“Actually, she insisted.” That had surprised him. It was not what he was expecting from someone with Clover’s resume.
He knocked out five more quick pull-ups before his brother got in his next question. “So what’s she get out of this deal?”
“Fifteen grand.”
“That doesn’t sound legal.”
“It’s not for that.” No matter how much he’d thought about fucking her every which way possible last night. “She’s an employee—well, an independent contractor. I’m not going to sleep with her.”
“Making out was that bad?” Hudson asked.
Sawyer dropped to the ground, glaring at the phone. “I’m not answering that.”
“So it was that good.” Hudson barked out a laugh before using a fake German accent, “Very interesting.”
His brother was a jackass—but one that he needed or this whole plot would implode. Now that was a big picture he didn’t like the looks of. “Are you going to back up my story or not?”
“What happens when Mom finds out that the whole thing was a sham?”
“She won’t.” He’d make sure of that. “Clover and I already discussed it. We’ll come up with a believable breakup story and that will be that.”
“Uh-huh. Sure it will.”
“It’s a business arrangement, and I know those inside and out.”
“Yeah.” His brother chuckled. “But you don’t know shit about women.”
Ten minutes later they had a workable plan and his brother was back to doing whatever it was he did while at his cabin. He always claimed he was with a date or three, but Hudson was always saying stupid shit to cover up the fact that he had a perfectly good brain behind his pretty-boy face. Things like Sawyer not knowing women. He didn’t need to know them. He just had to make sure he and Clover were on the same page, which according to their contract, they were. No need to stress over imaginary details.
Shaking off the doubt creeping across his shoulders, he got on the treadmill, ready to run until even the possibility that his brother was right was gone.
…
Sitting at the table in her sunny kitchen, Clover drained the morning concoction in her Keep It Weird oversize mug—four sugar packets, half a cup of milk, and a generous splash of coffee—without spitting it out in laughter at the look of absolute horror on Daphne’s face.
“You can’t be getting married,” she said, her brown eyes were huge, and if she’d been wearing pearls she would have been clutching them. “You barely know him. What if he’s a serial killer who only gets away with it because of his money and connections?”
The croissant and coffee had just been a trick. As soon as Clover thought she was safe, Daphne had started in on the best friend version of the Spanish Inquisition before helping her throw the contents of her closet into an oversized vintage suitcase she’d gotten at a flea market and restored—with her own little tweaks, of course.
“He’s not a serial killer. He’s a businessman. He’s…” Clover floundered trying to find the perfect word to describe Sawyer Carlyle, but the information she’d gained through her Google-fu after he’d rushed her out of his office yesterday had been frustratingly limited. Their “date” at the charity fundraiser last night hadn’t answered any, either—beyond the fact his kisses melted her brain.
The man may run one of the largest international construction firms in the world, but he wasn’t much of a chatter. A few quotes here or there in various business articles, but no Twitter, no Facebook, no Snapchat, no social media at all. She wasn’t about to tell Daphne that, though…she loved the woman like the sister she’d never had but saying Daphne was a worrywart was like saying soccer players’ legs were a thing of jaw-dropping, panty-melting goodness. It was just a fact of life.
“He’s really busy,” Clover finished lamely.
“You mean he’s really fucking hot,” Daphne said, twisting her miles of dark hair up into a knot on top of her head.
There was no doubt about that. The man was all broad shoulders, square jaw, and the kind of big hands that made promises about other parts of his anatomy—ones that she’d confirmed for herself in the closet last night. Sawyer Carlyle may not talk to the press, but they loved him anyway, blasting out photos of one of Harbor City’s most eligible bachelors taken at society events, charity fundraisers, and on the street. She couldn’t blame them. Even when he was glaring at the camera, the man took a hell of a sexy picture.
“But you gotta remember,” Daphne said, “Ted Bundy was hot, too.”
“Okay, no more true crime TV for you.” Clover warned and cut up the pancake Daphne had shoveled onto her plate.
Clover took a bite to be polite but…yeah, eating the whole thing wasn’t going to happen. Daphne was going through a healthy-eating phase and the pancakes were pumpkin and quinoa mixed with little green bits she was pretty sure were kale.
She was saved from having to actually take a second bite by Daphne’s own single-minded determination and 100 percent commitment to melodrama. “It’s all happening so fast. I can’t believe you’re moving in with him—let alone marrying him!”
And if her stomach wasn’t in rebellion enough from the hipster pancakes, the guilt from lying to her family and friends gave even the air an acidic taste.
“What can I say?” Clover shrugged. “He just wants me near him 24/7. Anyway, what kind of serial killer would ask a potential victim to marry him?”
“Those creepers who are always posting about wanting foot models or bikini babes for calendars on Craigslist,” Daphne said around a mouthful of the barely edible pancakes.
Clover shook her head. “And you look like such a normal person.”
“I know.” Daphne grinned, her dark good looks not even hinting at the snarky personality behind her pretty face. “It fools the boys every time. Don’t change the subject. Something about this quickie engagement stinks.”
Clover opened her mouth to argue, but managed to close her trap before she reminded Daphne of her last boyfriend who’d turned out to be a serial cheater and general asshole. There. Now that was a good sign. The filter between her brain and her mouth was usually broken as she’d proven over and over again yesterday.