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“Are you going through some sort of brain aneurysm?” Tate swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler stoically. “Because if you think I’m driving you to the hospital, you’ve got another thing coming. I have a ten o’clock conference with Hong Kong.”
“No.” I shook my head, disoriented. What the fuck was I thinking, agreeing to pay Dylan $10K a week? Tate was right. I didn’t have that kind of money. Though for a reason beyond my grasp, I wanted her to think I did. “I’m fine.”
“Bet you won’t be in the next five minutes,” Tate sneered, standing up and glancing over my shoulder.
I whipped my head back to see what had caught his attention. Row slid past the bouncers of the trendy bar, wearing a ball cap and a biker jacket. He shouldered through a sea of socialites and finance bros in suits.
“Oh, this should be good.” Tate buttoned his shirt. “I love blood sport. I’ll watch from the bar while getting head. Come, Branka.”
“It’s Brina.”
He ignored her. “Hey, whatever you do?” He squeezed my shoulder on his way out. “Make sure this deal with Marshall happens. You’re working on an app. He all but owns the fucking App Store. He’s formulaic as shit, but whatever he does works. His PR, engineers, creative team—everything is top-notch. Don’t let this opportunity slip by.”
I wasn’t going to fuck it up.
My entire future was on the line.
Telling Row about my fake engagement to his sister was relatively pain-free. Relatively, because I got to keep my internal organs, but with a warning that he was going to skin and shave me into pastrami slices if I ever touched her.
“This is not a figure of speech,” my best friend insinuated slowly and menacingly, his mouth moving over the rim of his White Russian. His tone, like his expression, his demeanor, his existence, was wry and monotonous. “I know where you live, and I’m very trigger-happy when it comes to my sister. The last thing she needs is another emotionally stunted fuckboy who breaks her heart. If you as much as touch her pinkie, yours gets chopped off. Understand?”
This was probably not the right time to inform him that said sister wanted to fuck me for money. Or that I was tempted to take her up on the offer. My dick was constantly hard. When I fixed her car. When I took business meetings. When I was working on the app. When I went to the gym. Even when I watched the presidential debate. Which, let’s admit, was less sexy than a shit-soaked mop.
“You think I’d ever do you this dirty?” I slid the coin pendant of my neck chain—the one I never took off—from side to side.
“I think you earn your bread making women feel special and good, and Dylan is in a vulnerable position,” Row countered, upturned brown eyes, just like his sister’s, zinging threateningly. “And I think she can’t handle another heartbreak after what happened with Tucker.”
“It’s going to be strictly professional. I just need this deal with Bruce Marshall. And he still lives in the Middle Ages or something.” According to a quick Google search, Marshall and his wife had five children, ten grandchildren, and an entire orphanage they were sponsoring.
Row jerked his chin in a nod. “I know. That’s why I invited him over to the launch of my spice brand in two weeks. He’ll be here in New York. It’ll give you the chance to play a loved-up asexual couple with my sister.”
My jaw goddamn near hit the floor. “Wait—you knew about our arrangement before you walked in here?”
“Dylan told Cal.” He shrugged.
Of course she did. Dylan’s mouth ran faster than Usain Bolt. I should’ve known.
“She also mentioned you were already pissing her off, so maybe I shouldn’t worry so much,” Row noted.
I sniffed, willing my hardened jaw to relax. “Liaising with your sister is like herding cats.”
“Leave any pussy analogy out of this conversation. I’m agitated as it is,” he chided me.
I got out of there before Row had the chance to change his mind about the arrangement and slipped into my custom black McLaren—a splurge I’d made two years ago. A gift to myself after working for four months with a filthy-rich client. She’d needed a fake boyfriend to parade after a nasty divorce that ended with an out-of-wedlock child by her maid and multiple lawsuits.
The engine purred to life, and I closed my eyes, thumping the back of my head against the cool leather. My phone vibrated in the central console, dancing to its own rhythm. I opened my eyes, frowning at the screen.
Mom.
Well, that was an overstatement. I hadn’t spoken to the woman since last Christmas, and not for my lack of trying. I’d hoped to spend last Easter with my parents but found out through Facebook they were in Iceland on a northern lights tour.
Picking up the phone, I stared at it calmly. “What kind of favor do you need from me now, Mother?”
But I didn’t answer the call.
Instead, I killed it by pressing the red icon and floored it back to my apartment.
RHYLAND