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For a moment, I stop and turn in a circle.
Soft, recessed lighting, smooth cream stones and brass fixtures, complete with a flower arrangement that no doubt costs my monthly rent for my share of the ratty apartment that might once have been a shoebox, and dark olive green velvet seat.
It’s got the usual. I say usual, because I’m sure most billionaires have a steam shower and bidet and two sinks. And what looks like a walk-in closet—okay, it is a walk-in closet because I cross and open the opaque door that leads through to a changing room and a view to drool over.
I don’t for this. I stop and stare at myself in the floor-length mirror. Definitely don’t have time. My hair’s shoved in a mousey mess on my head and made worse by my helmet and the outfit…well, the less thought about that the better.
But, lucky for me, I have a change in my bag and I get down to business; peeling off leggings and socks and sneakers in one swoop, and then I follow with the T-shirt and hoodie.
I pull out the no-crease upscale looking trousers and fitted top, all in black, and shove my feet into low-heeled shoes. Then I pull down my hair and finger fluff.
There’s no makeup in my bag except a tube of lipstick, so I apply that, and thank the powers that be I came prepared for drinks and upscale, even waitress outfits are so versatile.
I’m done and it took no more than five minutes.
Shoving everything in my bag, I hold it in one hand and return to the vast swanky office.
Hudson Sinclair looks up from where he’s in the middle of texting on his phone and goes still. His gaze moves from the top of my head down to my shoes.
“Listen,” I say, “I usually dress better than this, too. But I’m smart, I’m a hard worker, and you need help and I need money. This works. It makes sense. And, I’m here.”
It occurs to me that’s what he wants—excellence, no time wasted and ease. He’s that kind of guy.
“And how hard can this be? Office romance?”
“Yes,” he says. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“Pretend office romance,” I add.
His expression says he wouldn’t have it any other way, and I’m both insulted and relieved.
“Do I pass?”
“You know what?”
I close my eyes, knowing I’ve blown it. “What?”
“Let’s go for it.”
Inside, I do a fist pump. Outside, I open my eyes and smile the way I’ve seen Sarah smile at men. Not the I’m going to fuck you smile, but the demure, slightly pleased one. And that’s about all I have when it comes to pretending to be her. She’s little, I’m a lot taller. She’s blonde, I’m saddled with light brown hair.
But he said yes, so I’m in.
“Where do we go from here, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Hudson,” he says, holding out his hand. I put mine in his. “It’s a deal, Scarlett Merriweather.”
“Colton.”
He frowns at me and I smile, gliding over the truth. “Cousins on mother’s side to old Bix.”
Hudson nods and I ignore the heat streaking through me at our clasped fingers.
“And as for where do we go from here? Success.” He doesn’t smile as he says this. “We make it work.”
“I can do that.”
“And, Scarlett? Don’t betray or lie to me, or I’ll destroy you.”
