Chapter 9

NINE

I've never been the sort of man who liked counting his days. My mother used to count down the days until spring, sometimes even the hours. I remember seeing her stand in front of the large window above her small garden overlooking the bay.

Seeing nothing but naked trees and not a single budding flower, she'd cross her arms and stare at it all with a smile. Then, while rubbing her hands over her arms to ward off the late winter chill that New England can never seem to shake, she'd quote her favorite Beatles song to me with an unwavering smile. "Here comes the sun, Lennon." Her grin would reach her blue-gray eyes. "Spring is coming. Twelve more days. I can feel it."

My mother may have liked to count down the days to her favorite season, but I've never taken on her tradition. Not until recently, anyway.

There are only nineteen days until my deadline to marry Laurel Branford. I should be focused on the nineteen days, but all I've been able to think about is how it's been three days since I've spoken to her at all.

Well, more like messaged her.

After another routine nightmare, I'd woken up in the middle of the night to complete and utter darkness, drenched in my own sweat. The city below my high-rise apartment did nothing to bring light to the cave I'd found myself in. Darkness has consumed me long before now. I'd been absentmindedly scrolling through social media—a pastime I never indulge in—when I'd come across her gorgeous face; perfectly painted red lips and indigo eyes that shined just as bright as in person. No filter.

Laurel Branford is pure, natural fucking beauty.

It's been three and a half days since I messaged with her that night, and it takes everything in me not to press the floor level button in the elevator to her office right now. With a stiff finger, I press on my level and shove my hands into the pockets of my suit, hoping it will stave off my craving to pull the elevator to an abrupt stop when we reach her floor.

"Tomorrow morning, you have a conference call with Erik Larsson—one of your newly secured clients in Sweden. Micah emailed over the contract for his investment to start the expansion of his hotels in Boston, Cambridge, and Braintree." My assistant Olivia hands me a leather-bound portfolio. I flip it open and scan the document as she continues. "Erik understands your situation..."

I shoot her a glare.

She clears her throat.

I've tried my best to keep my father's ridiculous condition from being leaked to the media, as well as our existing clients. The last thing I need is for the media to run another scandal or story about how my father has been able to manipulate and control his family from beyond the grave.

Olivia's face immediately flushes with panic. "I'm sorry, Mr. Harding. I didn't mean to hit a nerve." She nervously licks her lips. "I just didn't want you thinking he was expecting more than a consultation tomorrow. He understands nothing will be set in stone. From what Micah said, he told Erik you were still grieving the death of your father and wouldn't be getting back to operating your full business until the beginning of next month."

"Of course he did," I mutter. Leave it to Micah to come up with a lame excuse that actually makes our business appear weak and incapable.

Worry sets in as I look up and count the levels as the elevator continues to climb to the top. We're approaching Laurel's floor.

Fuck. What is wrong with me?

Gripping the leather portfolio, I hold my breath as we pass Laurel's level. I don't breathe again until the elevator stops for my office and the doors slide open. Olivia and I step out onto the marble floor. I walk ahead of her until she reaches her desk situated outside the large oak doors to my office. She sits in her chair, booting up her computer.

"Message my brother and ask him if he ever considered discussing this excuse with me before he ran with it, or if he took it upon himself to make an executive decision without my approval," I call over my shoulder.

"Yes, Mr. Harding."

I push through the door and slam it shut behind me.

I've taken only two steps into my office when my breath is stolen from my lungs.

Seated in my oversized leather chair, with her legs crossed and a sinful smirk playing out across her red painted lips, is Laurel Branford.

"Now," she says wistfully, leaning forward on her elbows and pointing toward me. "Is this a habit of yours? Slamming the door after you enter your office, barking orders as if you own the place?"

My mouth spreads into a wide grin. The vision of her in my private space does indescribable things to my insides.

Eyeing her, I scratch at my chin, then I curl my fingers into a fist. Anything to distract me, forcing my cock to calm down.

A chuckle rumbles from my throat as I walk toward my desk. I drop Erik Larsson's contract on the top of it and bend down, leaning far enough forward to be level with Laurel, compelling my eyes not to fall to the swell of her breasts peeking out between the open collar of her white blouse.

"I seem to be rubbing off on you more than I expected, Ms. Branford." I growl. "I've underestimated you."

Her smirk has faded as she leans back in my chair. She stands, moving around the desk so we're on the same side.

Her black mini skirt hugs the full curves of her hips with every step she takes. My eyes fall to her bare feet.

I find myself grinning again. I can't remember the last time I smiled this many times in such a short time span.

"I figured if I were to go toe to toe with the infamous Lennon Harding, I may as well have ripped a page from his own book." She shrugs.

She's standing incredibly close to me. Close enough for me to touch. Close enough for me to reach out and feather my fingers across the length of her body.

Of all the sides to Laurel I've seen, this one is my new favorite.

"I wasn't aware we had a meeting scheduled," I tell her.

"We didn't… but since you left your office door open, I figured it wasn't necessary."

I swipe my thumb across my mouth, hiding my smirk. She truly did take a lesson from my playbook.

"My office is open to you always, Ms. Branford," I say, lowering my voice.

A small gasp escapes her perfect lips. Her scent surrounds me, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else other than her. I don't care she broke into my office without me here, and I sure as fuck don't care that she's interrupted and thrown off my entire schedule. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this unscheduled meeting?"

I won't deny the way my stomach lurches at the idea that she might be here because she's reconsidered marrying me. Aside from my proposal, I doubt Laurel would want anything to do with me otherwise. After she found out the truth about my father's true intentions for her, Laurel has kept her distance from me, our business, and the Harding name. At least publicly, anyway.

Without breaking eye contact, she reaches down and picks up a black folder, slaps it against my chest and tilts her head, staring into my soul with her indigo eyes. I place my hand over hers.

"I've reconsidered your proposal, Lennon," she says, her eyes falling to our connected hands. She clears her throat and slides hers out from under mine. Her gaze lifts back up to my face. "I'll marry you."

The feeling stirring inside me isn't one I was expecting. I expected to be thrilled and relieved she's accepted my father's outrageous request, but I can't ignore the echoing ache inside my chest. I told Laurel that if she were married to me, she deserved a marriage that was more than transactional, and I meant it.

She deserves more.

But I can sense her hesitance. Her uncertainty. Even when she lifts her chin and plants her hands on her hips. She thinks this is purely transactional.

"What made you change your mind? I thought you said you deserved a marriage that was more than transactional."

She blinks and swipes her tongue across her lips. I fight the urge to press my mouth to hers just to know what she tastes like.

There's an unmistakable sadness in her watery eyes. She sniffs, playing it off as if her thoughts are beginning to stray. Something about the way her body shifts makes me want to wrap myself around her just so she isn't feeling whatever it is she's feeling.

She stabs my chest with her finger, snapping me out of my thoughts. "This is a list of conditions I have in order for me to marry you."

I pop an eyebrow and open the folder. "Conditions?"

"Yes." She nods once. "Your father put conditions on your inheritance. I think it's only fair I place a few conditions of my own."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from a lawyer," I tell her, sliding the paper out from the folder. I drop it on my desk and focus my attention to her list.

It isn't very long, typed with her family firm's letterhead at the top.

"Are these conditions negotiable?" I ask before I begin reading.

She frowns and shrugs. "Possibly. I assume these could be a starting point for negotiations. I don't want to marry you without understanding what our lives will look like once we say our vows."

I let out a small laugh and read her conditions.

Terms and Conditions to marry

Lennon Harding:

I, Laurel Branford, will continue to work as a lawyer where I see fit. Under no condition can my husband, Lennon Harding, compel me or force me to resign or dictate which firm I work for.

I, Laurel Branford, get to keep my apartment, along with my property and possessions inside it.

I, Laurel Branford, get to have a say in all wedding plans and how it will be executed.

I, Laurel Branford, get to stay in contact and keep all my relationships with family and friends.

Below her list of conditions is the letter x with a line for my signature and today's date.

I look at her with raised eyebrows. "This is a fairly short list, Laurel."

And an interesting one.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "It may be short, but they're important issues to me. I just want to be clear. You know, so there wasn't any confusion on where we stand. I don't want to sacrifice the important parts of myself just by agreeing to marry you."

Her stern expression softens.

I drop her conditions on my desk and take a step closer, bringing the toes of my shoes to the tips of her bare feet. "I don't have a problem with your conditions."

Surprised, she jerks back, and her brow creases. "You don't?"

"Nope." I lift my hand and feather my finger down her cheek. I've lost all resolve. I need to touch her, and it seems she's surprised I'm not acting like the monster she clearly believes me to be. The one she's seen me be in front of society.

Little does she know she was there for me on the worst night of my life. For her, I'm never the monster.

Focusing on my path, I watch my finger as it follows the curve of her jaw and across her chin. I drag my finger across her lip. She stays still, never taking her eyes from mine.

I drop my hand.

"But I have a few conditions of my own."

"Okay," she breathes, her cheeks flushed pink.

"You can keep your apartment and everything you own inside it, but you'll be living with me at my place here in Boston."

Her eyebrows knit. "So, we'll still be staying in the city? I figured you'd want us to be in one of your other houses. Like the one where your father's funeral was held."

Caught off guard, I bite the tip of my tongue and fight the image of seeing Laurel anywhere outside of my apartment.

"No," I simply say. "My apartment in the city is where I spend most of my time. It only makes sense we live there."

The corner of her mouth lifts into a small smile, and I know she's satisfied with my answer. I can sense she wants to press me for more information, but thankfully, she doesn't. "Agreed, then."

"Good." I nod.

"What's the next condition?"

"You have access to my accounts, my drivers, and all the perks that come with bearing the Harding name."

Her eyes light with humor. "The Harding name holds that much power, does it?"

I lean closer and drag my nose along the length of her jaw. The longer we stand here, the harder it is for me to keep my resolve. It's as if all this pent-up frustration over the last few days, being forced to wait out Laurel's silence, has finally burst.

A wall has been broken down, and I can't explain how or why.

I breathe her in. My head grows dizzy from the perfume peppered along her neck and embedded in her hair. I tuck the loose strands behind her ear. Her chest stills beneath me. Her skin prickles with goosebumps as I bring my mouth to the hollow of her ear.

"I told you, Mrs. Harding," I growl. "When you're my wife, our marriage will mean more than money."

Several seconds pass before she pulls away. I look into her eyes as if I'll figure out what it was that caused her to change her mind and agree to marry me. There's a faraway look in them again. Is she running from something? Or someone?

Does she feel for me what I've always felt for her?

She still believes I don't remember our night together. At least, that's how she acts. She may not have said it to me yet, but I can see it in the way she looks at me as if she's waiting for the moment I'll prove her and everyone else right. I'll prove that I'm the cold, black-hearted asshole they all believe me to be. I'll prove I'm just like my father.

"I'm not so sure," she whispers. "All of those conditions have to do with money, Lennon. Let's not pretend this is something more than what it is."

Her words are like a sharp dagger to my chest. She only sees me for who she believes I am. As does everyone else.

Maybe that's my own doing. I've spent most of my life looking up to my father. Even when he would force me to go on his so called ‘business trips'. Sure, the first part was always spent with a client, going over contracts and signing multi-million-dollar deals, but then we'd spend the next twenty-one hours in a strip club, and I'd watch as my father snorted lines of coke and drank himself into oblivion. Often, my father's driver would end up taking me back to the hotel just before I found him passed out on the floor with a stripper digging through his pockets for cash.

Living a life such as that and being the eldest son of a billionaire doesn't afford you the privilege of determining your own image. Society does that for you.

I was known as James Harding's clone, made to follow in his footsteps in every way.

Maybe that's why my father placed this condition on me. He wanted me to be just like him, hoping I'd marry for money, not for love. Love is an inconvenience. A poor business decision. One that forces you to be selfless; a trait my father was incapable of possessing.

I look into Laurel's eyes and think about my mother. I've been thinking about her a lot lately. More so than normal.

"Then, what is this, Laurel? What kind of marriage is this if we're only going into it for the money?"

"It's one of lies," she says too quickly. "One of masquerades and convenience."

"I never said it wasn't those things," I argue. "And I never said it was."

"No, you haven't… but I also know you. I think it's best we keep this business-focused."

I tilt my head to the side and study her. Laurel is fire and ice, hard and soft, both headstrong and vulnerable. She's a complex creature I can't seem to escape, and one I don't want to.

"Any other conditions?" she asks, her voice timid now.

"One more."

"Let's hear it, then."

"In public, we will portray ourselves as a real married couple in every way. Charity events, business meetings, family dinners. Because as I said before, our marriage will hold more value than money."

Even if this marriage was one arranged and orchestrated by my father, I made a promise, and I don't intend on breaking it.

One of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows twitches. I've noticed how her chest hasn't lifted with a breath until she whispers, "Agreed."

"Nineteen days." I smile, keeping the toes of my shoes touching hers as I twist and grab a pen from my desk. I sign my name on the line below her conditions and hand them to her. "Nineteen days until you're my wife."

"Nineteen days," she repeats. "Wow, that's coming up fast." A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. It's a light one, not as convincing as the one I saw her wearing earlier, but it's enough to make my heart pound right out of my chest.

"We'd better get to planning a wedding then, Ms. Branford." I lift my hand to her face once again. I trail my finger along her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear again before dragging my finger back down to her mouth. "By the way, that's the last time I'm ever calling you by that name. Starting now, you're Mrs. Harding."

She lightly laughs. "Lennon, I don't think it works that way. My name doesn't change until we meet at that altar, and we say, ‘I do'."

"Maybe to everyone else." I growl. "But not to me."

Dropping my hand, I back away from her for the first time since we began our negotiations. I move around my desk and reclaim my chair.

I open Erik Larsson's file and look up long enough to see Laurel's chest finally expand as she takes a breath. She bends down and slides her feet back into her shoes.

Once she's finished, she stands in front of my desk and places her hands on the large oak surface. She bends down, revealing the perfect swell of her breasts beneath her thin blouse.

Her soft eyes fall to my hands, then on a shaky breath, she swings them back up to me. "I'll email you a wedding checklist tomorrow morning."

"No." I'm quick to dismiss her. "Meet me in my conference room at nine a.m. sharp."

Fuck an email. I'm itching to see her again already and she hasn't even left yet.

What is happening to me?

She straightens her back, narrowing her gaze as she looks down at me. She crosses her arms over her chest. "Sort of bossy, don't you think? You don't own the company —or me—yet."

I pause, the familiar spark igniting under my chest. "I like this side of you, Laurel."

She gives me a challenging expression, then her shoulders relax as she unravels her arms. "Fine. We'll meet in your conference room. If we're wanting people to take this marriage seriously, we're going to need a wedding that convinces them that it is."

I grin. "Whatever you need, Mrs. Harding."

Nineteen days.

Nineteen days until we're married and the company is officially mine.

Let the countdown begin.