Page 7 of Pretend Wife (Angels of the Secret Order #4)

I didn’t bother responding. I was a grand total of five minutes late.

Yes, I was wearing the suit I’d worn to work, but I’d stripped off the suffocating tie and ditched the jacket.

I rolled up the sleeves of my dress shirt and undid another button at the neck, trying to make the outfit more casual and less stifling.

“Can I get you something?” one of the bartenders asked with a flirtatious smile. She looked too young to work in a bar and way too young to be eyeing me.

“Corona,” I replied.

“How have you not graduated to grown-up drinks yet?” Orlando asked, swirling his scotch or whisky or whatever expensive-as-fuck alcohol he was drinking around his glass. “It’s not like you can’t afford it.”

“Fuck off, Amato.”

He just laughed. “Dude, that was way too easy. What’s up with you today?”

I didn’t answer, reaching for the bottle the bartender set on a coaster in front of me.

When the cool liquid hit my tongue, some of the tension I’d been carrying around since yesterday finally bled out of my shoulders, and it was marginally easier to breathe.

It wasn’t the alcohol so much as the taste.

Beer tasted like freedom, like days spent backpacking through Europe and cookouts that Sierra had to drag me to but I secretly enjoyed.

“So what exactly are we doing here?” I asked, glancing around the bar. It was simple—a handful of tall, round tables, the bar, and a section with a single pool table and a couple of dartboards. “Aren’t there supposed to be strippers?”

I’d never actually been to a bachelor party. Orlando had gone out with his older brother for his bachelor party, and that pretty much covered all my genuine friends.

Freddie sputtered. “Jesus, Blake.”

“I’m going to take that as a no.”

“Strippers are for men who are willing to risk having their wedding canceled,” Orlando added.

“Good to know.”

We spent the next several hours drinking, playing darts and pool, and drinking some more. I was actually starting to relax and almost enjoy myself.

“Would you ever marry for money?” I asked, setting my empty glass down on the bar top.

There was a long pause that felt so damn heavy. A part of me wanted to take the question back, but these two idiots were the only people I trusted, and right now I could use some advice.

“I guess it depends,” Freddie said finally. “My instinct is to say no, but I’ve never had to really face that question before.” The Rossis weren’t quite as wealthy as my family or the Amatos, but Freddie had never wanted for anything in his life.

“Don’t tell me you’re having the kind of money issues that require you to marry into someone else’s fortune,” Orlando added. “How exactly does one lose several billion dollars? ”

I let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t have several billion dollars. Never have.”

“You’re kidding. Are you telling me the Blake family fortune is a lie?”

“No,” Freddie said softly before I could answer. “He’s talking about his money, not his family’s.”

“Wait, what?”

“Hayden, what happened?” Freddie asked, his tone serious and more worried than I’d like.

“My father has cancer. The doctors gave him six months. And I have to get married to inherit his fortune.”

“Yes, join us on the dark side,” Orlando said with a grin. “We have cookies.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I’m serious. Isabelle makes the most amazing cookies on the planet.”

“That’s because you’ve been married for like five minutes. Give it a couple of decades; I’m sure the cookies will go away.”

“You know, getting married isn’t the worst thing in the world.” Freddie spun the temporary ring around his fourth finger. Because apparently male engagement rings were a thing now. “You had to know this was coming. Your father wasn’t going to leave you Blake Hotels without the promise of heirs.”

I honestly hadn’t been thinking about that when I vowed I wouldn’t let a woman get close to me ever again. Besides, I’d thought my father would live long enough for Miles to get older and be ready to take over the company.

“Knowing it’s coming and having a month to seal the deal are two different things,” I said .

“I thought you said he had six months?”

“He wants time to decide what ultimatum to give Miles if I fail.”

“Shit,” Freddie muttered.

“Why don’t you hire someone?” Orlando suggested. “You’re about to inherit all your father’s money. Besides, aren’t you a millionaire in your own right? Just offer to pay some girl a chunk of money to be your fake wife until your inheritance is secure.”

“That sounds messy. And I’d have to let a stranger live in my house for the next six months or however long it takes before Dad actually dies.”

“Who said anything about a stranger?” Orlando knocked back the rest of his drink and gave me a shit-eating grin. “You could marry my sister. The one who isn’t already married, obviously.”

“Hard pass.”

Orlando laughed. “Okay, so not my sister.”

“As much as it pains me to say it, Amato might be right,” Freddie said. “A deal makes more sense than thinking you can find The One in a few weeks. If you make a deal, it’ll buy you time and you can worry about heirs later.”

I wasn’t going to have heirs ever, but I didn’t bother telling my friends that.

Essentially they were right—an arrangement would buy me time, and it would buy Miles time too.

I could inherit the company shares and give them to my brother when he was ready to take over, or we could sell them and erase any worries about Mom having enough to keep her house .

It wasn’t an ideal plan, but it was better than any alternative.

An hour later, we’d identified a major flaw with the fake-marriage plan. The only women I knew were either related to me or married. Maggie didn’t have any single friends left. Freddie was an only child. I’d already ruled out Orlando’s unmarried sister.

“You really don’t know anyone else?” Orlando asked. “Think friends of friends, the woman who cleans your penthouse, the barista you buy coffee from. Someone must have a sister or cousin or something.”

A face flashed in my mind—warm whisky eyes; bronze skin smattered with freckles; soft, full lips that tasted like sugar.

I shut the thought down immediately. Danielle Towler was out of the question. I’d screwed up more than enough already when it came to her. I wouldn’t drag her into my shit show of a life again. It wasn’t going to happen.

Except once I’d thought her name, I couldn’t stop. Her face plagued my every thought, and forgetting her became impossible… just like it had always been.