“Oh is much calmer than I would put it,” Jase says.

“You’re the one asking me to marry you,” I tease. And then laugh. Anything to mask the nerves jittering through my system.

“And I’m the one over here freaking out about words like wedding and ceremony and the like so you’re not alone on that. Believe me,” Jase says and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” Nathaniel says breaking the silence and knocking me out of my freak-out.

To go right back into a different, yet certifiable other freak-out.

“What?” I ask—say . . . screech. I then attempt to smooth over my gaffe with a cleared throat.

“Fifty thousand for each month married and most likely four months, so two hundred thousand dollars will be your compensation with a bonus of another seventy-five thousand to be deposited after one year’s time to ensure continued confidentiality.”

Did I just hear that correctly? Two hundred seventy-five thousand dollars for a four-month fake marriage with one very hot, very charming rock star?

“What’s the catch?” It’s the thought that prevails through the shock. “Because there has to be one.”

“I’m the catch,” Jase jokes but doesn’t earn the laugh he’s working for. Instead, I’m sitting here blinking as if that’s going to help me comprehend what was just offered to me.

“Excuse me a second.” I stand abruptly, wishing the office chairs weren’t so posh so they’d make a ridiculous screeching noise across the floor—they don’t—because I swear they can hear the pounding of my heart in the silence of the room.

“Take all the time you need,” Nathaniel says. Flustered and overwhelmed, I push open the door in a desperate search for fresh air.

What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

Hendrix

Marry for money.

Marry for pretend.

Marry to help him publicly, that then eases my financial burdens.

It’s a no-brainer, right? He’s hot as hell. He lives a lavish lifestyle that no doubt I’d never get a chance or pretend to live in otherwise. He purposely picked me.

Oh, and there’s one other thing—the Fuck You, Paul—component of this. I’ve never met a pettier person than Paul Flanders, and I have no problem showing him that I can lower to his level.

You want to cheat on me with a waitress from Applebee’s? Well, I can move on with Gizmo from BENT who’s a thousand times better than you.

But that’s bravado talking. The bluster and the ego, but fear is present too. A very real fear of why the fuck am I even entertaining this crazy idea?

To save your dream.

To build your business.

To further screw Paul since his parting words were that my cookie business was a pipe dream that would never amount to anything.