speak. A wave of comfort washes over me, and I think about what he said when we first got here. If this whole charade is going to work, we’re going to have to act like a couple.
I’m going to have to open up to him.
“I found out my mom has breast cancer,” I say, staring at my plate. There’s a single asparagus balancing on what looks like a fancy meatball. “She told me when I confronted her about foreclosure notice I found on Sunday.”
My voice chokes as the words stick to my throat. I clear my throat, washing down the pain with a sip of wine.
“I’m so sorry,” Max says. He looks down at the table between us, staring at nothing. “I’m sorry. If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have—I don’t want to put you in this position.”
“No!” I say, maybe a bit too loud. “This is helping me out. I—” I want this? “I need the money.”
“Right.”
“And plus,” I say, stabbing the fancy meatball. “Hanging out with you is alright.”
His eyes flick up toward me and a grin appears on his perfect lips. How is it possible for one man to be so handsome? He forks his own meatball and nods to me.
“Hanging out with you isn’t so bad, either.”
I laugh, blinking back the tears that had misted my eyes when I mentioned my mom. “Good. That means we’re miles ahead of half the married couples out there already.”
The meatball tastes incredible. I don’t know what they’ve done, but it’s so packed with flavor that I can’t help but close my eyes and grunt in satisfaction. I’ve never tasted food this good.
“So last night,” I start. “Your parents.”
“I’m so, so sorry about that,” Max interrupts.
I laugh. “It’s okay,” I say, shaking my head. “To be honest, it looked like it was as hard for you as it was for me.”
Max blows the air out of his mouth, leaning back in his chair and running his fingers through his thick, black hair. His eyes look almost navy in this light, and the candlelight is making his jaw look like it’s chiseled from marble. A delicious tingle of energy passes through my spine and settles in the base of my stomach.
“Why do they want you to get married so badly?”
“I’m not sure,” Max says. He looks at me, cocking his head to the side. “They’ve always been putting pressure on me, but this time…”
“What?” I ask gently when he stops.
“I don’t know. I feel like there’s something else going on. I can’t put my finger on it. I mean, they’ve always been… overbearing? That’s not the right word. They’ve always been involved, I guess. But they’ve never shown up without warning or told me that I needed to get married or get fucking disowned.”
He chuckles bitterly, shaking his head.
“I mean, I shouldn’t complain. It could be worse.” He looks at me, and I smile sadly.
“Yeah.”
The next couple of courses are as delicious as the first two, and our conversation turns to lighter things. He tells me about his work, and his knee, and about college football. I tell him about Meg and Ariana, and about how I got into physical therapy.
Conversation is easy. We laugh and joke. He gets my sarcasm, and quips back whenever I say something snarky. It’s fun.
By the time dessert comes, he’s talking about his injury.
“I was supposed to be in the NFL the year after. We were winning the championship and then I got tackled from behind and my knee just snapped. It wasn’t just my knee,” he says, staring into his wine glass. “I mean, my whole future was destroyed. NFL, football, my girlfriend left me,” he sighs. “It was a hard time.”
“I’m so sorry, Max,” I say, reaching over to put my hand on his arm. Even though I told him I didn’t want to do anything sexual with him, the electricity courses through my body when we touch. He puts his hand over mine, and we stay like that for a few minutes.
This dinner—it’s intimate. I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would. We haven’t discussed the business arrangements at all; we’ve just basically been on a date.
I should be worried about that, or worried about what that means, but all I can think about is how much I’m enjoying just being with him. And how much I’m enjoying the heat of his broad palm against my hand.
Max smiles at me, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I’m tough.”
I grin. “Right.”
“I bounce back, you know. Land on my feet.”
“Like a cat.”
“Exactly.”
We laugh, and my heart squeezes. This is so easy.
It’s too easy.
Too easy to slip into something else—something beyond a simple transaction. Too easy to make this complicated, and messy.
Too easy to do all the things I’m dying to do, to give in to the temptation that’s buzzing through my body anytime he’s around.
He pulls his hand away, and I clear my throat, smoothing my hands down the front of my dress.
“Should we go?” He asks, and I nod. I don’t trust my voice right now, so I just gather my things and take his outstretched hand, following him back to the car.
17
Max
Even though we didn’t discuss the intricate details of our arrangement last night, I still get my lawyer to draft up a contract. I send it to Naomi for her to review, with a note saying to change anything that might jump out at her.
Once it’s signed, our agreement will be legally binding. She’ll be pretending to be my fiancée for one month, with the option to extend for another month. I’ll pay her three hundred thousand dollars the first month, and two hundred and fifty the second.
It feels strange to send the contract to her. Last night felt almost like a date, and now I’m sending a cold, emotionless contract. I can’t make sense of it in my brain. It’s like the two images just don’t fit together.
I wanted to kiss her goodbye last night, but we agreed to keep physical contact to a minimum. I lean back in my chair at the office, interlacing my fingers behind my head and thinking of her face when I dropped her off.
“Well, thanks,” she’d said, smiling shyly. I’d nodded, and then she’d stuck out her hand. We laughed when we shook hands, and then she turned around and went up the steps to her apartment.
I jump when my assistant opens my office door.
“You have a call on line two,” she says, and then chews her lip.
“What is it, Allie?”
“It’s your mother.”
“Right,” I sigh. “Thanks for the heads up.”
She nods and slips back out the door. I take a deep breath, checking my computer to make sure the contract has gone through to Naomi, and then I pick up the phone.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Max, how many times have I told you not to call me that!”
“Well, you are my mother, aren’t you?”
“You’re irreverent.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I hear her take a deep breath, and I imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose with her perfectly manicured nails. She lets the breath out slowly, and when she speaks, her voice is calm.
“I’d like to take you and Naomi out to dinner. I think it would be good for us all to get to know each other better.”
I’m not so sure about that.
“She’s pretty busy these days, the clinic is—”
“Just ask her, Max. I have a reservation at Per Se for tomorrow night.”
“Right, so you’re not really asking me, you’re telling me that we’re going out to
dinner.”
She sighs again. “This is important.”
“I’m sure it is,” I say. “I gotta go, I’ve got a meeting to get to.”
I slam the phone down, pushing my chair back and standing up. I pace back and forth, trying to let the frustration dissipate. This is typical Carol Westbrook! She just bulldozes everyone and everything around her to get what she wants. No doubt we’ll end up going to the fancy French restaurant tomorrow night, and she’ll grill Naomi on her entire life story.
It’ll be uncomfortable and unnecessary. This whole thing is unnecessary! There’s no need for me to get married so quickly!
I glance at the phone on my desk again, frowning. Walking back to the other side of my desk, I dial my father’s phone number.
He picks up on the third ring. “Hello, son.”
“Dad,” I say, almost breathless. “I need to talk to you. Are you free?”
“Well, I—”
“It’s important.”
“I was just going to go up to Konnect to hit a couple golf balls. You can meet me there if you want?”
Typical. The only way my father could get away from my mother long enough to do anything in New York was to play golf.
“I’ll meet you there.”
My dad can find a golf course anywhere—even in the middle of Manhattan. The indoor golf center is just around the corner from the Rockefeller Center, and it doesn’t take long for me to get there.
When I arrive, he’s already whacking golf balls and drinking a tumbler of bourbon, surrounded by some of his friends and business associates. I imagine many business deals happen in places like this, under the guise of some leisurely golf practice.
My father’s cheeks are rosy, and the tip of his nose is red. That’s probably his second or third bourbon. He sees me and spreads his arms, beckoning me forward.
“Max! Max get over here,” he booms in the voice he uses when he’s surrounded by people who admire him. “Fellas, I want you to meet my son. If he’s lucky, he might be where I am now in a couple years.”
I stretch a smile over my face and shake hands with the men, trying to remember which one is Jim, or Bill, or Jerry. We exchange pleasantries until I can pull my father away from them. I lead him toward the bar, and we slide onto bar stools before beckoning the bartender over for another round of drinks. My father stares at the amber liquid left in his glass, and then turns to me. He stares at me through one eye and then huffs.
“So?” He asks.
My heart starts thumping, and I hate myself for being nervous to talk to my dad. I take a deep breath, accepting the drink that the bartender places in front of me. I turn to my dad.
“Why are you so desperate for me to get married? I mean, showing up at my house on Sunday? Coming to the city on such short notice? Staying in the city? What’s going on?”
My father purses his lips, glancing toward the booth where his friends are laughing and patting each other on the shoulders. He turns back toward me and nods his head toward them.
“You see Jerry over there?”
I try to remember which one Jerry was, and I nod.
“We’re in the middle of an important acquisition. Jerry’s company is going to become our new international oil and gas materials division. I want you to head it.”
My eyebrows shoot up and I snap my jaw closed, trying to erase the shock from my face.
“I… what?”
“You’ve been doing well. Everyone can see it. Your numbers this quarter are the best we’ve seen in years. You’re ready.”
“Two days ago you were threatening to fire me, and now you’re telling me you’re planning to promote me?”
None of this makes sense. The acquisition, the pressure to get married, none of it.
My father takes a deep breath, as if he’s explaining something to someone incredibly dense. He might as well be, because I don’t exactly feel bright right now.
“Son, this position will have you traveling all over the world. You’ll be meeting diplomats and dignitaries, and business leaders from all over the world. Do you know why there hasn’t been a President without a First Lady?”
“Because we live in a nation with backwards ideas about family and success?”
He sighs, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
“It’s comments like that that make me doubt your abilities as a leader of this company, Max. I haven’t worked my whole life to watch you tear it all down.”
“I’m not tearing anything down, Dad,” I respond. “You’re a businessman, not a family planner.”
“Single men aren’t accepted in these circles,” he says, frustrated. He looks me square in the eye, taking a deep breath. “You don’t have to love her. I mean, lord knows I’ve had some trying times with your mother. But she does have to be there. She’s just as important to the success of this company as you are.”
“So this… this is business?! All this pressure to get married?”
“You’re only realizing that now?” He shakes his head, laughing bitterly. “Welcome to the real world, son.”
I say nothing, and my dad takes his drink, nodding to his friends—business partners—whatever they are.
“You want to hit a couple balls before you go back?”
“Nah, Dad, I’m good,” I say, finishing my drink. “Lots to do at the office.”
“Of course.” He pauses, turning back toward me. “Your mother has a dinner planned tomorrow night. You understand that we need to make sure she’s a suitable match, don’t you?”
Anger burns inside me. A suitable match? What is this, the fourteen-hundreds? Am I the fucking King of England or something? Last time I checked, it was the twenty-first century! Since when are wives necessary for high-ranking positions?!
I leave some money on the bar and try to stalk out of the golf center. My dad calls me over, slapping his hand on one of the guy’s back. I think it’s Jerry.
“Max, come over here!”
“I hear you’re celebrating your new engagement, congratulations,” Jerry says, eyeing me with a sly grin. “Hope she’s a good one.”
“Otherwise she’ll make your life a living hell, believe me,” Jim—or is it Bill?—guffaws. The men laugh, and a tendril of disgust curls in my stomach. I grin, tolerating their pleasantries for a few more minutes before excusing myself.
I’ll walk back to the office. The fresh air and noise will help drown out the chaotic thoughts swirling in my head. All this pressure for me to get married, all the phone calls and badgering I’ve endured—it’s all because of a business deal?
I’m not entirely surprised. This company is my parents’ entire life. But I’m supposed to just play along with their plan?
I hate myself for agreeing to this. I hate myself for stringing Naomi along with me, and I hate my parents for forcing me into this. But at the end of the day, I know I don’t want them to cut me off. I don’t want them to shut me out of my entire inheritance and the entire society that I’ve grown up in.
I need to play along, at least for now.
18
Naomi
“I’ve got flashcards,” I say when Max opens the door. He looks tired, but his eyes spark and a smile twitches over his lips.
“Flashcards?”
“Yep.” I dig around my huge tote, pulling out the stack of cards that’s held together with a thick elastic band. I run my thumb over the edge, making the cards slap together.
“What are the flashcards for?” Max closes the door behind me and slides onto a bar stool at the kitchen island. I take the one next to him, fishing out a bottle of wine and dropping my bag on the floor.
“They’re for studying. They’ve got facts about me, and stories about my childhood, and things that people who are engaged might know about each other. I brought blank ones for you to write on, too. And we can come up with a back story.”
Max is eyeing me as a smile plays in his eyes. I clear my throat, taking the elastic band off and reading the firs
t card.
“Why did I get suspended from school in third grade?”
His smile widens as his eyebrow arches. He shrugs, sliding off the stool. “I’m not sure,” he says, heading toward the glass cabinet that contains expensive-looking wine glasses. He takes two out, placing them on the marble in front of me.
“Well, I started buying candy in bulk at the grocery store and re-selling it to the kids at recess.”
“That’s very entrepreneurial of you,” he grins as he digs around a drawer. He pulls out a corkscrew, and I laugh. I pick up the bottle, twisting the top open.
“Look at you, with your fancy corkscrew,” I grin. “Twist-off.” I lift the bottle up and pour some in his glass, before hesitating. “Do you want me to let the tannins mellow, or whatever? Am I supposed to let this breathe?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” He picks up the glass and sniffs it, nodding.
“Well, you’re the one with the fancy-pants corkscrew,” I laugh. “I can’t afford wines that don’t twist off.”
He slides back into the bar stool next to me. The warmth of his body makes my head spin. “So tell me about this candy cartel you had.”
“Funny you should say that,” I answer, filling up my glass. “I got caught because I hired a couple people to distribute. They started talking a bit too much, and a teacher overheard.
“Is your last name Escobar?”
“Might as well be,” I laugh. “I was suspended for three days for that.”
“Doesn’t look like it impacted your future.”
“My mom was so mad,” I laugh. “She’s like, an artsy-fartsy type of person. She’s a painter. She couldn’t believe that I would stoop down to dirty, dirty capitalism.”
“I don’t think your mom would like my parents,” he grins. “They are the epitome of capitalism.” He takes a sip of wine and his eyebrows raise. “That’s not bad, actually.” He looks at his glass with appreciation.
“You know, they had this experiment where they had the top sommeliers in the world taste the most expensive wines and the cheapest ones, and a lot of them couldn’t tell the difference.”
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