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“Her dad is a big-name player, right? Banking. Third, no, fourth-generational wealth.”

I’m saved by the buzzer again as the intercom on his desk interrupts us.

“Wendy, unless it’s the nanny, I don’t want to know.”

“Sorry, there’s a Miss Forbes—” Wendy, the C-suite receptionist, begins before Max cuts her off.

“Don’t know her. And I’m busy.”

“She’s not here to see you,” Wendy answers flatly. “She’s here for Mr. Templeton.”

“It’s Troy, Wendy,” I say, leaning closer to the speaker. How many times have I got to tell her that? “Send her in, please.”

“What in the name of fuck,” Max begins as I stand. Fastening the button on my jacket, I turn to the door. “This better not be what I think it is.”

“Clara.” A strange sensation runs through me as I say her name. It’s so fucked up that she’s the one. The one I lost my heart to. The one who set my life on fire. The one I’m about to marry . . . as a business transaction. “Thanks for coming.”

She’s curled her hair is my first thought, though curl probably isn’t the right word. There’s something timeless about the look. Something a little Ziegfeld Follies Girl. Thanks, Mom and classic movies, for that insight.

My second thought plays into that, thanks to her red lipstick, its boldness drawing attention to the sweet bow of her mouth. The iconic Max Mara coat and heeled boots complete a killer look. No one, and I mean no one, would ever believe this woman made a living serving beers to working-class joes.

Fuck. Polyester pants. Remember the polyester pants.

“It’s no problem at all.” She quirks a brow as I meet her in the middle of the room, not sure what to do. Kiss her cheek? Take her hand? Put her in a headlock? “Hello.” This she directs Max’s way, peeking around the shield of my body.

I move to the side and settle for placing my hand to the small of her back. She barely stiffens and doesn’t jump away. Good.

“This is Max, my legal counsel.” He sends me a look back that seems to say, The fuck I am. “Max, this is Clara.”

“Pleasure.” His expression is anything but pleasured as he shoots me an angry glare. “This had better not be what I think it is.”

“You already said that.”

“And what is that, if you don’t mind me asking?” Clara’s all even tone and pretty manners. And stellar fucking rack as she loosens the belt of her coat.

“An ambush,” he retorts flatly. “Excuse me.” His attention swings my way. “Does she know?”

I like this for me. Max has assumed—I assume—that I’ve decided to propose to Clara on the strength of the share price performance. It’s like he knows me.

“Do I know what?” Clara’s attention flicks between us.

“That I want to marry you.”

Now, we’d talked a little about this, me and Clara, about how to play this meeting. And the signal I just gave is certainly open to interpretation, but that doesn’t mean I expect her reaction.

“Oh, Troy!” She claps her hands to her cheeks. “Do you really mean it? Because yes, darling! Yes!”

Ho, boy. As the minutes pass, she’s looking more and more like a Ziegfeld Follies Girl. Particularly one from the film industry’s pretalkies era. In other words, she’s a terrible actress. A fuckin’ ham.

“Wait.” She presses her hand to her chest, eyes bouncing between us. “You told your lawyer before you asked me?”

I grate out her name as a warning.

“I’m also his friend,” Max puts at my defense. “Unfortunately,” he adds under his breath.

“Oh, well, that’s a little different. I suppose you were getting advice on the ring?”

Somebody just shoot me. Shoot me now.