Page 13 of A Billion Dollar Romance

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “No, she’s in Editorial, a safe number of floors away. It shouldn’t be a problem. Just a mistake on my part.”

It hadn’t felt like a mistake, the way she’d smiled at me in the bar, the way she’d moaned my name. The way she’d looked at me in my office, eyes wide and lips softly parted, and called meprofessor.

“So what has you moping?” Ryan prodded. “Or… Don’t tell me you were actually going to try and start something with her. You, One-Night Stand James.”

“What the hell kind of a nickname is that?” I asked, and shook my head. “No, that’s not it.” It didn’t matter what I wanted. She was off-limits. She should have been off-limits to begin with. “It’s just that–and before you all jump down my throat, this onlysoundslike work, it’s not–Verity’s quarterly profits aren’t where I want them. My advisors today suggested it’s… my reputation that’s dragging it down.”

“Playboy Literary Stardoesn’t sell books?”

“Not romance novels,” I grimaced. “Lyle even suggested I get myself a girlfriend.”

“Fucking Lyle,” Charlie said. I loved him for it: he’d never met the man, but always had my back, even when I was whining about stupid shit likeLyle. I was lucky to have a brother like Charlie.

“Yeah. Ever since Rebecca left–” I remembered my audience, “Rebecca Rourke, our cornerstone novelist–the romance department’s been flagging, and my assistant thought it might have something to do with…” I took a deep drink. “Well, I’m not exactly known for romance, am I? Sex, sure.”

“And modesty,” quipped Bennett.

“Anyway,” I raised an eyebrow at him, “I solved the problem. We’ll be polishing up someone from the ghostwriting department, doing a little in-house manufacturing of an overnight success. Problem solved. But my assistant suggested we manufacture me a girlfriend, too. A fiancée, actually.”

“She wants to polish you up, too?” asked Bennett. “Everyone loves a society wedding, I guess. What did you say?”

“I said no, of course. I like a wedding as much as the next guy, but not myown.”

“You wouldn’t really have to get married, though, right?” Charlie said, and I frowned.

“No, because I’d never agree to it, Charlie.”

“Don’t jump downmythroat, Jamie, I’m just saying–” he smirked, “sounds like there’s a twenty-six-year-old down in–Editorial, was it?–that would jump at the chance to be your–fake–fiancée. And maybe…”

He didn’t even have to say it, I was already thinking it myself. He did it anyway.

“Maybe you’d get another chance tojumpher, too,” he said, raising his beer in my direction.

Fuck, there was nothing I wanted more–I wanted to have her in my bed every night, every morning. Most afternoons. We’d never have to leave.

“That’s a hell of a lot of jumping,” I said, “You want me to tear an ACL?”

“You’re not that old, James,” he said. “Thirty-eight isn’t too old for a twenty-six-year-old fiancée. Trophy wife, maybe.”

For the first time, Lyle and Bridget’s ridiculous plan sounded… almost tempting.

But then, Edie was the furthest thing from a trophy wife. Sexy, yes, but also smart, and unpretentious.

And my student.

I couldn’t.

Former student.

Could I?

“Go for it, James,” Charlie urged. “We just want to see you happy. What’s the worst thing she could say?”

CHAPTER8

Edie

“No,”I said.