She gapes at me. I stay quiet, and she finally blurts out, "Is this a trick?"

"No. Are you serious about your dream or not?"

"Of course I am," she asserts.

I lean closer. "Okay, then I'm only going to ask you one more time. How would you like to start your cupcake bakery after the New Year?"

"This upcoming year? As in a few months?" she questions.

"Yes."

"That's not possible."

"Where's Little Miss Sunshine's optimism gone?" I challenge.

She glares at me. "Stop calling me that."

"Why? You are, aren't you?" I push.

"Just because I choose to—"

"Look, we're getting off topic here. Do you want your bakery or not? If there were no obstacles in the way, is that what you'd do?" I question, reminding myself I need to win her over, not push her away.

She doesn't hesitate. "Of course I would."

I study her, trying to push out of my mind all the sordid ways I plan on having her at my beck and call for a month.

Stay focused.

"You're making me nervous."

"Don't be," I reply.

She turns quiet again.

I decide straightforward is the best option. I demand, "Marry me until January 2nd, and I'll give you enough money to open your bakery."

Her jaw drops to the floor. "Marry you until January 2. Are you crazy?"

Here we go. Time to close this deal.

I chuckle. "Not at all."

"Why? What would make you want to marry me? I don't understand," she admits. Her face turns redder, and she backs her chair away from me.

I close the space between us, sling my arm around her, lean an inch from her face, and murmur, "Georgia, Georgia, Georgia."

Her body stiffens. She meets my gaze. "Sebastian, is this a joke?" She holds her breath.

I turn serious and back away, deciding she needs to breathe. I confess, "No. I need a fake wife. And I'm willing to pay."

Appalled, she questions, "Excuse me? I'm not a prostitute!"

I groan. "No one said you're a prostitute, Georgia, nor would anyone think that."

"But you're asking me to marry you for payment," she points out.

"So? Marriages are just contracts of convenience," I state.

More horror fills her expression. "Is that what you believe?"

"Prove to me it's not," I challenge.

"It's-it's not!"

I shrug. "Whatever. You stay in a fairyland believing what you want, and I'll believe what I know to be true. Either way, I need a wife, and you want a cupcake bakery."

A disgusted look replaces her horror.

I cross more HR lines. "Oh, don't get your panties in a twist."

Insulted, her head jerks backward.