“So, about last night…” he starts.
Shit, shit, shit.
Do I play dumb and say I don’t know what he’s talking about? Blame it all on the tequila? Assume he’s asking about the awful, yet, hot Rob Lowe movie from the 80’s?
“Yeah! Last night was fun. Did you have a good birthday?” So, I’m going with the playing dumb version, obviously.
“It was fine, thanks, but that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”
Alright, here we go. Let’s just see what he has to say. I’m sure he only wants to thank me for my thoughtfulness and assure me he doesn’t want or need to marry me. Now that I think about it, it is pretty presumptuous for me to think he wants to take me up on my stupid offer. I’m sure he has countless women to choose from, should he choose to marry anyone. There’s no way in hell I’m at the top of that list. That’s preposterous. Me? Of all people.
“Oh? What did you want to talk about?” I ask, holding on to the dumb card for dear life.
Am I really twirling my hair right now?
What the hell is wrong with me?
I continue twirling my hair until it’s ready to be wrapped up in a hair-tie, securing the bun I absolutely meant to create to get the hair out of my face. Not to be confused with a similar action intended to be used as a flirtation device.
Nope, not here.
Not me.
“Is there somewhere we can sit and speak more privately?” he asks, motioning over to the empty tables near the windows.
Just as I’m getting ready to make an excuse that I need to stay behind the bar, Paige comes in and washes her hands, ready to get back to work. Perfect timing, as always.
“Sure,” I concede, realizing I have no cards left and nowhere to run. “Let’s go over there.” I lead him to two plush chairs in the back corner of the shop, plopping into one while he gracefully sits in the other. An instant yet perfect example of how different we are.
“Do you remember me telling the group last night about my grandfather’s will?”
“Uh, vaguely. I was drinking pretty heavily… so I might’ve missed some details.” Lies. I pick at the imaginary thread on my apron, unable to look him in the eye.
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. It’s obvious he doesn’t believe me but he continues to let me play my game, which is noble of him, I guess. Or humiliating. Let’s stick with noble, for now.
“Well, I’d had a little too much to drink as well and made some details of the will public that probably should’ve stayed private.”
Oh, so that’s what this is about. Shep just wants to make sure I don’t spill the beans on his unfortunate situation. Well, no problem there, buddy, the people I’d spill to were already at the table.
It dawns on me that he suddenly looks…nervous. Anxious, perhaps. Although he’s maintaining some intense eye contact, his fingers won’t stop moving. They go from tapping the side of his cup to the arm of the chair and back and, if I’m not mistaken, his toe is tapping. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look anything less than one hundred percent calm, cool, and collected. He almost seems human.
“No worries,” I assure him, still hating his discomfort. “Your secret is safe with me, Shep.”
“Secret?” he asks, confused until realization dawns. “Oh, I’m not worried about you repeating what you heard last night, CeCe.” He pauses for a moment before continuing. “I’m wondering if your offer still stands.”
What?
“Um, uh, um,” is all I manage to get out while I not-so-discreetly look for a hole in the ground to swallow me up.
There’s no way I heard him right.
No way.
“You seemed pretty sure of yourself last night,” he states, sitting up a little straighter, his expression turning serious but still so poised and controlled and entirely too beautiful for one man. “But I’m guessing, in the light of day and with less alcohol, you’ve changed your mind?” His words come out so polished, almost regal. Why does he have to be so proper all the time? I wish he’d loosen up and stay that way for a while.
I stop mentally freaking out for a second and look at him. Really look at him. Besides how absolutely gorgeous the man is, he looks troubled and, dare I say, insecure. My heart instantly goes out to him like it did last night and I let out a deep breath.
I’m such a sucker for a lost boy.
“Would it help you? You know, if I haven’t changed my mind…if the offer still stands?”
“Immensely,” he replies, a little too eager for Shepard Rhys-Jones, at least the version he allows everyone else to see, which intrigues me. “Just hear me out.” And, now, I have a very alert and perky Shep in front of me.
Dear Lord, what have I done?
“As I said last night, I am to inherit one hundred million dollars after I’ve been married for a year. If you agree to marry me, once I’ve received the money, on our one-year anniversary, I’ll give you five percent…free and clear.”
Five percent?
Of ONE HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS?
I’m not a math whiz, but that’s…five million dollars.
Must. Not. Faint.
Stay focused, CeCe.
I clear my throat and try to keep my voice steady. “Five percent,” I repeat. “That’s very… generous of you.”
He waves his hand in front of him like I just thanked him for holding a door open for me. How can he think that much money isn’t a big deal? It’s a huge fucking deal. “I’ll gladly pay it, if you agree to help me out.”
“What do you get out of this agreement?” Because there has to be some kind of catch, right? “Besides a hundred million…minus five percent? Don’t you have enough money already? Why would you marry someone…” I almost say someone like me but stop myself. “Why…” I stumble over what I’m trying to say and decide to be direct and to-the-point, like Shep. “Why would you marry someone for money?”
“Freedom.”
His answer is swift and easy and when he speaks it, it’s as if the air he exhaled took all his troubles away with it. It’s also bullshit.
“How can getting married give you freedom? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”
Shep smirks, giving me a once over before taking a drink of his coffee and relaxing back into the plush chair. “What an interesting idea of marriage you have, Cecelia.”
Do not pay attention to how he says your name.
This man is a snake charmer, that’s all.
Stay strong.
“Just explain, please.” I roll my eyes at him because if I’m even going to consider marrying him—for FIVE. MILLION. DOLLARS—I’m going to know every last detail.
“Well, if I’m married, my mother will be forced to stop her incessant search for the perfect Stepford wife for me to choose from, that’s one reason,” he begins, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees, his half-drunk cup of coffee between his palms—back to calm, cool, and collected. “The other and more important reason is, with this inheritance, I’ll be able to fully commit myself to the business Maverick and I have created, leaving Dallas and my family behind for good.” He pauses, a mischievous gleam taking over his blue eyes. “But, dear Cecelia.’’ Scooting his body closer to mine, our knees brush as he leans in and places his full lips against my ear. “The cherry on top will be seeing you naked again.”