Bad Fiancé Page 3

  “He’s also notoriously conservative,” Sera said, “and is known to torpedo deals for those who don’t have the same ‘family values’ as him.”

  Another nod.

  “So, why me?”

  “I panicked and blurted, and yours was the first name that came into my mind.” Her brows drew together at that admission. “Then I saw the reaction from Roche, and I knew that if I wanted the deal to work, I had to double down.”

  “So, you told Roche we were together?”

  He nodded. The change had been instantaneous, one second Roche had been ready to dismiss Tate, and the next he’d been ready to cut a check. Or nearly so. He wanted to meet the famous Seraphina Delgado first. “I mentioned I was dating, that it was serious and . . .”

  “He filled in the blank.” Sera nibbled at the corner of her mouth. “Roche’s string of nonprofits are some of the best in the world.”

  “Yes.” Tate nodded again.

  Sera sighed and leaned back against her desk, fingers steepled under her chin. “So, what you’re saying is that you made me your fake fiancé in order to secure funding for a project that is going to provide small, low-interest loans to women who are underserved by traditional loaning opportunities.”

  “You know how microloans work?” he asked, surprised though he had no right to be.

  The Delgados were a power unto themselves in the finance world.

  One of Sera’s delicate brows lifted. “I’m Francis Delgado’s daughter. What do you think?”

  He felt his lips curve. “I think you know how microloans work.”

  “Ding. Ding.” She pretended to ring a bell. “That, at least, is one thing you got exactly right.” Another sigh, back to steepling, her gaze hooded. “So, all you’re asking is for me to play the role of doting fiancé in order to what? Secure the deal only? Or is it going to go further, and next thing I know you’re proposing actual marriage for the sake of some new app?”

  “God, no.” He shuddered. “I can’t ever see myself getting married.”

  Her mouth pursed.

  “I said the wrong thing again.”

  A nod.

  “I’m sorry. But if it makes things any better, my reluctance for marriage doesn’t have a lick to do with you. It’s all me and my inability to have normal human interactions.”

  “A lick?” she asked.

  “I say again. I suck at humans.”

  She giggled. “Lick. Suck?” Sera bent at the waist, hysterical laughter bursting from her lips. “Oh my God. I’ve totally been corrupted, but I—I just can’t with you.”

  Tate frowned. “Just can’t what?”

  “Never mind.” She waved a hand, using the other to wipe the corners of her eyes. “Just that you would have had the Sextant in hysterics.” Another wave. “No. Don’t ask.”

  He didn’t ask.

  “Let’s hammer—” She coughed, though to Tate it sounded more like laughter than needing to clear her throat. Then again, it was already established that he didn’t do humans. “Let’s sort this out. I agree to be your fiancé long enough for Roche’s investment to clear, and I get to sell the Monroe Estate. You get a trophy fiancé for . . . exactly how long?”

  “Until Roche agrees to the investment and the contract is signed. Then you can dump me in whatever fashion you desire.”

  Something happened to her expression at the word desire, but the flicker was gone so quickly that Tate wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing.

  “And you’ll buy whatever home I choose for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “No budget restrictions?”

  “You saw what was in my account,” he said with a shrug. “I trust you not to use it all.”

  Sera went very still before her smile made another appearance.

  But Tate wasn’t blindsided this time, wasn’t shocked to see there were different layers to that flash of teeth. He absorbed the blow, the jump in his pulse, and searched below the parting of her lips.

  Trust was important to Sera.

  “I think I’d have to buy you a dozen houses to do that.”

  Tate shrugged as he crossed over to match her position, leaning back against the desk. “That’s everything,” he said. “Nothing else. No blindsides, no hidden games. A simple give and take.”

  Head tilting, she glanced up at him. “Tit for tat?”

  “Yeah.”

  Eyes on the floor, on the far wall, on the ceiling. Anywhere but where he wanted them.

  On him.

  A blip pulsed in the back of his brain, warning him that he was already in over his head. That his declaring Sera his fiancé to Roche had already been insane, especially when paired with his attraction to her.

  But Tate shoved that worry down.

  He was a businessman, and this was a business deal.

  Easy as that.

  Fingers brushed the cut on his temple and his gaze shot to Sera’s. He hadn’t realized that he’d been staring down at their feet, marveling at the difference between men’s and women’s shoes, remembering how the first loan he’d given had been to a woman at his own company who’d had a design for comfortable and affordable heels made out of recycled materials.

  She’d left the company six months later and was now a multi-millionaire in her own right.

  All because he’d loaned her less than five thousand dollars to get started.

  Stephanie—and women like her—were only part of the reason he wanted this to work.

  Tate wanted to do something good.

  Something that had nothing to do with going viral or views or advertisers. He didn’t want to make money.

  He wanted to give it.

  “Okay,” she murmured.

  He blinked. “Really?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I can put up with you for a few weeks.”

  All the stress left him in an instant. “Are you—?”

  “Sure?” she finished for him. “Not in the slightest. But as unorthodox as this sounds, I can appreciate what you’re trying to do.” A beat. “I just have one more condition.”

  “Anything.”

  Another beatific smile, though this one with an underlying mischievousness to it. “Well, it’s two things.”

  Tate gestured at her to go on.

  “One, you donate my commission for the sale of the Monroe Estate to FundHer—”

  Tate’s jaw fell open, but before he could say anything, Sera went on.

  “And two, I get to pick the ring.”

  Six

  Sera

  Tate’s eyes danced with amusement. “Really?”

  She shrugged. “A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.”

  “And that doesn’t involve getting paid for her work?”

  “That’s far from the point. I don’t need the money, and it will be better served in FundHer.” Her brows lifted. “Or do you not believe as deeply in the app as I thought you did?”

  “That’s not it. I—”

  “Right,” she agreed. “So, take the donation graciously and know you’ll be paying me a hefty commission on whatever new house you purchase and buying me a shiny diamond bauble.”

  “Graciously? I’ll try.” He shrugged. “But the shiny diamond bauble? That I can definitely do.”

  “I get to pick it out,” she reminded him. “And I’m sending you the bill.”

  He snorted but didn’t protest. “Fine.”

  “So, we have a deal?” She put out her hand, and he took it in his. The simple contact made her heart skip a beat, especially when those calloused fingers brushed the inside of her wrist.

  “We have a deal,” he murmured.

  Her lips parted, breath coming out on one long, slow exhale. Tate’s eyes drifted to her mouth and darkened, going almost black when her tongue darted out and moistened the skin there nervously.

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  “Okay,” he agreed just as softly.

  “I’m sorry I hit you with my car.”


  One half of his mouth curved up. “I deserved it.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “you did.”

  He laughed, finally releasing her wrist. She took a step back, sucking in air, knowing that she needed to relocate her equilibrium, especially if she was going to do this with Tate.

  No falling for him.

  No tender feelings.

  This was for the houses . . . and the other women.

  Because female solidarity and all that.

  “Can you pick out a ring today?” he asked, distracting her from the guilty direction her thoughts had taken.

  Which was basically something along the lines of: Who are you kidding, girlfriend? You’re dying for any kind of man, even a fake one. Throw in diamonds and a pretend wedding, and you’re in heaven!

  Or hell, since Tate didn’t want to get married.

  But that didn’t matter in the least to her. She didn’t know Tate well, and the little she did know wasn’t exactly filling up the Pro column on her Dream Man Pro/Con Chart.

  He might make her laugh, but he also said the wrong thing, almost all the time. He wasn’t all that charming and didn’t have all the smooth words. In fact, he’d seemed to bumble his way through their interactions previously—and this “proposal” had been no different.

  So, no. It would be easy to keep her distance, to remember this was a favor between acquaintances, and that was it.

  “Why do I need the ring today?”

  He glanced at her, guilty expression creeping onto his face. “Because we’re having dinner with Roche tonight.”

  Sera’s mouth pressed flat. “Really?”

  Tate winced. “Sorry?”

  “Where is it and what time?”

  They spent a few minutes ironing out details before Sera rounded her desk and sat down. “Well, if I need to take off early to go ring shopping, I have lots of work to do.” She picked up a folder, ready for him to leave so she could attempt to process what in the heck she’d just agreed to.

  As in: What in the hell did she just agree to?

  Was she insane?

  Probably.

  But he’d looked so earnest when talking about the microloans and female entrepreneurs, and Sera found that she couldn’t turn him down.

  She was a sucker for a noble cause.

  “Oh,” she said as he turned for the door. “And just for your future fiancé knowledge, I really can’t stand red roses.” She gestured toward the trash can, half the bouquet sticking out of the top. “I—” A shake of her head, not ready to tell this man why she hated them so fiercely. “They’re just not for me.”

  He nodded.

  “So, you won’t send them again?”

  “No problem.” He waved then turned to leave again, pausing on the threshold. “Oh, Sera?”

  She froze. “Yeah?”

  “Those flowers weren’t from me.”

  The door closed behind him with a small click, leaving Sera frowning and reaching down into the trash can to search the arrangement for a card.

  There.

  She extracted it and opened the flap even though she immediately knew based on the color and scent of the tiny envelope exactly whom it was from.

  Her mother.

  Sera,

  Your father and I are thrilled to hear about your engagement to Tate Conner. He

  is far better of a catch than we expected you to hook. Congratulations and looking forward to discussing wedding details with you this evening at dinner.

  Your mother,

  Sugar

  Yes, her mother’s actual, God-given—or rather parent-given—name was Sugar Delgado née Walton.

  And as one might guess, she had about as much substance as the granular white stuff.

  Sera sighed, pushed out of her chair. Her parents would be at dinner that evening. Her mother would make a multitude of snide comments about her outfit or how much weight she’d gained, and her father would guffaw at her “little” business—never mind that she and her team had pulled in eight figures last year in commissions.

  She glanced down at her phone, saw it wasn’t even nine thirty.

  “Forget—fuck it,” she muttered, leaving a note for Hector to clear her schedule and placing it on his desk. Two minutes later, she was striding down the stairs, purse on her shoulder and the empty vase in her hands.

  Red roses or not, the blown glass was pretty.

  A few seconds to carefully stow it in the trunk, a few more to buckle in and check, double-check, then triple-check she wasn’t going to crack any gorgeous business moguls in the temple with her side mirror, and she was on the road.

  Her first stop was for a new outfit, but it wasn’t a Pretty Woman shopping montage. This was business, plain and simple.

  To find an outfit her mother couldn’t criticize.

  Probably—no definitely—an impossible task, but Sera found herself unable to stop herself from trying.

  This would be the first time she’d seen her parents in close to a year, and she wanted to feel confident in herself, even if they would find and highlight every flaw they could.

  Armor was important.

  And Sera had discovered long ago that clothes could serve that role . . . or at least serve to reinforce that role.

  She exchanged her heels for the flats she always kept in her glove box the moment she parked in front of her favorite boutique then slung her purse over her shoulder and strode inside.

  “Maggie,” she hollered. “Help!”

  The owner of the store, a recently relocated Hollywood stylist, poked her head out of a door that led to the back of the shop. Caramel curls toppled down her back, haphazardly contained in a clip. She blew one out of her face and straightened the turquoise glasses perched on her nose. “Sera? You okay?”

  Sera shook her head. “No. I need a dress that my mother won’t be able to criticize me in.”

  Brows lifting, Maggie walked toward her, pausing only to hang the armful of clothes she held on a rack. “Mothers are tricky business.”

  Sera wrinkled her nose. “Mine is especially so.”

  “Hmm.” Maggie pivoted, eyeing the racks, sliding dresses to and fro. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Dinner. They’ll be meeting my fiancé for the first time.”

  The hanger made a screeching noise as it slid to a stop.

  Maggie rotated to face her, eyes dropping to Sera’s left hand.

  Since she had no secrets from the stylist, she admitted, “My fake fiancé.”

  Maggie’s brows had never been so high.

  Sera waved a hand, affecting casual even though nothing about her and Tate felt remotely casual, especially now with her parents involved. “It’s nothing.”

  Maggie turned back around, started searching through dresses. “Does the man know?”

  “About the fake part or the fiancé part?”

  A shrug. “Either. Both.”

  Sera studied a pretty blue dress on the rack nearest her. “He knows,” she said, pulling the dress off the rack and holding it to her chest in a crude determination of fit. “It was his idea.”

  Maggie swept toward her, tugged the dress out of her hands, and hung it back on the rack. “That’s not for you.” She slid away just as quickly.

  Sera was used to Maggie’s ways so she stayed in place and let the stylist work her magic.

  “And what’s in it for you?” Maggie asked.

  Good question.

  “He’s letting me sell his house and pick him out a new one.” Sera left the part off about donating her commission, knowing that wouldn’t help her case.

  Maggie glanced over her shoulder, fixing her in place with a look that said, “Not buying it.”

  “He’s starting a business to donate money to women in need.”

  A tilt of her head that said, “That’s great. But I’m still not buying it.”

  Sera sighed. “He was The One.”

  “Was?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I thought he was and�
�—she bit her lip—“it turned out I was wrong, and so now . . .”

  Maggie picked up a pale pink gown, frowned, and hung it back up again. “You’ve decided to torture yourself with something you just admitted wasn’t meant to be?”

  “No.” Sera winced. “I mean, yes. I mean, no. I don’t want Tate.” Her voice dropped. “I just want to prove to myself that’s actually the case.”

  “Prove to yourself that you don’t want him or prove to him that he should want you?”

  Since there was only one correct answer that didn’t make her sound like a pathetic idiot, Sera just shrugged. “Do you have a dress for me or not?”

  Maggie flitted over to her and handed Sera a hanger. On it hung a midnight blue gown with simple ruching at the waist and a bustline that wouldn’t be obscene on a woman with her breasts. A slit on one side gave it just enough of a sexy edge without becoming parent-inappropriate.

  In a word, it was beautiful.

  It was perfect.

  It was Maggie.

  As in, Maggie always knew how to pick exactly the right dress.

  And so, even though she gave Sera a cautioning look after she’d tried it on—perfect fit, no surprise there—even though she seemed to see right through the lies Sera was clinging to for her own self-respect, Sera knew she’d be back.

  She hugged Maggie, inviting her to the next Book Club—cough Wine Night—at her place, and not leaving until she’d wrangled out an affirmative from the other woman.

  Okay, killer dress. Check. Now safely stowed in her trunk.

  Next stop, the jewelry store.

  Diamonds were a girl’s best friend.

  And she was going big, so Tate had better make good on his promise to pay her back.

  Seven

  Tate

  He stood outside the restaurant, pacing the sidewalk while trying not to look as though he were pacing the sidewalk.

  Not working.

  Of course, it wasn’t working. Tate’s mind was spinning, details for the project bouncing around his head, and interspersed with that were both feelings of guilt for getting Sera into this and fear that she wouldn’t show up.

  He pulled out his phone, glanced at the screen.

  Ten minutes late.

  “Fuck,” he muttered. She wasn’t going to show.