Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
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.
Chapter two
Everleigh
Idon’t think anyone ever said that getting fake married would be fun. I keep thinking back to those romances I’ve read, and in the few days I had between the talk with Bradford in his office and now—Saturday night and game time—I’ve looked up a few more. And nope. Almost no one is ever excited about the wedding. Everyone feels a little bit like they’re selling their soul. But the good news? Everyone universally gets a happy ending. This means that one day, Bradford may light up at just seeing me walk into a room, and he will be my one and only love.
However, at this point, that feels more like a giant crock of shit than anything reassuring.
The church he picked is also not reassuring.
The place looks like a gothic palace. It’s as though he really is a knight, and we’ve been transported back in time via our sell-our-souls agreement. The building was dark and looming from down the street, but now that I’m pulling open one huge door that is probably legitimately medieval, it looks more like a fortress. There aren’t turrets on the building and no statues that I saw, but there are two twin spires poking into the air, a heck of a lot of stained glass, and all rich golds, heavy reds, ominous shadows, and dark woods inside the place. Very churchy if I do say so myself.
Alright, so as soon as I step inside and take a deep breath to try and get oxygen to my brain and my literal nervous ass to thaw out a little, I guess I do feel a bit better. It’s not horrible in here by any stretch of the imagination.
No, all the intimidation lies in what I’m doing here.
When Bradford told me to be at the church at eleven at night, I was astounded, but then, rich people can be strange. Or maybe he’s secretly religious or something, and this is his church, and due to lack of warning, this was the only time they could squeeze in a wedding.
Yeah fucking right. This whole thing is sketchy. I mean, seriously, eleven? At night?
I suck in a breath that smells like candle wax and wine, even though I can’t possibly smell wine. It just seems like something a church would smell like. Not like mothballs and other woods, but incense. Actually, that’s what it smells like in here. Something burning. I try not to breathe in any further. I don’t like the smell, and my stomach is already rocking out like a heavy metal band. Not only is my butt going numb from the stress, but I’m coming up with really bad similes in my head.