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“Art?” My voice screeches, the floodgates threatening to burst. “I lost everything. Every friend I had except Taylor. And my scholarship.”
His face falls as if for the first time in his life, the weight of what he’s done is actually starting to sink in. Then he says what I never thought he’d ever say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he says quickly, almost desperately. “I deployed right after graduation.”
“And since graduation, I’ve been hiding from life,” I falter out, the sting of tears burning my eyes. “Terrified that anything I do will end up plastered for the world to see.”
And then, despite everything, he reaches out. And when his hands cradle my face and his thumbs brush away every last one of my tears, I lean into it. And I hate myself for it.
“I know a little something about having my world crumble around me and crawling my way back,” he says, his voice softer now, laced with an unexpected pain.
When my eyes flicker to his leg, he shakes his head, stopping me. “That’s not what I mean,” he adds. “I lost my parents. Mark and I nearly died. Trust me when I say I’m not the man I was. Not by a mile.” He reaches out, tucking my bangs behind my ear, his fingers lingering a moment longer than they should. “I really have changed, Jules. I’m not asking for your forgiveness. But do this, and let me make it right.”
For a long moment, I stand there, trying to process his words. I can’t believe I actually ask it, but the words slip out before I can stop them. “How temporary?”
“A month. Two tops.” He flashes a shy grin, and there’s thatweird quirk—a dimple that suddenly appears, like he’s holding on to some kind of hope.
I sniffle. “I still hate you,” I say, my voice wavering as I try to keep my composure, the cracks in my armor barely holding.
“And the more you hate me, the better this works,” he replies, his tone almost too casual. “Quickie wedding, quicker divorce.”
“Thirty days,” I mutter, thinking it through.
“Could be sixty. Ninety tops.”
I need a little power in this bizarre exchange. I stand taller and clear my throat. “You can’t humiliate me. Ever. No women traipsing around if you and I are hitched. Even if it’s not real.”
“Agreed.”
The speed of his response almost throws me. Just like that, no hesitation. So, I go for the one thing that feels impossible to ask—a silver bullet in the dark. A sliver of hope.
“Here’s the thing, Brian. I need to find Angi. Like, yesterday. And it’s not just for me. Colby needs this,” I say, my words tumbling out faster than I can control. “Angi messed up—bad. If we don’t find her, Colby’s fucked.” I look at him, desperation creeping into my voice. “I wouldn’t ask, but Colby mentioned that the two of you served together. I know it’s a big ask, but someone like you...you have the resources, the connections to track her down...”
“Hey.” He steps closer, his hands finding my shoulders, steadying me. “That’s family. You don’t even have to ask. I’ll do that no matter what your answer is, no strings attached.” His fingers tilt my chin up, and I’m suddenly trapped in the depths of those darkening blue eyes, intense and unreadable beneath his thick brows.
My mind spins, trying to process his words, the wine humming through my veins, making my pulse race.
Him.
This offer.
And a marriage proposal—fake or not—means being bound, ball and chain, to theIron Man of Manhattanhimself.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, too heavy. When I finally manage to speak, my voice is barely a rasp. “I don’t know.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I can’t help but lick my dry lips. “What do you want out of this?” His voice is soft, like a feather along my neck, down my spine. “Something just for you.”
After another awkward beat where I’m definitely staring at him way too long, the stupid billionaire assignment and theHeraldflash through my thoughts.
Why not go for it? Ask Brian for an interview. He practically rolled out a red carpet at my feet—well, at Sydney Sun’s feet—handing me a shot at an exclusive. But then I’d have to explain thatIam Sydney Sun and dive into the tangled mess of why I wrote a story that opened him up to a flood of psychos.
One of whom stole his sister’s watch.
And seriously, what the hell? Did Wyld Richards know who Brian was when he handed me this story? Because it feels like I’m the only one who missed the memo.
Brian trusts me. He said so himself, and whether I like it or not, I can’t carve him up for the world to see. It’s just wrong.
“Well?” he prompts, snapping me out of my thoughts.
That’s when I realize I’ve been standing here, zoned out,staring at a small cluster of scars on his neck I never noticed before.
