I tilt my head. "I'm going to be your wife, and you're going to be my husband. You have to know what my cupcakes taste like. And since you throw them in the trash, which, by the way, will no longer be acceptable, you have to eat one and tell me your honest thoughts. But you can't lie to me, Sebastian."

His eyes dart between my face and the cupcake.

I huff. "Seriously, why do you have an issue with my cupcakes?"

"I didn't say I did," he lies.

"You didn't have to," I accuse.

He stays silent, looking at my cupcake like it's a death sentence.

"You really have an issue this big with eating a cupcake? You're going to blow the whole deal when it's a nonnegotiable request?"

He finally snatches the cupcake out of my hand. "Fine, I'll eat it." His annoyed expression deepens as he unwraps it.

I stay still, watching him eat every bite and taking several sips of water in between. When he's done, he asks, "Are you happy?"

I shake my head. "No, I want to know what you thought about it."

"It's fine," he says.

"You told me you wouldn't lie, Sebastian. One thing I don't want is lies between us. I mean, we're going to be lying to everybody else, but you and I cannot have lies. If I catch you lying to me, I'll blow your little plan up, money or not," I warn.

"Don't threaten me," he scolds.

"I'm not. No lies between us is another nonnegotiable."

He scowls. "What's your point about the cupcake, Georgia?"

"I want to know your honest opinion," I push, not even sure myself why I care so much what Sebastian Cartwright thinks about something so dear to my heart.

He finally admits, "It's delicious. Are you happy?"

I jump off his desk and pat the top of his sweaty head. "Yeah, I'm happy. Have your attorney draw up the paperwork. Make sure you give me time to review it before I have to sign. And don't try anything sleazy, or I'll walk."

"Why would I do that?" he asks.

I give him my "I don't believe you" look.

He grumbles, "Fine. I'll text you when the prenup is done. Go home and pack. We're leaving Monday morning."

Six

SEBASTIAN

"Mr. Cartwright, Huck Peterson's on line two," my receptionist says over the intercom.

Huck Peterson's been my family attorney forever. He's older and known for doing things that aren't always on the up-and-up, yet no one can ever prove it. It's exactly why my family keeps him around.

I hit the button for the second line, then spin my chair so I'm staring at the Dallas skyline. "Huck," I answer.

He drawls, "Sebastian, what gives me the pleasure of talking to you today?"

For the last two hours, I've debated what to say. I decided straightforward is the best. "I have something I need you to do, but it's between you and me."