by Kati Wilde
Instead I laugh. “So without saying a word, you tell them that you can’t believe they ever had the balls to ask you such a stupid fucking question.”
She grins, and all that withering disdain vanishes. “It’s a useful tool.”
“I bet.” Because it’s bothering me, I bend over and sweep up the broken rubber band, then don’t have a clue what to do with it. There isn’t a trash in sight, and I’d feel like an asshole tossing it onto that spotless desk. I am an asshole, so feeling like one shouldn’t matter. But I shove the band into my pocket to toss later.
She drums her fingertips against the presentation folder. “Have you finished your pitch or are there other points you want me to consider?”
“Basically, the property is the only point. Either you want it enough to fight the Wyndhams in court, or you don’t.” Briefcase in hand, I stand. “I suppose you’ll need time to read through my proposal and to consider any changes to the—”
“I don’t need time to consider it.”
Shit. If she had any intention of entering into an agreement—even one as simple as paying for the legal fees—she’d consult her lawyers first, get an estimate of cost. My jaw clenches, then I force out a polite, “I understand. Thank you for your time, Miss Clarke.”
“Mr. Moore.” She remains in her chair, her voice amused but her gaze intense. “I’m accepting your proposal.”
I stare at her, uncomprehending. “You are?”
“I am.”
“What part?”
“All of it,” she replies easily. “With necessary amendments regarding our living situation, since the arrangements you suggested weren’t satisfactory.”
The fuck…? “But the marriage part was satisfactory?”
“It was.” Her eyebrows twitch into a slight frown when I slowly sink into my chair, drag my hands through my hair. “Mr. Moore?”
“Caleb,” I tell her gruffly. Since we’re apparently getting married. “Call me Caleb.”
“Caleb,” she agrees. “I’m Audrey.”
Audrey. Who will soon be my wife. What the hell have I done? What the hell has she done, accepting me? That wasn’t part of the plan. Not really. I only came looking for a slice but she gave me the whole damn pie.
But that’s good. That is damn good. Because that means the Wyndhams are fucked.
Still. Holy shit. I pass a rough hand over my face to make sure I’m awake. Eyes open. Not dreaming.
I drop my hand back to my side. “What now?”
Her lips quirk. “Did you not plan beyond this point?”
“I didn’t really think I’d get to this point. So, no. That’s my only plan.” I gesture to the folder on her desk.
Nodding, she states, “That’s probably for the best.”
“It’s for the best that I’m unprepared?”
“Yes. So that our plans won’t be in conflict as I decide how to take on the Wyndhams. From this point on, Caleb, we’ll be doing this my way.” Reaching forward, she taps a button on her desk phone. “Jessica, Jeremy—please join Mr. Moore and me in my office.”
Doing this my way. Fair enough. I came to Audrey Clarke because she can stand against the Wyndhams. But I don’t think there’s a chance in hell that Audrey and I won’t soon be in conflict. Because this is already grating against my nature. I’m not the type to stand back and let someone else handle everything. Especially when it’s my shit being handled.
But for now, I’ll grit my teeth and let her do her thing. Because even sitting still, she moves fast.
So do her assistants. The woman—Jessica—could have been a transplant from the law firm I visited a few weeks back. Everything about her says ‘serious business,’ from her stylish pantsuit to her sensible heels. The kind of assistant I expect to see here. But Jeremy, he’s something else. Beneath his suit jacket, he sports a Star Wars tee. And his scuffed pair of red Converse sneakers aren’t the shiny dress shoes I figured an executive assistant would be required to wear.
Which means Audrey must not care. At least, not too much. There’s probably a line, though. I bet that if I’d come to this meeting in my work clothes, she sure as hell wouldn’t be considering marriage. It’s a long way from geeky T-shirts under a trendy suit jacket to Carhartt work pants permanently stained with motor oil.
Marriage. I still can’t believe she’s considering it at all, no matter what I’m wearing. She must want that mansion real fucking bad.
Styluses poised over their tablets, her assistants come to stand on either side of my chair—which feels awkward as hell with me seated between them. I don’t like sitting while other people are standing nearby. But I might as well be a part of the chair for all the attention they give me. Their entire focus is on Audrey.
She starts right in. “Contact the Methodist church on Alder and secure the first available date that Reverend Foster can officiate a wedding ceremony—unless you prefer another venue or have a different religious affiliation?”
The last part is directed to me. “None,” I tell her.
She nods and tells her assistants, “The Methodist church, then.”
Beside me, Jessica scribbles onto her tablet screen. “And who should I say is getting married?”
“Caleb and I are.”
“Congratulations!” they cheerfully say in unison, not missing a beat. Which is fucking incredible, because I still haven’t caught up to the idea yet. But maybe they’re used to Audrey Clarke throwing crazy shit their way.
“Thank you,” she replies and rises to her feet, heading over to the window again. Now I’m the only person in the whole damn office who’s sitting. Getting up isn’t an option yet, though. Not unless I hold my briefcase in front of my crotch. Because my dick still isn’t playing nice inside these too-tight pants, and the view she presents of her sweet ass isn’t helping any. “As soon as you’ve nailed down the time for the ceremony, create a guest list. I want the invitations printed and sent out within two days.”
This time, with her back turned, I see the “oh shit” glances that her assistants exchange.
“Within two days?” Jeremy echoes with a faint squeak in his voice. “Printed and mailed?”
“Yes.”
“And the guest list should include…?” That comes from Jessica.
“After we’ve finished here, Caleb can give you the names of his friends and family. More particularly, however, I want every single adult Wyndham to receive their own invitations, each one delivered by a special courier who is instructed to give it directly to the recipient.” She glances back at me. “We’ll put the family on notice right away.”
With a hand delivered invitation to go fuck themselves. “Sounds good.”
Jessica scribbles again. “And your guests will be…?”
“Every Clarke employee. And my local social contacts—but only the ones whose company I enjoy.”
“All five of them?” Jeremy asks, sharing a quick grin with Jessica.
I assume he’s teasing her but Audrey answers as if he is serious. “Yes. All five.”
“And…your parents?” Jessica asks that with a slight hesitation.
There’s no hesitation in Audrey’s flat answer. “No.”
“All right,” Jeremy says with a warning glance toward Jessica. They both wipe their expressions clear when Audrey turns back, taking her seat again.
A frown creases her brow as she gazes at me. “Two days isn’t fast enough. I want the Wyndhams to be on edge even before they receive the invitations. Are there any events tonight that Caleb and I can attend and either the Wyndhams or their friends will also be present?”
“The mayor’s tree lighting ceremony is tonight at seven,” Jessica answers immediately. “It’s followed by a cocktail party in the atrium of the Clement Hotel. No doubt several people from that social circle would be there.”
“Did I receive an invite?”
“You declined it.”
“Then un-decline it. And add a plus one—if you are free tonight, Ca
leb?”
“Yeah.” Jesus. A cocktail party? “Do I need a tux for that?”
I’m going to end up blowing a week’s paycheck just on clothes. But it’ll be worth it, I remind myself. When the Wyndhams start panicking, it’ll be worth every penny and every second I spend in a monkey suit.
“Just put on what you would normally wear for a date,” Audrey says to me, and it’s real fucking adorable that she thinks I’m the kind of guy who has the time or money to take women out on dates. “I’ll get my lawyers started on the marriage contract. Jessica and Jeremy can keep you apprised of what will need to be done before the wedding—the license, tuxedo fittings, and so on. And if there’s anything you need, simply contact them. Or…me. Jessica can give you my number and you can, uh, text. Text my phone.”
She lifts the device awkwardly, as if to demonstrate what a phone is—or as if she’s not used to giving a business associate permission to contact her directly. Judging by the way her assistants blink and look at each other, it might be the very first time.
It’s odd. And kind of cute. But I’m more than ready to get the hell out of here and figure out what just happened. “Sounds good,” I say and grab my briefcase. “What’s the plan for tonight?”
She glances at her phone, checking the time. “Will six-thirty be long enough for you to get ready? My driver can pick you up then. Just let Jessica know where.”
Hell no. I’m not going to be picked up anywhere by some fancy driver in some fancy car. “Since we’re running short on time, how about I just meet you at the tree lighting ceremony?”
“Very well.” She stands at the same time I do, and extends her hand over the desk, smiling. “I believe it will be a pleasure doing business with you, Caleb.”
Yeah. A pleasure. I don’t what the fuck it’ll be, but ‘a pleasure’ isn’t on the list of descriptions that jump into my head.
But touching her hand? Shit. That feels real damn good. It’s a shame there won’t be more of that. Her fingers are soft and cool and surprisingly strong.
And because this isn’t just a business arrangement we’re agreeing to, a handshake doesn’t seem like enough. So when it’s over, I bring her hand to my lips, press a kiss to her knuckles. Gruffly, I tell her, “Thank you.”
For a long, long moment, she only stares at my face. Like she did when I first sprang the proposal on her. But this time her silence doesn’t last three minutes. She abruptly comes back to herself—then yanks her hand away, shaking out her fingers before sliding it into her pants pocket.
Crisply she says, “I’ll see you at seven, Mr. Moore.”
All right. Message received loud and clear. Don’t touch me. That message should have felt just fine. Seeing her shake off my kiss shouldn’t dig at my gut and have my teeth gritting in frustration. This marriage doesn’t have a thing to do with touching her. It’s about making sure the Wyndhams get what’s been coming to them for a long damn time.
Anything else is a whole other pie. A pie that I won’t ever get a bite of. So only a stupid fuck would waste time wondering how it tastes.
My proposal isn’t about wanting Audrey Clarke. It’s about spite.
That’s all that I’m here for.
3
Audrey
I’m putting on my lipstick when, in the mirror’s reflection, I see Jessica sweep into the apartment I keep in my office building. She stops dead, her eyes widening.
“Oh my god,” she exclaims in wonder. “You’re finally wearing that smokin’ hot red dress!”
Because the only reason Caleb and I are attending this cocktail party is to draw attention and put the Wyndhams on notice. But my clothes probably aren’t the reason why she came in. “Did you secure a date for the ceremony?”
“Almost.” She gestures to her headset. “I’ve got the church on hold. They can squeeze you in at two p.m. on the twenty-fourth, but they have a Christmas Eve service at four, so we have to be finished by three-thirty. And they are asking us to leave our decorations there—which means we need to go with a Christmas theme.”
“That’s fine.” Or is it? Jessica and Jeremy have the twenty-fourth off, as do all of my employees, because even the most efficient ones become easily distracted that close to the holiday. So I shut down the offices from Christmas Eve to New Years’ Day. “Would you be willing to work that day?”
“Whether I’m officially on the clock or not, you couldn’t keep me away. And Jeremy wouldn’t miss it, either.”
“Good.” Before she turns away, I pick up Caleb’s presentation folder from the vanity. “Send a copy of this to Bradford right away so that he can draw up the marriage contract. I’ve written my amendments in the margins and included a brief description of how I want him to proceed regarding Eleanor’s will. I’ll follow up with an email later tonight.”
“Will do.” She takes the folder and glances down at the cover page—and the title of the proposal. A grin splits her face as she reads it, then she flips through the rest of the business plan. “Oh god. He even put in information about the Wyndhams and their lawyers under the ‘Competition’ section. This is so cute.”
No, it’s not. And Caleb Moore isn’t, either. I turn back to the mirror as Jessica heads out, still smiling and reading through Caleb’s proposal—a proposal which isn’t like him at all. Instead, it’s what he wanted me to think he was. But just like the broad shoulders that strained the seams of his suit, the person Caleb Moore really is kept pushing through the image he attempted to present. As if he couldn’t keep that person contained, no matter how hard he tried. Some of the language he used was straight out of that business proposal—but the way he really speaks slipped through, too. So did his resentment and anger toward the Wyndhams.
Certainly, he took an unusual approach by asking me to marry him. But that tepid business proposal does not faithfully represent a man who admits he’s pursuing his inheritance out of spite. No one has ever given a reason like that to me before. Yet Caleb Moore did.
He could have lied and given me some other, altruistic reason—a lot of people try to—yet he didn’t do that, either. Caleb probably can lie; he just doesn’t bother to. He’d rather say what he thinks.
And I like that about him. A lot.
I head into the closet to search for a pair of boots suitable for both a freezing town square and a cocktail party. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to go directly from the office to a social function, so I keep a selection of clothes and shoes in this apartment, which is essentially a glorified dressing room. I don’t sleep here, even if I work past midnight—and that happens far more often than I attend social functions.
The knee-high leather boots I find won’t do much good to insulate my feet from the snow, but unless the mayor decides to give a long speech—and he usually doesn’t—I shouldn’t be outside long. I zip them on and step in front of the mirror, critically assessing my appearance.
Smokin’ hot, Jessica said. I want Caleb to think so, too. But even if he does…if he’s anything like other men that I’ve dated, he might start off saying I’m hot. But he’ll end the night telling me that I’m too cold.
An unfamiliar emotion pangs deep in my chest. A touch of fear accompanies it. Is it nervousness? I’m not sure what to call it. But some part of me must recognize what the emotion is, or fear wouldn’t follow in response to it.
If it is nerves, though, that’s strange. I don’t get nervous. I’m usually never worried or afraid, either. That’s part of the reason many people—not just men I’ve dated—call me cold.
I’m not cold. But I don’t express myself in the same way many people do. I can barely tolerate people touching me or touching them in return. Affection isn’t physical for me; it’s mental and emotional. So I show affection by showing interest—and it’s impossible for me to feign interest if I don’t care about what someone is talking about or doing. But even when I do care, I know my manner comes off as lacking in warmth. If I could act, maybe I could fake it. But I’m not any be
tter at pretending than I am at lying. So I can’t be anything other than who I am.
Caleb seems to be the same. Not that his brain works like mine. But that he can’t help being himself.
Who that person is…I guess I’ll find out. But so far, I know that he’s a man who’ll kiss the back of a woman’s hand.
And the effect of that kiss had been a stunning onslaught of curiosity and desire. During our meeting, everything about the way Caleb looked and moved and spoke made me think of touching him. Yet actually doing so never crossed my mind—not beyond my usual handshake. I can tolerate those because handshakes are governed by rules that almost everyone understands and follows. A handshake is used as a greeting or to seal a deal—and it should be brief. So they’re only uncomfortable when someone lingers too long.
Caleb lingered. And I can still feel his warm breath against my knuckles and the firm press of his lips. Yet it didn’t make me want to pull away and put space between us again. Instead all I could imagine was those lips making their way up the length of my arm. Instead sheer lust nearly blazed through my skin.
Because I’m not cold. My emotions are always raging. But from an early age, I learned to contain those fiery outbursts of emotion—because when I didn’t, I was the one who got burned.
And that’s what most people see, I suppose. The container. Which, combined with all of my other tendencies, puts most people off.
But it apparently didn’t put Caleb off. Because he could have easily come in with a different plan and I probably would’ve agreed to it. Yet he wanted marriage. For spite. A proposal as unusual as it is fascinating—and as ballsy. Much like the man himself seems to be.
I like that about him, too. Very much.
Enough to marry him, at least.
If liking Caleb Moore was my only reaction to him, though, I might have proposed an alternative to his plan. But liking mixed with sexual attraction? That’s more than enough for me—and more reason to marry than I ever expected to have.