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“What would you pick?” He counters.
“Something romantic and different.”
“You want a romantic name like Charles or Darcy,” my brother teases, chuckling.
I push myself away from the table and stand. “Shut up; I’m not that much of a romantic.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not hungry.”
I take my plate to the garbage and scrape the remains into the garbage. I hadn’t eaten much in the past two days, and it was Foster’s fault. Maybe I should just tell him no and end this nonsense. I could work for Zane and dig myself out of the financial hole I created with too much shopping and partying.
In the comfort of my soon to be vacated room, I lay on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, thinking about what my life would be like as the wife of a rich man. I could have anything I want, except love. I wasn’t sure I was willing to compromise.
My desk phone buzzes and startles me out of my thoughts. I wasn’t motivated to work today. Foster passed me in the hall this morning and barely acknowledged my presence as he talked to one of his colleagues. It irked me. The data I was compiling went untouched as my distracted mind prevented me from performing my duties.
I pick up the phone and answer, “Paige Butler.”
“My office.”
“Foster?”
“Mr. Black. You have one minute.” The phone clicked in my ear, and I return the receiver to the cradle. I rise from my chair, straighten my floral skirt, and make sure my light pink blouse is tucked in the waistband. I hurry to Foster’s office down the hall, my nude heels clacking on the floor.
Foster’s assistant, Mark, looks up when I approach. “Go right in. Mr. Black is expecting you.”
“Thank you,” I say as I push the heavy wooden door open.
Foster didn’t bother to glance at me as I enter, instead, focusing on his laptop screen. He looks yummy today in a graphite business suit with a light blue shirt. His black patterned tie was perfectly knotted at his throat.
“Sit, Miss Butler. I’ll be right with you.”
I frown, annoyed with he would continue to speak to me like I am a dog. I defy him by walking over to the window to survey the midtown traffic.
“I said, sit.” His voice is tight.
“I’m not a dog.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be with you in a moment. When you’re ready, I’d like to sit at the conference table and go over the contract.”
I shiver. Was I really going through with this? Foster’s chair creaks as he stands. He swipes a manila folder off his desk and settles himself at the head of the conference table. It was time. I join him, taking the chair adjacent to his. The table is cold, and goosebumps form on my arms as I place them on the surface.
“I thought we were having lunch?”
“I’d like to go over a few things before we order. We have two hours before my next conference call.”
“I have my own work.”
Foster smirks. “I’m sure your boss will understand.”
Once again, my boldness gets the best of me. “My boss can be impossible.”
He ignores my jab and flip the folder open, then slides a thick stapled packet my way while keeping one for himself. I study the first page, which has my name and address at the top and his below it, stating us as the parties of the contract. The first paragraph states the terms. We would be married in mid-September, just two weeks before Foster’s thirty-fourth birthday.
“What day is your birthday?”
“The twenty-eighth.”
