“I need to take this.” I got up and stepped away for a few minutes.
When I returned to the table, Ellie had reached the signature page. She paused with her pen an inch away from the paper and glanced up at me. “…Should I have a lawyer for this?”
I checked my watch. “We don’t have time for that. It’s all aboveboard, but you don’t need to sign anything you don’t want to. I can hire someone else.”
She pressed her lips together and dropped her gaze back to the contract, eyeing it warily. But this kind of money was difficult for anyone to pass up, and it wasn’t long before she made up her mind. The tension finally eased from my shoulders when she pressed her pen to paper and signed her name.
Her signature was cute and girly and full of loops, the ink sparkly blue and garishly bright. She dotted her i’s with little cat paws.
Great.
Glitter gel pens and cat paws.
This was going to be a long week.
the yacht
. . .
Ellie
Ellie’s Guide toProfessional CuddlingBeing a Fake Fiancée, Tip #7: Confidence is key. Act like you belong, and people will believe you do. (Even if it’s on a fancy-ass boat you absolutely do NOT belong on.)
Apparently, Cade Westbrook didn’t trust me to make it to the dock on my own the following day, because he sent an intimidating black SUV to pick me up at Kitty’s.
Mac sulked in the driver’s seat, clearly not thrilled about being sent to retrieve me. I tried not to take it personally when he made me sit in the back and raised a dark screen between us, but his muffled hardcore punk music felt like a message.
At least Whiskey kept me company atop his pillow on my lap, and I scratched the spot under his chin that always had his eyes closing in blissful happiness.
It’d been a long night filled with rescheduling my clients and memorizing Cade’s file, plus a brief his PR team had put together on our “relationship timeline.” Nate had hand-delivered it to my attic apartment around midnight, after calling me with dozens of questions—from my measurements to allergies to ring size.
The PR team’s efforts left a lot to be desired. According to them, Cade and I had met at a charity gala six months ago and hit it off, then we’d kept in touch while Cade was in the UK for work. The brief didn’t even mention an actual proposal—just that fictional Cade and Ellie had “mutually decided marriage was the next logical step for their relationship.”
… Boring.
Where was the romance? Thepassion? I couldn’t get excited about telling that lame story.
“Luckily, it’s not too late to make a few modifications,” I murmured to Whiskey.
Instead of agreeing, Whiskey nudged my wrist with his nose to let me know I’d been slacking on my chin-rubbing and needed to do better. I happily obliged.
At a stoplight, the screen divider lowered a few inches, and I caught Mac eyeing Whiskey through the rearview mirror—suspicion clear as day in his gaze.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “Your shoelaces are safe.”
For now,I added silently.
Mac just grunted before refocusing on the road.
We arrived at the harbor sooner than I was ready for, and Mac further startled both me and Whiskey by whipping my door open. Thank god the velvet pillow blocked my thighs from Whiskey’s claws.
“Hurry up,” Mac ordered brusquely. “Cade’s waiting at the dock.”
“Okay, okay,” I murmured, tucking Whiskey against my chest and hopping down onto the pavement. I quickly packed Whiskey and his pillow into his astronaut backpack while Mac collected my overstuffed, battered suitcase from the trunk. One of the zippers was broken, and a wheel had stopped working ages ago, and he only briefly tried to roll it before picking the entire thing off the ground.
I tilted my head back to soak in the summer sun and a cool, welcoming breeze you could only get next to the ocean—like it was inviting me to come and play. It pulled some blue strands free of my French braid, and I tucked one behind my ear.
Salt air tickled my nose, making me greedily inhale.