"What is your spouse's favorite meal?" Natalie pointed to Garret.
"Pork fried rice." Garret didn't even bother pausing for breath. The bastard.
"Well—"
"Don't lie. Every time we order lunch, you want Chinese. Whenever we get Chinese, you get the same thing. It's your favorite." The bored, convinced tone in his voice made correcting him all the sweeter.
"Except that my favorite food is meatloaf."
"Meatloaf? Whose favorite food is meatloaf? You’re on death row, and you turn to the warden to order your last meal, and you say, ‘Yes, I’d like your finest meatloaf’?"
"It's a delicious and misunderstood staple of American society," Rachael crossed her legs, smirking in her victory. She knew it. She shouldn't have been so worried after all. What could he possibly know from spending eight, okay, fourteen, hours a day working with her? Nothing.
Though, in the end, that still sort of made her the loser, didn't it?
"Well, then, what's my favorite meal?"
"You seem like a fillet mignon type of guy. Mashed red potatoes. Probably a snooty vegetable. Like asparagus."
"There are snooty vegetables?" Natalie chuckled.
Rachael hushed her, "Not now, we need to find out who the winner is and who will go to bed on a tear-stained pillow."
"You mean for those of us who actually sleep on pillows and not on Xerox machines?" He jibed.
"Enough with the smack talk. Out with it."
"We're at a stale mate. Which, I think, means that Natalie has to work for the full day. Pity." Garret got up from his seat and began carrying the chair over to the table and Rachael mimicked him.
"I don't remember that being a part—" Natalie started, but Garret held up his hand to silence her.
"I didn't think you would. But didn't you say you needed to get back to work?" He raised an eyebrow, and Natalie stomped off, grumbling silent protests as she went. The words "stupid," and "unfair" were muttered a little louder than any of her other incoherent complaints.
"So are you willing to concede defeat?" Rachael hadn't bothered to get up. Instead, she watched Garret pace around the kitchen as he surveyed the land, straightening boxes of sweetener and fixing chairs into their correct places.
"Oh contraire. I'm intrigued now. Before, it was a service. Now it's a game." He smiled in a way that looked almost, well, roguish. It sounded stupid even as she thought it to herself, but if she didn't know him, she would think that he looked debonair. Like one of those nineteen forties guys who complimented ladies on her gams before swinging them around to a big band tune.
His face even fit that classically handsome mold—like Clark Gable or Lawrence Olivier. Rugged. Charming.
And now more than ever, particularly dangerous.
"It was a game. A game that you lost." She sat her coffee on top of the fridge after she'd moved from her chair, replacing it in front of one of the small kitchen tables.
"A game that we tied. Besides, you made a deal. Unless, of course, you don't want to get married?" He raised his eyebrows, and she realized with a jolt exactly how stupid she was being. He wasn't threatening her. It was the exact opposite of all that. He was helping her with something vitally important.
And besides, it wasn't like there was anything to fear about being around him all the time other than his work addiction rubbing off on her. They simply weren’t attracted to each other. If that had been a concern, she would have known by now, what with all the long nights they'd spent together on one project or another.
No, this was perfect.
Beyond perfect.
Garret was determined to be the husband she needed, and she could be the bride she was supposed to be. All they needed was a good story and some serious rehearsals. Like a bad high school play. Easy peasy.
"You're right." She couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in her stomach, so rather than deal with it, she did the one thing she knew how to do—she ran. "But I have work to do, too. And people will be here soon, so...you know."
She edged out the door, carrying her mug aloft so that the aroma drifted directly into her nostrils. The chicory sweetness was just the wake-up call she needed for a day that was already dreamily bizarre.
"You're right. I'll see in our conference later." Garret nodded his head, giving her permission to turn her back and book it as fast as she could to the safety of her closed office door.
She couldn't put a finger on it. Couldn't say what was happening. All she knew was that her lungs felt as though they were filled with water, and she was drowning inside herself. She was surrounded by plenty of space to breathe, and still she was inescapably over her head.
So. Not. Good.
* * *
It was the kind of day that dragged on. The kind that always felt as though an hour must have passed in the five minutes since the last time he’d check the clock. He clicked open his e-mail, scrolling through the invoice from the moving company he’d hired for the last of his ex-girlfriend’s things.
At least that was of his plate. No more calls or messages about being inconsiderate or wondering when he’d finally be coming home from work. The door was closed now. He could move on. Back to the things that mattered like paper pushing and trying to get investors on board with things they didn't bother trying to understand. The usual.
He tapped on his keyboard, trying to think up something, anything to focus on. Still, the only thing he’d been able to come up with since this morning was his deal with Rachael. Try as he might to stare at numbers and data, more questions swam in his head, blocking out the stuff he should have focused on. Every few seconds, he was adding new mental notes of things to ask his new fiancée before they paraded themselves in front of her friends and family.
It was strange. Normally he loved the challenge of convincing clients and investors, but today it seemed like old hat. He'd mastered his craft where that was concerned.
His new challenge? Well, that was the most complex and exciting development to date.
He glanced at his Rolex.
Damn. Five minutes since the last time I checked, and still thirty minutes until the workday ended.
He tapped his pen on his desk before flipping open a marble-bound notebook he'd been jotting in all day. The notes went on for pages. Questions about childhood memories, the way she liked to keep her house, everything he could think to know about her.
Hell, there were only thirty more minutes left in the day. Why not take a little leisure time?
He clicked open the “chat” feature on his computer, half shocked that there weren't little digital cobwebs in the corner of the screen. It had been forever since he'd used one of these things. Still, the only way to get ahead was to do serious research, and Google results for Rachael Ford had been less fruitful than he hoped.
No, the way to handle this would be to go directly to the source, and fate seemed to agree. A little green dot glowed next to Rachael's name, and he double clicked, typing his message before he’d even thought everything through.
Garret Adams: What's your grandmother's maiden name?
In hindsight, he probably should have started more basic.
Rachael Ford: Um, it's long and German. I don't think it'll come up in conversation.
He rolled his eyes. It was as though she knew nothing about method acting. He didn't have to act on everything he knew, he would just have to know everything in case he needed to act.
Garret Adams: Give it a go.
Rachael Ford: I think it's something like Shlinglehoffer
Garret Adams: That's unfortunate.
Rachael Ford: Why don't you start a little smaller. Like, you know, my middle name or something. It's Antoinette, by the way. And you'll also need to know we met and how you proposed, all that.
He looked through his notebook. Those sorts of things hadn't even occurred to him. He'd mostly considered how she'd liked to organize her pantry and that sort of thing. The big picture stuff? He usually paid other people for those th
ings. It was one of the main reasons she was on the payroll to begin with.
Then brilliance struck him. They would have to be engaged, and best way to conduct an experiment of that magnitude would be to completely immerse himself in the biosphere. One hundred percent productivity.
Garret Adams: Why don't I take you to dinner after work and we can discuss everything? We'll iron out all the details.
Rachael Ford: IDK :/
Garret Adams: I'll pick you up at seven. Your place.
He closed the chat window before she had the chance to respond, and in another instant, he buzzed Natalie to tell her he'd be leaving early for the day. He wouldn't give Rachael the chance to back out now.
He tossed his jacket over one shoulder and strolled from the office with a sense of purpose building in his chest. His heart pounded, adrenaline rushing through his system.
Yes, this would be the greatest challenge of a lifetime.
And he was going to win.
4
Thirteen outfits. She’d tried on thirteen different outfits only to come to the ultimate conclusion that whatever she ended up wearing would feel completely and totally wrong. What could she possibly wear that would be appropriate for a non-date with her boss who also happened to be her friend and fake fiancé?
Somehow, a little black dress didn’t seem to cut it. Flirty sent the wrong message. But then, business casual was way too stuff. She pulled her too-deeply V’d tank from overhead and flung it to the ground. This was getting out of hand. One more wrong outfit, and she’d be itching skin, wishing she could change out of that, too.
On the bright side, at least the uneasiness was some distraction from the rage that consumed her when she got home.
Lance had left, just as she’d asked him to, but apparently he’d decided to leave with the vast majority of her stuff, as well. It wasn’t just his video game consoles and mountains of pornography that was gone. Oh, no. The cable wire jutted out of her wall where it used to connect with a flat screen TV that was no longer there, the kitchen counters were sad and bare where her bridal-shower-bestowed kitchen aid and microwave used to sit. Even the friggin scented plug in had been jacked from the bathroom.
The thieving rat.
As soon as she beheld the utter havoc he’d wrought, she was almost happy that Garret had forced her from her hidey-hole tonight. Even if it was for something between a war council and a business meeting, it would be nice to not be surrounded by reminders of all her terrible decisions.
She surveyed herself in the mirror that hung from the back of her bedroom door, hoping that outfit number fourteen would do the trick. It was surprisingly not bad. More casual than her usual pencil skirt and blazer that she wore to work. Her heels were moderate, a couple of inches off the ground to give her legs the illusion of not being stubby. Dark-washed Levi's and a top that sort of draped around her collar bone. It was nice. Something a person might go to lunch with their grandma in.
She pulled the shirt a little lower to reveal the slightest hint at her cleavage. Not for Garret or anything. But, well, she was single now. Maybe the waiter would write his number on the receipt or something.
She rolled her eyes. Right. If anyone left her their number, it would probably be some kind of CIA operative who was just using her for intel. Such was her luck.
The doorbell echoed through her now-empty halls and she clambered down the steps, nearly sliding against the hardwood as she rushed to the door. When she finally reached the entrance she stood in front of it for a moment, wishing she'd paused to fluff the pillows in her living room or make her house—what was left of it, anyway—a touch more presentable for her boss.
She swung open the door, and her breath caught. It was hard to play it off—it wound up sounding like something between a coughing fit and wheezing. But…well…
Damn.
She'd always known Garret was attractive in one of those authoritative kind of ways, like how police officers and firefighters looked sexier in uniform. Even if they were, like, fives or sixes, uniforms tended to make Doug Pitt into Brad Pitt. For most guys, that was just a general rule of thumb.
But Garret?
If she had never seen him before, she might have dropped her panties right there.
He wore faded jeans that hugged his hips, clinging to thighs that looked...her cheeks flamed, and she thought maybe it was better not pay too much attention to those. His T-shirt clung to his muscles, and highlighted a broad set of shoulders that she'd always assumed were exaggerated by his usual gray suit jacket.
There was no exaggeration there.
His dark, styled hair was the same, but he had a light five o'clock shadow, and the contour between his cheekbones and jaw line made him look like a freaking Versace ad.
It might have been a solid five minutes before she realized she was still staring at him. Not greeting him. Not saying anything.
And it might had been even longer if he hadn’t tilted his head to the side and asked, "Am I early?"
"No, no. You're good. Just, uh, let me get my coat."
"It's eighty degrees out here." He laughed, though there was a slight concern in his tone. Frankly, he was probably right to worry. She must have seemed pretty crazy at the moment and the frizzy mess of curls already sliding down the side of her head couldn’t have done anything to help matters.
"You never know when it’s going to rain," she shrugged, tossed a khaki jacket over her arm, and then flounced out the door, trying to hide her deep, calming breath from him.
"So I thought we should go to Pauper's Tavern. Do you like it there?" He opened a door on the passenger's side and stood behind it, gazing at her as he gestured into the car.
So fluid. Like every guy would do the same. Except, as she stood there, she realized that nobody ever had.
"Oh, um, thanks,” she mumbled as she climbed into her seat. "I've never been there, but I like taverns. I'm willing to give it a go."
"Excellent. It's kind of a hole in the wall, but the food is great." He closed the door behind her and she watched as he rounded the car. Had he always been like this and she’d just never noticed? So gentlemanly?
He slid into his own seat and started the engine. It was nice, grayish white leather, heated seats, and little glowing lights on the doors like they had in limousines.
"This is a nice car." The words sounded foreign in her mouth. Like a vocal admission that she was at a loss for words.
"Thanks. It's new." He smiled at her and then turned onto a side street.
"What is it? Toyota?"
"No," he hedged a little before he continued, "it's a Mercedes. But I'm sure that's not really interesting to you." He sounded polite, but she could hear him straining to hide his laughter.
"Yeah, I don't really know much about cars." She was lucky if she even knew what her own vehicle’s make and model was. Still, it seemed like a quality car, and she was always seeing those Camry commercials.
"I'll add that to my records,” he said, then thumped a tiny notebook that sat on the console between them.
"Records?"
"If you're going to be my 'wife,' I need to know about you. That's why we're here."
“Right.” She nodded, willing herself not to grab the notebook and read over all the observations he’d already made. She could only imagine what it might say:
Day One: Subject is unable to determine barrier between test and reality. Further boundaries will be explored in order to gage likelihood of capacity for intellect.
They parked in front of a rickety old shed of a place, and before Rachael could had finished clearing her head, Garret was already out of the car and opening the door for her. It was like he was the mascot for politeness or something. Maybe that was another test.
Day One: Subject responds well to old-fashioned manners.
She inwardly rolled her eyes at herself then followed him to a booth near a shabby pool table. The place was perfect—filled with old Tiffany-style lamps and wooden floors whose cre
aking was only partially drown out by the jukebox blaring in the corner.
Even the service was good. Within seconds of sitting down, an elderly waitress with bright magenta lipstick sauntered over and asked for their drink order. Though there was no smoking allowed, she seemed like the kind of woman who would have a Misty tucked perpetually between her lips if it was up to her.
"So, wife, what'll it be? What's your drink of choice?" He pulled the small notebook and pen from his jeans pocket, sat it in front of him, and then flipped open to a clean page.
He had to be kidding.
Nope, he just sat there, gazing between her and his precious notebook, poised to observe her like some kind of research monkey.
"I'll have a Sex on the Beach, please." The drink was delicious, but never comfortable to order and the waitress’s response certainly didn’t help to relax her.
"Wouldn't we all, honey?" The waitress' chuckle quickly evolved into a cough. Rachael seriously needed to find a new favorite drink.
"I'll have a Jack and coke, please," Garret nodded to the waitress and she tottered away, her blue hair bouncing as she went.
"Are you seriously going to record everything I do? Why didn't you just bring a damn video camera?" She sighed. This whole thing was ill-advised from the start, but now it was getting absurd.
"Well, I need..." He stopped. His gaze bore into hers for a long minute before he began again, "We need to convince your family. But you're right. Let's start small. How did Lance propose?"
"Oh." It totally had not occurred to her that she'd have to confess all the torturous details of her relationship to her boss. “Why do you need to know all that?”
“Convincing background information. How would I then propose, etcetera.”
She bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Makes sense.” Then, taking a deep breath, she started, "Well, it was kind of...” She couldn’t. It was too embarrassing. Maybe she might have told him when he was safe, office Garret. But this? In his sexy clothes and with that stubble, that chiseled jawline… “It’s not important. Let’s just start fresh.” Mercifully, the waitress reappeared and sat a drink in front of her.
Bargaining with the Bride Page 4