Real Love, Fake Marriage Page 7

  I kept walking through the hall and he fell in step beside me.

  “Were you aware of the conditions in the will?” he asked in a mild, curious manner.

  I shrugged. It was obvious I’d been taken off-guard but I wouldn’t admit it. “My father was sentimental in the end.”

  He nodded furiously. “Yes, if you’ll forgive an old man’s observation, your father seemed to have lost his edge in the past few months. Even the past couple of years.”

  I didn’t have to forgive anything, but I remained silent. He had something he wanted to tell me, and he wouldn’t be rushed to it.

  “I can’t help but notice a ring missing from your finger,” he prodded.

  “Not much for jewelry” was my reply.

  “Of course, of course. I’m sure I wouldn’t need to emphasize to you the precarious position your father’s condition puts the company in.”

  I said nothing.

  The good thing about men like Harold is they’re used to people blustering and blathering to convince them of whatever they want them to invest in. Men like Harold aren’t used to silence and will talk to fill the void even if they relinquish more than expected.

  “You see, well, some people on the board have gotten antsy. They simply aren’t convinced Blake Enterprises is fit to evolve into the changing space. It may have simply run its course.”

  Heat flushed my body. I clenched my hands. Cowards. They doubted the company my father had built because we’d faltered slightly while the founder had been sick?

  I knew deep down the world of business was a cutthroat arena. I was accustomed to winning at all costs inside it. But this felt dirty.

  I kept my mouth shut.

  “Well, I don’t mean to be harsh, but if enough of the board remains uncertain about the future we—they— may simply divest from the company. It would take quite a change from this trajectory to convince them, I expect. And if, by some chance, they have the fifty-one percent in addition to the forty we—they—have…” He trailed off.

  The company would not survive ninety-one percent of its stock being tossed out. They’d dissolve the company and sell it for parts. Thousands of jobs lost. Potential profits never reached.

  My father’s company. Gone.

  I saw red. I kept walking.

  “It’s, of course, nothing personal,” he continued, trying to play at a sorry, kid angle.

  I stopped.

  “Harold, I think you seem to have forgotten something. I know the numbers. I know the shares. I know my people, our clients, our carpet cleaning company of choice. I know things about this company you can’t imagine. And that’s fine. Because you sit on the board and you see whatever numbers I think are relevant to keep you happy. Will I admit to some downturn? Of course. But I know the causes and I know how to handle it. I know more than how to handle it. I know how to make our company thrive and believe me, you’ll thank your stars that when we’re number one in the field I don’t toss the lot of you out for sitting like useless nannies fretting about a cloud being a bad omen instead of using the space between your ears to think and realize Blake Enterprises is a cash cow and I’m about to play the fucking milkmaid.”

  I don’t know if he was surprised more by the colorful metaphors I came up with or the angry tone they were delivered in.

  I didn’t care.

  I was Deacon Blake and no one was taking this company from me.

  Mindy 14

  I was running my tongue over the sticky part of the envelope to send off the latest thank you note for a bushel of flowers when Deacon came in. He’d left almost four hours ago and I’d begun to wonder if he’d finally taken time to process.

  We made eye contact. He stared for a second. I stared. And then I realized I had frozen with my tongue stuck out like a kid caught on an icy flagpole.

  He smirked at me, the first hint of playfulness—nay, anything short of brooding—I’d seen in almost a week from him.

  I shoved the envelope down and resolved to tape them shut from then on.

  He came forward, his long legs making quick strides to my desk.

  The air turned ten degrees hotter and I tried to resist pulling on my neckline to get more air. Flushed. I was flushed. The air conditioner must be on the fritz.

  “Um, hi,” I stammered. Then shook myself. His father had died less than a week ago. He was my boss (for however long left) and he wasn’t here to ask me on a date like some hormonal teenager.

  “How would you like to leave for the day?”

  I blinked. Frankly, as an hourly employee, I’d choose to stay later.

  But I was curious. Deacon reviled leaving early, which included at five, AKA now, like it was an admission of defeat. Or did he mean I leave because he was going to replace me with some other secretary?

  Again, panic hit at the thought of sudden joblessness. My debt had decreased a bit, but I had no safety net outside that.

  “Huh?” was the witty reply I used to encapsulate my many thoughts.

  “Let’s leave. No one sends flowers after five. We can get dinner.”

  We? There was now a we involved in me leaving early?

  He gave me a smile. There was something behind it and just like that, I knew that this dinner wasn’t just a boss treating an employee (a very hardworking employee who didn’t deserve to lose her job, by the way) to dinner.

  I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to have to guess what price there would be for going.

  But it was Deacon. He wasn’t Sir or Mr. Blake anymore.

  Then again, it’s those closest to me who had a habit of making me pay the price.

  I stared at him. The war inside me happened in a flash of a second. Really, I should leave for whatever library was open late tonight and start looking for jobs.

  But it was Deacon. At the very least, he was usually upfront in his designs.

  “Let me grab my purse,” I said.

  ***

  He drove us twenty minutes away to a restaurant I was unfamiliar with. We’d been silent in the car. In the past I would’ve been uneasy, letting someone drive me, but I was slowly trusting Deacon, however precarious. Bad come to worse, the stupid smartphone he got me was a whiz at finding alternate subway routes.

  We were taken to a private table near the back. The restaurant hadn’t filled with the dinner crowd quite yet, at least for people of our age. A few older groups were out enjoying themselves.

  The place didn’t seem as hoity-toity as Le Cuocuo, mercifully. Still, I wished I’d been wearing something nicer to go out to eat.

  Deacon, as ever, moved through the restaurant in his exceptionally immaculate navy suit without caring what anyone thought about him being there.

  Then again, him being there was a good thing for the restaurant.

  Our waiter came over and Deacon wasted no time ordering us both steaks. He asked for us to not be disturbed beyond necessity.

  Nerves danced over my skin, preventing me from even commenting on the fact he’d ordered for me, which normally would’ve set me off in its own right.

  “Deacon, what’s wrong?” I couldn’t take it anymore.

  He looked back at me, surprise lighting his features. “What makes you think something is wrong?”

  “A lot of things. Am I incorrect?”

  He smiled, but it was as fake as it was charming: utterly. I didn’t return the expression.

  His smile shifted to a grimace.

  “Is this about the will?” I asked quietly.

  He didn’t deny it.

  I tried to guess where his head was. It didn’t seem like grief, so I avoided the topic entirely. “Are you nervous about becoming CEO?”

  This got his attention.

  “In a manner, maybe.”

  I waited for him to elaborate. Nothing.

  “What manner?” I prodded.

  He was quiet for a moment, thinking. He chewed on his lip slightly. It was a tell I hadn’t often seen him give.

  “It seems my fat
her made some modifications to his will. And he seems to have gotten some ideas about how to control things even now.”

  I cocked my head slightly. “You’re being cryptic.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then let me decode the situation then, Mindy. My father put his shares effectively in a trust. If I have the shares, I can insert myself as CEO and raise Blake Enterprises to greater heights than anyone has dreamed of. I can have those shares contingent on one thing: marriage. If I am not legally wed within the week, the shares go to the board. If the board gets the shares, they’re going to sell the company off for scrap metal. If when I do get the shares I don’t make sufficient progress, they dissolve their positions anyway which will be catastrophic.”

  My mind hung on one word. “Marriage?”

  He nodded. “That’s the condition.”

  “And what happens if you don’t?”

  “Then the board gets the shares. And they’ve made their position quite clear to me.”

  “And the position is they don’t like the company anymore?”

  “They’ve lost faith Blake Enterprises can be anything more than a relic.

  “Deacon, that’s insane.”

  “It’s legally binding, that’s what it is.” The tone he said that in was almost defeated.

  But I knew Deacon. This company was his everything before and I suspected since his father’s passing hell would freeze over before someone else got their claws into it.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get married.”

  It had been a mistake to take a sip of water since I promptly spit it out.

  “It’s the only logical thing to do, anyway,” he continued while I dabbed up the evidence of my spit-take.

  I stared at him. This was insane. To marry someone to use them as a prop. And why tell me?

  Very slowly, I put two and two together. Then rejected it. It was obvious. It had to be wrong.

  His nonchalant tone continued. “Now, this is my reminder to you our NDA is still in effect. However, you could say the terms of our agreement are about to drastically shift.”

  I stared. Are, he said “are”, my mind screamed. No doubt. Like this was a foregone conclusion.

  Our steaks came. He began to cut a piece of meat. He was cutting a forty-dollar steak while hinting he was going to marry me to get control of a company and chose this moment to pause and eat.

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Nor could I help the laugh sounded like something between a pterodactyl screech an exuberant seal’s giggle.

  He looked up at me. I wished he hadn’t because there was something terribly sincere on his face. He hadn’t had time to pick an emotion to respond with. Laugh with me, chide me for an outburst, or continue explaining the cockamamie plan in his nonchalant tone?

  He was taking too long to decide.

  “Deacon, have you absolutely lost it?”

  “No, but I’m about to lose everything!” he snapped.

  The other patrons glanced at us. He seemed not to notice, his gaze fixed on me, but he eased back down in his seat.

  He went back to his food and I went to mine. Despite the fact it probably cost as much as my electric bill, I hardly tasted it, just watched him through my lashes. He needed time to figure out how to talk me into this. Fine. Hopefully, while filling his belly, he’d talk himself out of it.

  The waiter was at our table to clear our plates the second Deacon set his fork and knife down.

  “Dessert?” the man asked.

  “In a while,” Deacon replied, sparing him a fraction of his attention.

  Once he left his full attention reverted to me.

  “Mindy, it wouldn’t be that different from what we did… before.” He didn’t need to clarify what it was. “We go to functions together. We look at each other adoringly. You throw in a few comments about how much you admire my commitment to the company.”

  Despite the absurdity of the whole situation, that was what had me rolling my eyes. “Priority number one” and “work” were synonyms with Deacon.

  “It’ll be a bit more involved. We won’t just turn it on and off once a week. But just six months, give or take a few days. I’m sure I’ll be gone a lot since I have to convince those dicks not to act like lemmings.” It was his turn to roll his eyes.

  Something wasn’t right. “‘Gone a lot’? Last I checked, we work together.” Maybe HR would mind. Then again, Deacon was the freakin’ scion of the company.

  “Well, you can’t work if we’re married. It wouldn’t give the right appearance to have me using my wife like a workhorse, would it?”

  Lose my job? I had bills to pay. Being a “workhorse” was all that was stopping me from living on the streets.

  Before I could protest, Deacon pulled his briefcase into his lap.

  I looked at the document title. Prenuptial Agreement for Deacon Blake and Mindy Killip.

  A prenup.

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise. I shouldn’t have even entertained this, but in whatever fantasy universe where I married my boss, or even in whatever universe I found someone I trusted enough to marry, there wouldn’t be some contract outlining the end.

  But that was Deacon. Clearly define everything on legally binding paper. Even his father had, it seemed.

  “This outline the parameters rather plainly. Assets would, of course, be separate; a joint bank account is simply not feasible though I will deposit a small allowance for minor expenses.”

  “Deacon, I can’t lose my job. I’ll lose my apartment.”

  “You’ll be taken care of during our arrangement, I assure you. The will clearly lays out the expectation that we reside together. If you ask me, the apartment isn’t much of a loss either way.”

  I gritted my teeth. No, it wasn’t much, but it was a roof and a bed. I looked at the document. There it was, a “same residence” clause.

  “Fidelity clause?”

  “Neither of us will sleep with other people.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “We wouldn’t be sleeping with each other, either.” If he thought he could use me like that and toss me away, he had another thing coming.

  He smirked. “Of course not. You wouldn’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Mindy.”

  “I don’t want to.” It sounded childish.

  He smirk widened. “Sure thing, babe.”

  “Don’t call me babe,” I growled.

  “The lady keeps protesting,” he teased. “But in all seriousness, everything on the paper is about presenting the perfect image to the board and to Donna.”

  “Donna?” The name sounded familiar.

  He nodded. “She was my nanny for many years and the will stipulates she will also be on guard for any insincerity on our part. She’s sharp as a tack and about half the reason we need this many precautions.”

  Despite the calculating words, he couldn’t keep the warmth out of his voice. To Deacon, a shrewd opponent was a good thing even if it made his life harder.

  “Deacon, this is ridiculous.” I slid the paper back towards him. How could he, my boss, expect me to quit my job, move in with him, and act like a bubbly little wifey for six months?

  Even though that was the sane train of thought, my heart ached for him. Everything was on the line. And deep down I knew he wasn’t just my boss anymore. Somehow in the weeks acting, the affection I faked bled into my real feelings. He was a lethal machine in business, but in the weeks of lunches and late dinners and cards and talking, he’d become wonderfully human in my eyes.

  God only knew how a fake marriage would confuse that.

  “Mindy, did you finish reading this?” He slid the paper back over.

  “I read enough.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He picked it up and began reading aloud. “‘Minimum payments shall be made towards debts accrued from Blake’s—that’s me—accounts. At the time six months have passed, the remainder shall be paid in a lump sum.”

  My eye
s widened. The debt was astronomical and even with the boost I’d gotten from him earlier, the interest rates nearly doubled the debt in each year.

  If the money was finished, I’d be free. Maybe not compared to the average person. I would still need to work, of course. But my credit score wouldn’t be so crippled, I would be able to build a real safety net.

  Deacon put a box on the table.

  Somehow, despite the context of the conversation, I didn’t realize what it was.

  He popped it open and I gasped.

  “Tell me that’s cubic zirconia,” I said stupidly.

  “Of course not.” He sounded insulted. “Consider it a signing bonus.”

  I stared at it. It probably had the ultimate amount of strings. At least Deacon was honest enough to write them out for me.

  I couldn’t. I could be free from the crippling debt in six months, but at what cost? I stared at him. He looked hopeful and I could almost imagine this wasn’t a business proposition. I was just a convenient tool for an inconvenient problem.

  “Deacon, I—”

  He took the ring out and grabbed my hand. Before I finished my protest it was on.

  “Six months, Mindy. Then it’ll be like it never happened. But I need it to happen and you need it too.”

  It was nonsensical. In the corner of my mind, I realized how stupidly heavy the ring was.

  But I signed anyway.

  Deacon 15

  It was a whirlwind to marry within the deadline. I was unwilling to risk any unexpected disasters interfering so we headed to Nevada the next morning. New York could rush you through anything from a slice of pizza to a red light to keep pace with the city, but the bureaucratic holdup for a wedding license was torpid. It would likely take a week to get the license by itself, let alone the million other loops to jump through down to a blood test.

  As it was, I had to call in a favor to borrow a private jet and a pilot.

  “You don’t have a passport?” I’d asked, shocked.

  She’d given me that indignant huff like I had said “You don’t parasail out on the Arctic each Easter?” instead of a completely normal question.