"Georgia. Sit down," he orders so strongly I jump.

I take a breath and spin. "Why? You're not being reasonable."

"I just offered you $600,000 for thirty-three days of pretending to be my wife. There are much worse jobs in the world that would pay you way less money," he claims.

I go over to the corner of his desk and sit on it. Then I cross my legs.

Surprise fills his expression, as if he didn't think I had it in me to do something so naughty. He stares at my thighs and swallows hard.

"Up here," I coo.

His blues dart to mine. He declares, "$700,000. Final offer."

I pretend to pout. "Oh, I'm sorry. I guess I'll just have to walk." I slowly uncross my legs and scoot my booty off the desk. I lean down. "Although, your offer did sound kind of fun."

His eyes widen a bit, but he catches himself. "$800,000."

"No, sorry." I bat my eyes again.

"Georgia, I'm not paying you $2 million. Give me another number. What's your final offer? And don't test me on this. If you do, I'm pulling out my Rolodex of women, and I'll find somebody else."

I huff. "Your Rolodex of women? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?"

He gives me an "I don't give a shit" look. Then he declares, "Think what you want, Georgia. You have an opportunity right now in front of you. Either take it or don't, but I guarantee you, if you wake up tomorrow and you could have had all the money you needed to start your bakery and don't, you'll regret it."

My butterflies flutter, and not in a good way. I question, "Why? Are you going to fire me?"

He shakes his head. "Of course not. I'm not that kind of an asshole."

"But you are an asshole, right?"

He sincerely appears shocked. "Did you just cuss, Little Miss Sunshine?"

His comment irritates me. "Whatever, Sebastian. How bad do you want me to be your fake wife?"

He grabs me and pulls me onto his lap.

"What are you doing?" I shriek.

He puts his hand on the back of my head and holds it firmly in front of his face. The sweat from his thighs penetrates the fabric of my dress. I push my palm against his wet pecs.

He demands, "Give me your final offer. Let's make this happen."

My stomach somersaults. Is it too early to put my cards on the table or not? I decide it's a tad too early. "$1.5 million."

He shakes his head. "A million dollars. That's it. That's my final offer. There's no more. And if you don't take it, you won't have this offer in front of you anymore. It'll be over, Georgia. Don't test me on this," he warns.