1. Everleigh

Chapter one

Everleigh

I will never get over Bradford Anderson the Third.

Yes, so he also happens to be my boss, and I’m just the lowly admin person. This isn’t some rags-to-riches story. I’m just one of his assistants with hopes of being, well, of being not.

And by that, I mean promotion. I have no aspirations for the man himself. The company promotes from within. They try and give people who are already here an opportunity if they can. I saw my chance last week when an entry-level position in the accounting department came up. I couldn’t decide whether applying showed ambition or would make me look malcontent, but I sent my resume in anyway.

It’s been a week of literally sitting on pins and needles because I have this thing where when I get super nervous, my butt cheeks become slightly numb. Having a numb butt for seven days now has been uncomfortable, to say the least. It’s gotten worse now that I’ve received the call. You know, the one where the said god of a boss gets on his office phone, calls your direct line, then asks you to please come to his office. Totally unscheduled. For no reason whatsoever.

That call .

The numbness is spreading. I’m walking, and I’m doing it all funny—it's like my legs are all jelly and butter, and there’s no toast or anything substantial to hold me up and keep me together. I’m that nervous. I’m a wreck. I’m probably sweating through the white blouse my mom still has to iron for me because I’ve never figured out the art of making it look good, and she’s a pro, and we can’t afford dry cleaning. I’ve already knocked on the door, so it’s too late to lift my arms and check, but in any case, I’ll keep them pressed to my body.

Breathe, Everleigh, breathe. Don’t breathe messily, and don’t pant. Just breathe normally. In, deep, out, push. In and out. Soothing breaths. Here we go. You’ve got this. You need this. Oh god, what if he fires me because he thinks I’m not happy here because I applied for a different position? What if he thinks I’m a huge ingrate, and if I’m not dedicated to my job, then I shouldn’t have a job? Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I can’t afford to lose this job. Not now. Not ever.

Bradford is there in his palatial office behind his throne. I mean his desk. He’s sitting all casual and gorgeous. He basically defines beauty, and his suits might be the three-thousand-dollar bespoke kind, but they only look so stellar because they’re on him—all six foot three godly, manly inches of him. He has perfect sandy hair, and it falls just the right amount over a strong forehead. His eyes are a glittering green, and the lights in here only enhance their strange shade. He’s also got a carved-out jawline, strong lips, and all the typical too-gorgeous-to-be-real features of a god-made man through some unfortunate and humbling accident that happened in a parallel universe before he was even born.

“Good morning, Everleigh.” He motions to the chairs in front of him, and because he’s a king and I’m just a lowly peasant, and the entire lower half of my body is now numb, I fall into one of them rather less than gracefully. It takes me a second to rearrange my wooden legs and pull down my cheap pencil skirt. I pray he doesn’t notice that it’s not designer and that I got it on sale at a thrift store. Yes, on sale at a thrift store . I manage to keep my arms tucked at my sides just in case of sweat emergencies, and then I raise my head and gulp.

“Good morning, Mr. Anderson.” My stomach ties into a horrible, tight knot. If only this man knew how desperately I’d fallen for him. I’ve been working as his assistant, which was basically landing the job of a lifetime, for two years now. I only got the job because I have a friend from college who used to work in the mailroom here but now works in marketing and knows people who know people who know people. And they needed someone urgently back then.

I’m distracted when the sun comes out from behind the clouds outside, and a beam of golden sunlight slants through the huge windows in the office and straight onto Bradford. He’s not only gorgeous, but he’s good. He runs this place like it’s his birthright, which it basically is because he comes from a long line of Andersons—the third in his name should give that away—but also from old, old, old, ancient family money. Despite his mountains of gold, he gives back to this city in ways that most people don’t, and he really does care. He’s an inspiration, which is why his name has been in so many magazines and newspapers and generally all over the internet. It’s not my job to handle his PR, thank goodness. That takes a whole department. Literally. He’s turning thirty next month, and it has led to a whole slew of requests for things like the top thirty under thirty, blah, blah, blah. It’s been a scheduling nightmare, and unfortunately, I do handle that part. Just saying.

“We know each other quite well, don’t we?” Bradford’s eyes glint as he looks at the closed door, then slowly back at me. I’m melting into the chair in front of his desk, and my god, it isn’t comfortable. Bradford, on the other hand, doesn’t have a hair out of place. He’s always so insanely perfect.

Oh yes. You have no idea how many times I’ve fantasized about you swooping in and saving the day.

“Uhhh, yes, I’ve worked for you for a few years now.” The sensation of those eyes, almost catlike, glancing over my skin makes me shiver in a way that makes my nipples nearly slice through my bra, and warmth starts spreading through my numb legs.

Now I know why people call him the Lion of the Andersons. I always thought it was his golden mane of hair, perfectly golden skin, muscular frame, flawless, chiseled appearance, or all that power he has at his fingertips. But, nope, it’s definitely the eyes. I can feel my face starting to burn up along with the rest of me. My hair is done up in a tight twist, and I can feel the sweat not just under my blouse but prickling along my hairline as well, both above and below the twisted updo.

This man is so damn regal that even sitting down, he seems to tower over me. I don’t feel any better that we’re somewhat on a more even footing. We aren’t on even footing. He has the advantage in every way. He’s not normally intimidating, and I don’t think he’s trying to be now. I’ve never even heard him raise his voice before. Everyone always comments about what a nice person Bradford Anderson is.

God, it’s been silent in here for too long. Why isn’t he asking me a follow-up question? Those green eyes are piercing through me. They won’t leave me alone.

Get a grip. You’ve known this man for two years. He’s kind, harmless. Even sweet, on the right day. Sure, he has all the power and could crush Philadelphia with his feet, but he would never do that because he’s amazing, and he’s good. He’s not going to throttle you because you applied for a different position so you could better yourself. Not at all. Nope. His eyes are just regular intense. This is nothing new.

“I have a hair problem, it so happens.”

My jaw drops, but my ability to speak comes back to me rather quickly, thank goodness. “Umm, your hair?” This guy gets like thousand-dollar haircuts every other week. He’s perfectly shod. I mean shorn. I think? Right now, my brain is scrambled cheese. I mean eggs. “Your hair looks amazing, Mr. Anderson. It always does. If there’s an issue with your barber, I can find you a new one. And if there’s a scheduling thing, don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

His eyes narrow, but then they crinkle at the corners, and his strong, masculine lips curl up in the signature Anderson smile that has the entire world eating out of whichever hand he deems fit. “Sorry, not hair. An air problem.”

“Oh, the air.” I point toward the ceiling, where the vents are. “I know. I’ve noticed that it’s been freezing in here. It's like people haven't noticed winter is coming. I’ll call someone to come look at the central air. I’ll tell them it’s glacial in here, and there must be something wrong with the setting.”

He clears his throat. His eyes scan over me like I’m an imbecile, but then that glint in them is gone, and he’s smiling again, and I probably imagined that annoyance I saw flash across his fine, godly face. The most beautiful face of all faces. Ugh, it’s simply unfair how stunning this man is. I never stood a chance. On day one of this job, I think I lost my mind to his hotness.

“No, Everleigh. Not my hair or the air. An heir . As in, a baby.”

Now I’m blanking. Everyone knows Bradford doesn’t date. That’s why he also made the top thirty under thirty eligible bachelor’s list this year for something like the sixth year in a row. “A—a—baby?” I couldn’t have heard that right.

He’s had a secret tryst. A lover’s thing that he didn’t tell anyone about. And now there’s a baby, and there’s going to be a wedding. It’s probably someone and something his rich ass family doesn’t approve of, but he’s going to marry her anyway, and it will be the wedding of the century, which will take him off the market forever, and oh god, the pain, the pain, the pain. I never thought I stood a chance, just for the record, but this still sucks. My white knight fantasies are dying a brutal death right now.

I’m treated to the full intensity of that green-eyed stare. “Yes, a baby. As it happens, I need one.”

Okay, wait, what? What the actual shit?

“You need a baby.” I’m becoming a squawking parrot, and it’s not a good look. Neither is my gaping mouth because I can’t quite seem to contain my astonishment.

Quite suddenly, the sweet, calm demeanor is gone, and his control slips, and there’s something in his eyes that is dark and disturbing, and I don’t like it. It sends a chill up my spine, a chill that didn’t come from my numb nether region, but then, with a blink, it’s gone like a magic trick. His face is back to being pleasant planes and angles that are so easy on the eye that it somehow hurts.

“Yes. You see, I had this grandmother. She came from a long line of rich people, and she did what all slick, nefarious, rich, cloak-and-dagger grandmother types with a sick sense of humor and too much money, as well as a healthy sense of family preservation, would do. She made a marriage and baby clause in her will when she died ten years ago. It states that the oldest Anderson son has to be married by the time he’s thirty and produce an heir by the time he’s thirty-two.”

“Well, that doesn’t leave much time for things, does it?” I slap my hand over my mouth. I can’t believe that just came out.

By some miracle, Bradford doesn’t take my head off. “No, it doesn’t. I was saying that the oldest male has to be married and produce an heir, or the evidence of one at least, or the entire line of Andersons—all the Anderson children in the family—forfeit their inheritance, trusts, businesses, assets, and so on. All of it will be given to charity.”

I’m shocked. Obviously. “That’s so…”

“Astoundingly strange, I know.”

I was going for overly cliched and unoriginal. “Did your grandma happen to like…uh, books, by any chance?”

“She loved them. Romances, mostly, but she was a sucker for a good thriller or mystery as well.”

Oh. Oh, yes. It shows. My god, it really shows. It’s like she wrote a romance, arranged marriage, baby trope into her will to thwart her family because she thought it was funny. Or perhaps overly romantic. She couldn’t have actually thought it would work out, could she?

“She thought it would work out. That we’d find our perfect matches and be blissfully happy like she was until my grandpa passed.”

“Oh, I see. I…” Thought things like this stay in books. Too many books. Like, half of the romance books.

Don’t get me wrong. Romances are awesome. They make me feel like things are possible. That life can get better. That one’s father didn’t abscond and leave one drowning in a horde of bills, one’s sister doesn’t have to be sick, there doesn’t have to be stacks and stacks of bills that are past due, one doesn’t have to work two jobs, one’s mother doesn’t have to work two to three jobs, one doesn’t live in a crumbling little house, and that things can and will get better. I mean, dang it, even the dark romances that are all twisted have happy endings.

But this? This is real life. And this granny seriously left my dreamy boss in the lurch. Holy shit. He’s looking at me. Like pointedly looking at me. Is he suggesting? He can’t be suggesting…

“Charity isn’t so bad,” I squeak, a mouse in the room with a lion. I know there are stories about that, too, but in this one, the mouse gets eaten.

Charity might be the best thing for certain members of Bradford’s family. His brother, who’s a few years younger than him, is not so much rumored as proven to be reckless. Then there’s the sister who prefers to stay out of society’s eye and the youngest brother who is so foul that all the kisses he keeps amassing won’t turn him into a prince, no matter what. Too bad he’s not the oldest. Then again, he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to get married. Also, then again, he’s only eighteen. I’ve heard Bradford on the phone with him many times, giving him some tough love—smarten up and don’t embarrass the family instructions disguised as older brother care.

“Yes, well, obviously, my grandmother thought it was hilarious to have the last laugh. Payback for all the times we were brats as kids, no doubt. We gave her hell when we were young, and now she’s giving it back.” He clenches his hands together. Hands that I’ve looked at and daydreamed about. Hands that guide his handsome white horse as he swoops in to save me from my dismal life in his sparkling armor. “It’s more of a wife problem at the moment, actually,” he clarifies. “If there isn’t a wife, then everyone will lose everything.”

“That’s…that’s so unfair.” It is. He’s done marvels with this company. It matters. He matters. He matters to a lot of people, and this whole city is so proud of him. Philadelphia would lose one of its heroes.

He nods. “It is, which is why I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime. Six months, one million , and a whirlwind romance that no one saw coming. You’ll be swept away, given everything you could ever desire. And, at the end of it, a doctor will declare that you’re not capable of having children, and that will be that. An annulment and everything will be saved. You’ll be that much richer, and everyone’s problems will be solved.”

Well, shit on two sticks.

I was wrong. Bradford’s not a lion. He’s a wolf, and he’s looking at me like he knows I have a shit ton of very real problems and very real debts. A sister who is sick for real and a mother who is going to work herself into a literal grave. He can’t know that, can he? There are a thousand women who would do this for him. Anyone . He would just have to ask.

“Why me?” Somehow, that comes out past one heck of a dry throat problem. But I have to be sure. I can’t just say no. Not when I’m in the position I’m in, even if it makes me the damsel in distress to his cliched grandmother and her horrible token will.

“Because you’re a good person, Everleigh. We’re not strangers. I know how generous and good you are, and I know you’re a hard worker. That you’re brilliant. I can’t just choose someone off the street or someone I know. I know you’ll say you’re no one and that you’re not in my league or on my radar, but that’s the reason I chose you. It has to look real. In the end, if it doesn’t work out, well, that’s very unfortunate. No one can accuse us of frauding the will if a secret romance has taken place here in the office. No one will fault me for wanting to keep it under wraps, and yes, we had to push things up because of the will and all that…”

Wow. Here, I thought he barely knew my name, but now that he said it, it’s like red velvet cake on his tongue. All sweet and sensual and exotic. Yes, that’s about the extent of my fun and life experiences because I really do think red velvet takes it up a notch, and I know it’s so five years ago or whatever because that ship has gone and sailed, but I can’t help it. I really, really like it, even if it’s just basically a really good chocolate cake with a fancy name.

Shit, wait. He just asked me to be his fake wife, and I’m swooning over how he said my name? What’s wrong with me? “Whoa, come again with that. No one will believe it. And I am no one. I’m your secretary. How embarrassing.” I feel like I’m suffocating. The walls in here are closing in. Bradford is closing in. Life is closing in. My numb ass is closing in.

He shrugs, and my god, he totally has this all planned out. How long did it take him to come up with this? “Everyone loves a good old-fashioned love story. It will all play out the way it’s supposed to play out.”

“Back up about fraud and the will. I think it would be rather obvious.”

He shrugs again like it’s no big deal and as though people don’t go to jail for things like this. “A real doctor, real opinion, real facts. Hard to contest that.”

My god, I’ve just been handed the very thing I spent so much time dreaming about. The man. And a way to fix all my family’s problems. His granny might have been unbelievable, but this is very real. If I don’t take this chance, what else am I going to do? Let my sister suffer? Let my mom work herself into a literal early grave? Keep working two jobs myself? Stay exhausted all the damn time? We’re one disaster away from everything folding in on us. As it is, we’re barely keeping our heads above the black, ominous ocean of poverty.

Money up front. Be smart. Even just fifty to start with would be a huge help. And insurance. Then, whatever happens after six months happens. If they lose all their money, then I’m still fifty ahead, and Heather gets taken care of for six months at least.

“Fifty,” I blurt, trying to sound like I’m all sophisticated and ready to deal and that this isn’t my desperate voice and face, but I do just sound like I’m losing it a little. This is a lifeline. In fact, this is more than a lifeline. This is a chance. “Fifty up front. Then the rest at the end of the six months and health insurance for me and my family. Also, anything that I’m given, I get to keep at the end.” I sound like a horrible gold digger, but it wasn’t me who came up with this. If I weren’t desperate, I would laugh this off as a huge joke, and I’d be giving my assurances that I’d get him out of this mess like I’d get him out of a lunch he didn’t want to go to. I’d have a list of people willing to fake-marry him by noon, and it’s just after eleven now. I’d have everything taken care of and the deal sealed by the end of the day. Because I’m good like that. I am magic with schedules and office stuff, and I’m a great assistant. He’s not wrong about that.

Apparently, he’s not wrong about me as an all-around person either because here I am, cutting a horrible deal. I’m agreeing to a crazy fake marriage scheme and his grandmother’s romance story style will. I’m in no position to argue. Yes, I’m that person who crushed on her boss like the rest of the world, and now I’m that person who is going to be so close to him. So, so close. This might be a big old joke for his book-loving granny, but for me, it’s very real. I’m going to be married to a man I’ve wanted, yearned for, and had all these— gulp —fantasies about, and he’s not going to notice me because I’m just the ticket to his keeping his empire alive for him and his family.

Don’t do this. Run. Run now before it’s too late. This is selling your soul.

But look at him. If there’s anyone I have to sell my soul to, why not him? Philly’s actual golden child. The man that any woman would die for. The man of my dreams for the past two years. I’m saving my family, myself, and everyone. This is the right thing.

Run. For the love of fresh socks, because smelly socks are just wrong, RUN!

“Okay,” he agrees, bursting through my panicked thoughts. He says it like fifty grand is no big deal for him. Like one million isn’t. He’s way too delighted. This is too easy for him.

I should have asked for more. Would that have been wrong? Yes, it would have been so very wrong. Like lying and selling your soul. Like all of this.

With all that golden hair, his golden smile, his kind, huge, and generous heart, and his company that does so much good the world over, Bradford has been likened to an angel, but as he extends his hand and I slowly extend mine, I feel like I just made a deal with someone very un-angelic.

I don’t know if I’m clasping the hand of my shining knight, taking the hand of the devil, or even what I’m getting myself into, but it’s done now. I’ve just sold myself for the next six months.