“Keep your head down and your wife happy. Show me you can handle responsibility, and—” He locks eyes with me. “I might finally enjoy an early retirement.” He gives my shoulder one last squeeze. “Go talk to the Millers. They’re by the ice sculpture.”
He walks off, absorbed back into the crowd like the matter is settled, leaving me standing alone with my borrowed pants, throbbing leg, fake wife, and the nuclear bomb he dropped into my lap.
I roll a finger inside the collar of my shirt. It’s getting tighter, the air in the ballroom too warm, too thick. Sweat prickles along my hairline despite the cold evening, and the vast space sways, the chandeliers blurring into golden smears above me.
The throbbing in my leg has intensified into a vicious, grinding ache that radiates from my knee to my ankle with every heartbeat. I fish in my pocket for the Tylenol bottle and discreetly pop two more pills dry. They stick in my throat, bitter and chalky, but I force them down.
I find the Millers, a husband-and-wife development team from Chicago.
As I walk them through the vision—the potential for a second Rockwood Resort location, the market research, the brand synergies—only half my brain is present. The other half is upstairs, in the honeymoon suite, wondering about the woman I’ve accidentally passed off as my wife.
Why was she on the street? She ran from her wedding; that much is obvious. But why? What kind of man did she leave at the altar?
And more pressingly: what the hell am I going to do about my father’s assumption?
I could tell him the truth. Walk up to him right now, pull him aside, and explain the ridiculous misunderstanding. The motorcycle accident. The stranded bride.
But then I picture his face. The pride draining away, replaced by the familiar disappointment settling back into the lines around his mouth. And the retirement promise evaporating.
He’d see it as another colossal screw-up. Proof that I’m incapable of making a single sound decision. The old bastard would work until he was a hundred just to spite me.
What’s the alternative, though? I can’t actually marry a stranger to impress my father.
Can I? The thought is so insane I almost miss Miller’s question about projected yields. I rattle off the answers I’ve learned by heart and move on to the next person to schmooze.
I grind through two more hours of business talk. Standing, smiling, and selling a future that is not yet mine to sell. I steer clear of my father and grandfather before another member of my family congratulates me on my nonexistent nuptials.
By the time I’ve shaken the last investor’s hand, the pain in my leg has burned through the medication and settled into a deep, agonizing fire. A poker jammed through my shin with every movement.
I’m sweating through my jacket, and the room is swaying worse than before. I grab a glass of champagne to have a cold surface to hold against my forehead, to give myself an anchor against the waves of dizziness. On my way out, I limp so badly that I bypass the grand staircase and head for the service elevator, not wanting anyone to see me.
I drop the glass on a utility cart as I enter the small metal box and lean heavily against the wall. The cool surface is a slight relief against my feverish skin. I jam the button for the penthouse floor. What am I doing? She must be asleep. And even if she isn’t, what’s the plan? Barge into the room and say, “Hey, remember me? I’m the guy on the bike. How are you enjoying your stay?” Then toss in a casual, “Will you marry me?”
I’m not proposing a marriage of convenience to a woman I’ve known for two hours, most of which we spent screaming at each other.
I should find an empty room and call Lila. Have her check this leg. It can’t wait until morning. I close my eyes and breathe through the pain until the doors open. When they do, I stumble into the hallway, bounce off one wall, overcorrect in the other direction until I pinball to the bride’s suite, my balance shot to hell. If anyone saw me, they’d assume I was hammered.
I reach her door and stand outside, my hand raised to knock. But I can’t do it. I drop my forehead against the wood with a soft thud.
I want to sleep. My eyes close.
The door suddenly swings inward, jolting my precarious hold on consciousness. I pitch forward, my body tipping into the sudden absence of support. But instead of hitting the floor, my landing is soft. And it smells good. Clean, like the expensive citrus peel and amber soap we stock in the resort bathrooms.
A startled protest erupts from beneath me. “What are you doing outside my room?”
Hands press against my chest, pushing me upright. I stumble backward, catch myself on the doorframe, and blink her into focus.
The breath punches out of my lungs. Her hair is down, a wild storm of raven curls framing a face that, scrubbed clean of melted makeup, is unrecognizable. Dark brows are pinched over wide brown eyes, and her mouth looks softer without lipstick.
She’s stunning. And naked… under one of the hotel’s fluffy robes. My gaze trails to the corner of the room, where a pile of tulle and bridal underwear confirms she’s wearing nothing underneath.
A slow, stupid smile spreads across my face. “You’re awake.”
“What are you doing here?” she demands, her brown eyes narrowing with a mixture of shock and annoyance.
“I—” I step into the room, and my left leg gives out entirely. My shin collides with the corner of a low table, and the world explodes into stars. The carpet rushes up to meet me. I land on my side and curl up in pain.
I lie with my eyes squeezed shut and no will or ability to move.