Page 5 of Stick to the Deal (Friendship Springs Romance #3)

A Terrible, Brilliant Idea

W hen I suggested this exchange, I never expected to find myself in that damn cerulean folder.

I truly thought it could be a mutually beneficial arrangement.

It’s true that women and men are more open with their peers than potential suitors, and why wouldn’t I use every tool at my disposal?

A part of me wanted to see Mr. High Society squirm, though.

I read people. Years of juggling bitchy socialites and Grandmama’s expectations taught me how to survive. From the moment I put my bag down, I clocked him as an elitist with his panties in a twist. After the side eye at my mimosa, I decided I wanted to twist those panties a little more.

What can I say? I love to stir the pot. Well, when I’m sure I can get away with it.

Color me surprised at the humorous response. Figured a human might actually reside in that Tin Man costume.

Handsome costume, to be sure. Piercing steel gray eyes over an aristocratic nose with a slight bump at the bridge.

Umber hair, so dark a brown it must look black in most lighting.

Skin with golden undertones but too pale to be considered tan.

His designer suit is obviously custom, perfectly chosen to highlight both his coloring and shoulders. Not overly muscular, but clearly fit.

I shake my head and return my focus to the paper in front of me. My gut churns.

Nicolette Sen Kato-Atherton, Age 29

Parents: Genevieve Marie Atherton and Hashi Kato; Granddaughter of Edgar Atherton II and Vivienne Atherton

Siblings: none

Schooling: Sacré-C?ur Hall Boarding School in France, University of Florida

Hobbies and Interests: Art, Fashion, Patron of the London Ballet Company

Profession: Photographer

Net Worth: $1.5 B USD / ￡1.2 B

While flipping through profiles of old schoolmates and acquaintances, it hadn’t honestly occurred to me how barbaric this was. How cold. Sterile, even. Is this all I am?

The ding of the call button draws my attention. Bancroft, who is waving down the attendant, has turned a bit green. The perky blond arrives at his elbow in a moment, all teeth and eager eyes.

“Scotch.” Bancroft turns to me. “Another mimosa?” There’s no judgment in his eyes, if anything, he almost seems... supportive? Well, as supportive as a stranger can be.

“Better make it a vodka.” I’ll need something stronger to get over this twist.

“Double,” we say in unison.

The attendant’s eyes pinch in confusion as they dart between us briefly before she rushes back to the galley.

We sit in charged stillness until she returns with our liquors, lingering at Bancroft’s elbow and staring at us.

“Will there be anything else?” She’s probably wondering what our connection is.

I shake my head no. Normally I’d be worried about gossip getting back to Grandmama, but right now I have bigger issues. The silence is thick as we both nurse our drinks.

“So...” The man clears his throat, still looking lost as he stares into his drink.

“So, apparently we’re a match.” My sharp tone drips with sarcasm.

“Why do you need a matchmaker?” he asks baldly. I arch a brow at him and he has the grace to wince. “Apologies. That came out badly. You’re a beautiful woman, seemingly from a good family. Why haven’t you found someone on your own?”

“As in, what’s wrong with me? I could ask you the same.” He grunts and takes another swig of his scotch. Sarcasm and dry wit won’t help me through this one. If he’s in that damned folder we’ll most likely be running in the same circles.

Taking a deep breath, I modulate my tone and try again.

“My family has always been clear on their expectations of me and my future partner. I bought a decade of freedom with the promise to marry by thirty. I’ve been focused on my career instead of looking for a husband.

A matchmaker seemed like the fastest solution. ”

His brows pinch again. “Fastest? How long do you have?”

“November.” I toss back another gulp and wince as the vodka burns down my throat.

He whistles. “Nothing like leaving it to the last minute.” He plucks the paper from my numb fingers and scans the page. “What kind of photography?”

“Mostly portraits. I was in New York for a shoot for Time. Freelancing lets me pick and choose my assignments, but I travel up to fifty percent of the month.”

“The rest of the time you are in London?” His eyes are serious as they study me.

“Florida, actually. My grandmother has an estate in Surrey, but I spend as little time in England as I can manage.”

“Do you object to England in general, or Surrey in particular?” His lips purse, eyes still glued to my sheet.

The question catches me by surprise. I inspect the planes of his face, trying to read him, but for once my gift fails me. Rolling the dice, I go with honesty. “Surrey in particular, I suppose. It’s less about the geography and more about the company. I find society’s expectations stifling.”

“Hence the no-Suzy-homemaker requirement. You would prefer to keep working.”

Annoyed, my fingers snake out and grab his profile from in front of him. “What is this? The Spanish Inquisition? Two can play this game, Colombo.” As I scan his name, my lips quiver. “Reginald?”

His face is thunderous to match the stormy eyes. “Don’t start. It’s a family name, after my grandfather.”

“Ok, Reggie.” I’ve never understood the appeal of the broody hero type before, but his glares are definitely amusing. “No job, aristocrat hobbies... and a title. You’re a trust fund kid. So what? Looking for your future trophy countess to continue the line? ”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and I have the strangest urge to touch it. Seems I hit a nerve.

“Overseeing my family’s charitable contributions isn’t simply a hobby.

Yes, I have an inheritance from my grandparents, but it’s not funding my lavish lifestyle, if that’s what you’re thinking.

” A sardonic brow raises as he stares into the amber liquid.

“Like you, marriage has been the farthest thing from my mind. My father has decided its time for me to marry.” As he salutes me with his drink, he mutters under his breath.

It almost sounds like “and no one goes against the earl.”

I hum in condolence. “How long do you have?”

“He needs a name by the time I land.” Those gray eyes meet mine with a swirl of emotion.

The vodka I’d just sipped burns my throat and the back of my nose as I gasp, choking. A warm hand rubs my back as another shoves a water bottle into my hand. “Thank you.” I wheeze a few more times. “So, what are you looking for? Besides, not crazy, that is.”

Reginald sighs. “Preferably someone who isn’t high-maintenance or hunting for a title. Someone I could hold a conversation with over the dinner table. Contrary to what you think, I don’t particularly enjoy the high life. I suppose it’s too much to hope for a partner in all this.”

A partner. That sounds nice.

When I watch Bree with her husband, it’s not the looks of adoration that make me jealous.

It’s the way they act as a unit. How he supports her dreams and she his.

Love may be a major inspiration for art, but the pictures don’t show when passion fades and the work begins. Love alone doesn’t make miracles.

“So not a petite blond who smiles at galas or in Easter photos with three perfect kids?”

That ghost of a grin plays around his shapely lips again. What would it look like for him to smile for real? “Well, I would need to have children—eventually. But otherwise, that sounds dreadful. If I’m to spend my life with this person, I’d like to have a conversation without dying of boredom.”

Hmm, good answer. “What if she has a career? Would you expect her to quit her job to support your family name?”

“Of course not. That’s antiquated.” Reginald’s brows pinch, making him look adorably insulted. “There will always be expectations and some required events, but what you describe sounds like a recipe for resentment. ”

Surprisingly insightful for a silver spoon prince. I take a breath to ask about his family, but what comes out is: “We should get married.”

He jerks back. “Just like that? I could be the next Jack the Ripper for all you know.”

Amused, I fight a smile and lean into his space. Sandalwood invades my senses. Flicking my eyes back and forth, I whisper, “Are you?”

“Am I what?” he whispers back, those stormy eyes darting between mine and my lips.

“A historic serial killer with a thing for ladies of the night?” I bite my cheek to keep from laughing.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then his lips spread into a smile. My heart speeds up. It’s small, showing the slightest hint of white teeth, but it’s real—unlike the polite ones he’s given to the flight attendant. “No, haven’t had time around my polo matches.”

I let out a surprised snort and sit back slightly.

“Seriously? Let’s get married, just like that?” His brows knit again and I find myself missing his smile.

“Just like that. You haven’t done anything particularly objectionable in the two hours I’ve sat beside you.

If you’re in the file, that’s good enough for my needs.

With,” I check my watch, “five-ish hours until you have to decide, you don’t have time to be choosey.

So, are you in, or should I give one of these other lucky bachelors a call? ” I wave the folder at him.

Reginald’s jaw clenches as he snatches the packet from my hand.

I’m half convinced he’ll say no—I haven’t exactly proven myself countess material in the last few hours. He says he doesn’t want a simpering socialite, but I’ve acted a complete shrew. I can’t seem to help goading him, even knowing the lecture I’m bound to get from Grandmama on my behavior.

It takes me a moment to notice his hand stretched out. I return the gesture and his warm palm and fingers engulf mine, sending a zing up my arm. There’s a curious callous on his second and third finger, not the buffed and smooth hands I expect.

“It’s a deal.” His words echo with finality.

My eyes raise to his and find determined steal. Those full lips stretch into a confident smile, and I’m left wondering if I finally bit off more than I can chew. I swallow, pushing down the rising tide of uncertainty .

Don’t let it show, Nic. “Just like that?” I mock his earlier question, glad my voice is steady.

His head tilts. “As you said yourself, you’re in the folder. That’s good enough for my father. You’re certainly not boring. That’s good enough for me. What else matters?”

“Ok, I’ll bite.” I lean in, curving my lips into the femme fatale smile that leaves men eating out of my hand. “What about physical needs? Confident you’re up for the task? Not sure I’m you’re usual type.”

“I think we’ll get on fine.” He leans forward.

His nose whispers against the sensitive skin of my jaw, erupting tingles down my neck.

When he continues, his voice is a growly whisper, pitched only for my ears.

“But if you need a hands-on demonstration, I’m up for slipping into the lavatory. With or without biting.”

Heat uncurls in my belly. I think he may be right.

My thighs press together to ease the sudden ache in my core, and I force a bored look on my face. “Fair enough. So realistically how does this work?”

“We’ll have to make this seem legitimate. A few public dates, maybe some staged paparazzi photos. Then an engagement announcement and a society wedding before your birthday.”

His effortless shift from flirt to business leaves me dizzy. Have I met my match? “Ok, but what about after? We don’t even live in the same country.”

“I’ve been spending a lot more time in New York, but I can honestly work from anywhere right now. When you are in the city, I can meet you there. Or in Florida. When necessary, you can come here. Let’s say a week a month, otherwise our lives are our own.”

I arch an inky brow at him. “Our own? As in complete autonomy? An open marriage?”

Emotion flickers over his face before he smooths it out. “If you like. Absolute discretion is required. There can’t be even a hint of scandal.”

“Agreed. The last thing I want is to read about my husband’s mistress in the tabloids.” My teeth gnaw at the inside of my cheek as I debate. “To that end, we do not bring anyone to our homes. Shared spaces are to be respected.”

He grabs a cocktail napkin from under his drink and writes out a few lines of text. His handwriting is bold and confident with harsh slashes. “Of course. Anything else?”

I study his face, looking for any hint of insincerity. Any whisper of him not being exactly what he appears to be .

His gaze is level as it meets mine. Not an ounce of doubt. He might just be a kindred soul in this glittering world we were both born into. Diamonds are beautiful when they sparkle, but they’re hard and cold.

“Don’t go falling in love with me, Lord Ravenscourt.” I give him my best smile, the one that always gets me my way.

His lips quirk more, but still no signs of a full smile. “I think both of us are safe on that account.” He adds onto the napkin, then thick fingers slide it to me.

The Deal:

Make It Believable

Get Married Before November

Together 1 Week a Month

No Scandal

Respect Shared Spaces

Don’t Fall in Love

Across the bottom, his signature is already inked. I study the man in front of me one last time. I wait for that sinking feeling in my stomach. For my gut or head to scream this is a bad idea.

His easy posture in the chair looks calm, but a tension about his shoulders contradicts it. This is important to him. Intelligence and sincerity shine in his steely eyes. God help me, but I trust this man. I may not know him yet, but his body language is open.

With a flourish, I sign my name next to his.

His lips quirk into a wolfish smile, and he raises his drink. “To us.” The clink of the glasses is followed by the dry burn of vodka down my throat.

This isn’t a great love affair, but I never wanted that. I only wanted a partner in life, and my gut tells me I’ve found him.