“It’s not like that,” he explained, moving the paperweight to its designated spot, then rotating it so that the initials faced out, perpendicular to the edge of the desk. “It’s a business arrangement.”
“Yeah, Claire and I had a business arrangement, too.” Will winked. “We still do. I like it when it’s her turn to be the boss.”
Chance and Will fist bumped.
“No, really,” Michael said, trying to keep his voice level and calm. “She’s preventing the dog from destroying my place at night.”
His brothers exchanged looks, but said nothing. Obviously, they weren’t going to make this easy.
“She was living next door to my apartment.”
The dog jumped from Will’s lap to Chance’s. “Oh, she’s the house sitter who drove you nuts.”
“Yes. But she got kicked out and she needed a place to live, so I told her she could live with me if she kept the dog under control at night.”
“Because that’s exactly what your psychiatrist had in mind when she gave you the assignment.”
Assignment. More like a prison sentence. “Technically, I’m well within the parameters of the doctor’s treatment. The dog is always under my care.”
“So, you get a dog sitter out of it and she gets a place to live? What else does she get?” Will asked.
“I have a better question. What else do you get, big brother?” Chance asked with a laugh. “What else is she keeping under control?”
His answer was a little too loud. “Nothing.”
Will straightened in his chair. “For how long?”
“Until after the wedding.”
His brothers exchanged glances.
“Her friend’s wedding.”
“Wait. Back it up,” Will said. “None of this makes sense. I need context.”
Michael stood and pretended to thumb through files on a shelf in the corner. He gave them the short version.
Will arched an eyebrow and studied him for what felt like forever. “Posing as a date? That’s way out of character for you. So, which category does she fall into?” When Michael didn’t answer, he continued. “Type A: the kind that wants you for money. Type B: the kind who wants you for sex, or Type C: the kind who doesn’t want you at all.”
“None of those.” Which gave him a jolt as he thought about it. She didn’t fit. She wasn’t money hungry. She wasn’t out for sex. She’d turned him down. At first, he thought she fit into Type C, but after the kiss on the bridge, he knew that wasn’t correct either.
His brothers exchanged looks again.
“Really. It’s not like that. We’re just helping each other out.”
The dog jumped off of Chance’s lap and wiggled under his chair. “Tell us about the wedding. How did that come about?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because you’re acting weird—like you have a bag of shit in your pocket again—and I’m concerned.” He shot Will a look. “We’re concerned.”
He explained how the fake fiancé agreement came about, but his brothers only became more grim.
“Be careful,” Will warned. “I speak from experience when I tell you she wants something.”
But Michael knew he was wrong. She wasn’t like that, but it wasn’t worth explaining. Not with the meeting coming up. “Let’s talk about Mr. Kawashima.”
“Your surprise house guest is a lot more interesting,” Chance said.
Michael couldn’t have agreed more. He glanced at the clock again. Three hours and fifty-two minutes.
“What did Jim discover about Mr. Kawashima that might be holding him back?” Michael had memorized the business portfolio, but had ordered more info from Jim due to the man’s reticence to enter into a business agreement with Anderson Auctions.
Will shrugged. “Not much that’s not in the file he compiled for you. He’s married with one teen son. Wife stays at home. No past bankruptcies or skeletons in the closet. No enemies Jim could find.”
“Something’s holding him back,” Michael muttered, more to himself than Will.
“Maybe it’s you.” Chance said, probably as a joke. It wasn’t funny though. The man’s behavior made no sense. He’d been enthusiastic in all the correspondence and videoconferences until the day he arrived. Ever since the first face-to-face meeting on the street, he’d been distant.
“Oh,” Will said. “There is one bit of info Jim found out that you should know: Kawashima’s wife has a thing for dogs. Has half a dozen of them.” He pulled up a photo on his phone and turned it toward Michael. “Here she is.”
Prickles traveled down Michael’s spine as he studied the photo on Will’s screen. An attractive woman in a red dress held a black and white dog that looked similar to Shit Head, only smaller without the silly topknot and bow in its hair.
“The dog is called a Japanese Chin. His wife breeds them. Had one in the Westminster Dog Show two years ago that won Best of Breed and took second place in the Toy Group.”
Michael’s stomach churned. Could the fucking dog be the issue holding the deal up—the dog that hated him and loved everyone else, including the reticent Mr. Kawashima?