“Damn, I kinda wish I could’ve seen that.”
“You and all of Dallas society, I’m sure.”
“Who was the skank?” he asks, the only person at the table who’s moved past the one hundred million dollars portion of the story.
“Foster Crawford’s sister, Felicity. Can you believe that shit?” Like me, Maverick hated Foster while we were in school.
“Fuck that. I’m glad you were able to dodge that bullet.”
“Enough about the skank,” Jules finally says, shaking his head like he’s clearing a magic eight ball. “Tell us what you’re planning on doing with all that money!” He looks so excited; I almost feel bad about disappointing him with my answer.
“I’m not taking the money.”
“What?!” Everyone at the table reacts in unison.
“I’m not taking it.”
“Why the hell not?” Carys asks, eyes wide and mouth hanging open in shock.
“Because I have to be married for a year before I can touch it and since I never plan on getting married, I will never get the money.”
I’ve thought about it a lot since the reading of the will and I’m at peace with my decision. It sucks big time that I won’t be able to help our business out with the extra cash but marriage is a hard limit for me. Besides, who would I marry anyway? No way will I legally attach myself to any of the women my mother constantly throws at me. Not for all of my grandfather’s money, would I do that.
“Well, honey, I’d love to help you out and marry you just to see the look on your parents’ faces but I don’t know if my reputation could handle it. Sorry, but you’re a little too straight for me to pull off, so to speak.” Jules winks at me.
I laugh but thank him for his thoughtfulness.
“Wow, that’s a crazy situation but I’m proud of you for sticking to your guns,” Maverick tells me and I know he means it. He’d never guilt me into doing anything shady for any reason, even if it would mean helping our business.
Shrugging, I reply, “Thanks. In a way, I get to help my grandfather stick it to my parents by not taking the money, so I’m good with it.”
“I’ll marry you.”
I assume my ears are playing tricks on me. Surely, I imagined those words floating across the table in my direction. There’s no way that just happened, so I pretend I didn’t hear it.
Our table goes completely quiet, so when the words are spoken again, this time stronger and a bit louder, I have no choice but to acknowledge them. Turning toward CeCe, who up until this moment has remained absolutely quiet, I quirk an eyebrow at her, daring her to repeat it a third time.
“I will,” she says with a nod. “I’ll marry you.”
Chapter 6
CeCe
What did I do?
What did I fucking do last night?
I stick my face under the showerhead, hoping the water pelts me hard enough to knock some clarity into my brain. When I woke up this morning, I thought me offering myself to be Shep’s wife was a dream. A very bad dream. But the more I let the events of last night sink in, the more I’m afraid it really happened.
I don’t remember a lot, except for tequila.
The first thing I did when I walked into Come Again was demand a shot. If I was going to have to be there for Shepard Rhys-Jones’s birthday, then I was going to need alcohol. I should’ve known better. That delicious agave nectar has been the cause of many bad decisions. At least I’m predictable.
Good ol’ predictable, dependable CeCe.
What the fuck did I do?
I take that thought with me as I finish up in the shower and then get out to dry off—me, tequila, Shep, his sad ass story, my ridiculous offer. As I dry my hair, I let my imagination run wild for a brief second, thinking about what it would be like to be married to someone like Shepard Rhys-Jones. I wouldn’t have to worry about this long-lost cousin of mine trying to take my business away, for one. I mean, Shep is rich, which means I’d be rich, too, and so I’d be able to pay this Theo guy off. Isn’t that what people with money do? Use it as a power source? I wouldn’t know because I’ve never had any.
One area I don’t have to use my imagination for is the sex. I already know how amazing sex with Shep is, even though I try very hard not to think about it. When you’re ghosted immediately after the best sex of your life, it kinda puts a damper on those particular memories. It also affects any follow-up relationships or possible sexy times with other men, which is just super for me. He probably had no problem falling into bed with other women and he made it perfectly clear I wasn’t anything special to him.
So, why in the hell did I offer to marry him?
The simple answer is, I wanted to help him. After all the anger I have felt toward him—which, let’s be honest, was mostly my pride being butt-hurt—deep down inside, it bothered me to see him upset.
Ultimately, though, my offer was shut down the second the words flew out of my mouth. Not by Shep. He looked too stunned to reply, so Maverick and Carys quickly jumped in, blamed everything on tequila, and took us home. Separately.
And, now, here I am, opening Neutral Grounds for the day and praying no one remembers the conversation that brought our evening to an abrupt end.
Of course, he’s here.
Of fucking course.
The morning had been going well. The usual crowd of customers all came and went without any peep from Shep but as soon as the rush left, he swept in like a tailored-suit-wearing superhero. But more like an anti-hero, because he doesn’t save the day, he ruins them. The casual saunter and relaxed expression make me think he planned the whole thing, which wouldn’t surprise me in the least.
And, as luck would have it, my morning helper, Paige, just stepped out for a break, leaving me with nowhere to hide and no excuses to make.
“Morning” is his simple greeting, straight to the point, just like he is.
I admit, his voice does sound sexy, a little rough around the edges still from sleep, like this was the first time he’s spoken today. It kinda reminds me of our weekend together…
No. Stop that, Cecilia Louise.
Do not go there.
“For you, maybe,” I quip, trying to gain some ground with a smart remark. “For people with regular jobs, it’s almost noon.” Giving him a tight smile, I ask, “Would you like a coffee?”
“Yeah, that’d be great. Iced, please.”
He’s ignoring my saltiness and using his manners. That means he wants something and I’m really hoping it’s just the coffee. Maybe a scone?
My stomach feels a little woozy as I turn around and fill a cup with ice and then pour the dark, delicious liquid gold over it, leaving a small amount of room for cream. The entire half a minute, I wish I had a mirror to see what Shep is doing.
Is he checking me out?
Looking at my ass?
Or is he feeling just as out of sorts as I am? Maybe the coolness is a facade?
Turning back around, I plaster a smile on my face as I hand him his drink, without a scone, and he slides his money across the counter, then puts his change in the tip jar. His eyes don’t leave me as he takes a sip and I get the distinct but weird feeling he’s examining me. Trying to figure me out too? Maybe. Trying to find the right words to apologize for his behavior the last two years? Doubtful.