“This isn’t the only business I run,” he called back, not even slowing.
“You don’t even run this one!” I yelled, marching after him. “You’re asking me to do it and I don’t want to! I didn’t want to when Jeff owned it, and I definitely don’t want to for you! All I care about is a decent night of tips!”
He turned back, brows drawn looking like I’d just insulted his spreadsheet. “You’re not managing it for tips anymore. And according to my brothers, you’re the backbone of Fiddlers. I didn’t think you’d want anything less than what I gave you.”
“There’s a lot of truth in that,” I admitted, my voice softening against my will. “But I’ve been saving for years. Hoping to buy Jeff out. Make this place mine. Now I’ll never be able to. Not with how deep your pockets are.”
I didn’t even bring up his other transgressions against me. Was he going to take everything I wanted? Everything Dad and I dreamed of having? He may not have known it, but I already had a beef with him.
I saw his expression shift. There was a flicker of guilt, quickly smothered by something else.
Mischief. Pure, smug, strategic mischief.
“How about I make you an offer?” he said, voice smooth.
I should’ve run. I should’ve bolted down the hallway and out the emergency exit. Because what came out of his mouth next was going to forever change everything about me, and who I thought I was.
“Marry me.”
I tilted my head like I hadn’t heard him right. “Did you say… bury you?”
“You know what I said.” He took a step closer, voice serious. “Marry me.”
I blinked slowly. I tried to laugh but the sound caught in my throat and died there.
“Nope,” I said, turning on my heel.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing my arm gently. “I’m serious. Marry me. We stay married for a month. Two max. Then we divorce. In the settlement, you get the bar.”
I froze. Because he was serious. Deadass serious.
“What’s in it for you?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“I need to show an investor that I’m capable of being a family man. When the contract’s signed and the project launches, we end it. Quietly. You keep Fiddlers.”
I shook my head. “That’s… that’s practically prostitution.”
“I never asked for sex,” he said, clipped and cold. “I said marry me. Pretend to love me. I have zero plans to touch you.”
The chill in his voice sent a ripple down my spine. Somehow, the fact that he wasn’t trying to sleep with me made it feel worse.
This wasn’t personal.
This was business.
He didn’t want me. He wanted a box checked.
I should’ve told him to shove his offer into one of those overpriced loafers.
But the thought of owning Fiddler’s buzzed through me like a shot of tequila straight to the soul.
Freedom. Financial, emotional, maybe even generational.
“You’re insane,” I said flatly.
“I may be,” he smirked. “But this solves both of our problems.”
“I don’t have any problems,” I yelled.
