regret like hell not kissing her since the hospital every time my eyes land on her pink lips.
“Still, I have to wonder...what scandal could anyone find in a Warden’s past? You seem so vanilla.”
“Not important. Nothing as interesting as Nick’s antics, I assure you.”
“You’re the opposite of Prince Scandal, Ward. You make narcoleptics tired.” She gives me that smart-ass grin I want to tame with my teeth.
“And you tell pathetic dad jokes,” I fling back. “The biggest blotch on my family is my parents. I’m not getting into that whole incident. I don’t have the time or patience. Google it. That should give you a good idea what you’re getting into.”
She frowns, slowly picks up the pen, and starts signing.
Thank God.
I put my hand over the top of the paper, brushing her hand.
“Hold it. Do you want to wait until you’ve had a history lesson so you’re not blindsided for the next ninety days?” I pinch my mouth shut.
Why am I trying to talk her out of this deal everyone’s counting on?
“You could just tell me what happened so we can get this over with,” she says.
“A man should only take so much punishment. I’m not rehashing it.” My voice is harsher than I intend. I clear my throat.
“Jeez. Growly much? Do you ever choke on that tone?”
“I am a Wardhole.” I shrug, flashing her a bitter grin.
“Who’s telling dad jokes now?” Those humored green eyes might roll right out of her pretty little head. “You said it this time, not me. Glad you’re finally admitting it, though.”
“Last chance, Paige Holly. Do you want to do your due diligence before signing away your life?”
For a second, our eyes fuse. My fingers grip hers automatically, squeezing, something forbidden igniting the air between us.
Then, slowly, she shakes her head and scrawls her name across the signature line.
“It’s only ninety damn days, remember? And whatever happened, it’s your folks, not you, right? Besides, I’ve gotten kinda used to thinking about having one and a half million clams. I want my studio, or at least a quiet little place to think on a low-key beach. But you know, you’ll have to tell me sooner or later.”
She sets the pen down with a deafening clack.
“Story time isn’t part of the contract. The filthiest corners of the internet will tell you everything you need to know about my demons, and we’ll never speak of them again.” I pick it up and remove the checkbook from my pocket.
“What are we going to tell our coworkers?”
“I’ll take care of that.” I write out her check and stab my signature into it.
Her cheeks go scarlet.
“I hope you have a good story. What if they say I slept with the boss to get a promotion? What if they start gossiping just like...” She doesn’t finish, just bites her delectable lip, catching my burning eyes.
“Like you all gossip about my sorry ass already, you mean? Yeah. Those types of rumors will not only be squashed, but likely met with terminations. I won’t tolerate any less than noble speculation about your professionalism.”
Again, that gravel-churning growl tears out of me. Fuck if I care.
No one’s disrespecting my temporary wife-to-be.
I hand her the check.
“Thanks,” she says before looking at it. Her mouth drops and her hands tremble. “Holy cheese and rice. Three hundred thousand smackers. I...I’ve never held this much money in my life. That’s more than my dad makes in several years. Thank you.”
Don’t thank me yet.
At least this gushing over money keeps her from asking more pointed questions about how complicated this could be. I’m exhausted thinking about it.
I hate that if the truth ever comes out, it could tarnish her life, too.
“Thank you. It’s money well deserved, I’m sure.”
I wish I could still get that excited over a few hundred thousand dollars. I hate money at this point. It just fuels power plays and reckless greed.
Grandma spent her entire life designing beautiful buildings because it’s what she loves. The compensation was always secondary, and she was rewarded quite well for sharing her passion with the world.
Nick and I run the company because we grew up in the office. It’s second nature to us. We don’t know anything else.
We work hard for happy customers.
That should be enough, but in a world where millions of dollars exchange hands like postage stamps, it barely scratches the surface. You need the pedigree and designer shoes to go with it.
Paige still stares at the check, mouth partially open.