Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Brady lives in a two-floor penthouse suite that looks over half the city, which shouldn’t surprise me as much as it does.
Yes, the place is nice.
I mean, bonkers, off-the-wall fancy with sleek marble, natural wood finishes, and these artsy light fixtures that look like they’re straight out of a museum.
The kind of place where a girl might relax in a classy red dress and sip champagne as she lords over Puget Sound through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls masquerading as windows. Or at least lord over it vicariously through Brady.
But the place isn’t sterile like so many luxury caves on Instagram. Somehow, he’s made the place feel homey.
Expensive, yes, but homey, nonetheless. The overstuffed furniture doesn’t hurt to sit on, and the tasteful wall art with abstract nature scenes and Japanese-inspired calm don’t make my brain panic, trying to decipher what it is.
My mind is racing for another reason: I have no clue what I’m doing here.
Except deep down, I do, because my dumb ass just signed a contract. My willingness to lie to total strangers—that’s why I’m standing in this man’s elegant condo, listening to his assistant talk.
His assistant.
Luis looks like he’s around Brady’s age, handsome and relatable, like he knows how to have a good time and when to get down to business. No accent, but I hear him curse in Spanish under his breath a few times.
I know the feeling.
Pretty sure he wants to be here for scheming up illusions about as much as I do.
At least he doesn’t have as much riding on it.
“Camera ready?” Brady asks once Luis fills me in on the assignment, which is pretty simple today.
A basic introduction.
Smile, act like we’re in love, and he’ll take a video to document it in 4K that will probably show every blemish I’ve had since I was fifteen. Then Brady will make an official post announcing our engagement.
Official.
God.
Again, not a shocker. I literally signed up for this.
My stomach still dives like a hawk with a broken wing.
Engagement. As in, we’re going to be engaged.
Obviously, we know it’s fake, but nobody else does, and we’d better keep it that way.
It’s like having a wish I never made granted. This fast track into the kind of fame I’ve happily avoided until now.
That little taste of notoriety I had with Harry Jay was more than enough to leave me queasy.
Not that this will be like that. That’s what I keep telling myself.
My arrangement with Brady isn’t sleezy. No one’s being duped or tricked into anything against their will.
“All set. Lighting might be better outside,” Luis announces after checking the camera. He waves us out to the balcony.
Of course, Brady has a balcony bigger than some Seattle apartments, spacious seating area and fire pit included.
Pinch me. I need to stop gawking.
As we step through the double doors, the wind slaps my cheek, stirring my hair. But the sun feels lovely on my skin. This is one of those dreamy summer days that makes up for months of slate grey skies and constant rain.
Oh, and the view.
No wonder Luis wanted us outside. I actually recognize the scenery from looking at a few old Insta posts on Brady’s account, but seeing it in person is something else.
Behind us, the whole bay churns with ships, cargo and ferries mingling with sailboats under the gentle watch of the distant mountains.
“We’ll keep it simple, Sass. Straight to the point,” Brady assures me with a gentle hand on the small of my back.
“If you say so. I have no experience with cameras in my face.”
As long as I don’t barf over the railings . . . and how bad would it be if I do?
“Oh, hell. Hang on, I almost forgot.” Brady smacks his forehead.
I turn to him as he stands, staring in disbelief as he pulls a small box from his pocket, kneels, pops it open, and offers me the unspeakable.
A giant sparkling stone attached to a shadow of gold. Large and square and bursting with diamonds.
Holy shit!
Every bit of me should hate how gaudy it is, but instead I feel adrenaline.
“Lena.” He smiles like the cocky madman he is as he looks into my eyes—definitely not the expression I ever imagined on a man confronting me with a ring.
My lungs stall before he says those four fatal words.
“Lena, will you marry me?”
So fricking weird.
I have to resist the urge to laugh brokenly in his face. The worst part is, I don’t know why.
I just feel the metric ton of emotion dropping me on my face, squeezing my life out.
My very first marriage proposal—the only one—and of course it’s a total fraud.
We’re just doing this to pull one over, and he had to turn it into a more depraved joke than it already is.
That slight gurgle in my stomach since I woke up this morning intensifies into a cramp.