Page 23 of Six Month Wife

I shrug, smiling a little. “You’d have to know my uncle.Quirky doesn’t cover it. He was big into puzzles, loved weird challenges. I think he saw this as one final riddle. Something to make me have to work to get it.”

"Ahh. Interesting. Your uncle sounds... unique."

"That's putting it mildly."

She takes a big gulp, almost emptying her wine, and I clear my throat.

“But,” I add, “that doesn’t mean you have to decide right now. If anything about this feels off, we hit pause and walk away before we sign anything. No hard feelings. Regardless, I'm still looking forward to our date on Friday.”

Her shoulders relax a little. She adjusts her position, and I swear I can see her calculating the risks.

“I'd say the decision window is pretty short. Twenty-four days is a little more than three weeks. That's pretty imminent, so I think there isn't a lot of time to decide.”

“True,” I say. “I guess I mean this very minute. But, you’re exactly right, I'm under a tight time crunch if we are going to do this.”

She studies me like she’s trying to spot the catch. “Why me?”

I pause. Because if I'm being honest, it wasn’t one thing.

“We ran into each other at the hospital, and you looked familiar, but I couldn’t place you. Then it hit me.”

Her brow lifts slightly.

“After that, I got the call about my uncle. The will. All of it. I was still trying to process when I saw the article about Citrine—you, the stranger from Miami, building something from nothing. All in. Fierce. I don’t know... it stuck.”

I run a hand through my hair.

"Look, I know this is unconventional. I thought aboutasking friends, but that gets messy with people you have to see every day. My family..."

I shake my head. "That's a whole other complication. Hiring someone feels too risky. I wouldn't know their motivations, what they might want later."

"I'm a stranger."

"Sort of. I'd say you're more of a hybrid stranger."

She tilts her head back and laughs. Something inside of me heats up as I trace the line of her neck down to her collarbone with my eyes. She takes a deep breath and composes herself.

I meet her eyes. "We have this connection, this chemistry. And you're building something real here, something that matters to you. That tells me you're not looking to scam anyone, just trying to make your own way."

Her mouth curves, but it's cautious. "You're not exactly making this sound romantic."

"It's not," I say plainly. "It's practical. But it needed one thing you can't fake—chemistry."

I hold her gaze. “And you didn’t flinch when I brought it up. That told me everything.”

"So what are we talking about here? I mean, you mentioned a financial component for me. What do you have in mind?"

"You tell me. I've never done something like this. What figure makes it worth it for you?"

She goes quiet for a moment, thumb tapping her wine glass, eyes distant. Then, almost like a reflex, she starts counting on her fingers.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Rent. Payroll. Inventory. I need a manager if I’m ever going to scale. I want to take the product line to market—actual packaging, regional deals, a trade show.”

She lifts her hand, ticking off one more finger. “Ballpark? Two hundred grand.”

I don’t blink. Just nod. “That’s fair.”

Her brows lift. “No flinch?”