I want you to marry me.

What the fuck?

What the actual fuck?

I stare back into Blake's eyes.

They're still beautiful and blue and dead serious.

I fold my arms over my chest. "You don't even know me."

"I need a wife. And I want it to be you."

"But…"

"We'd start dating, get engaged, get married. After a few months, we'd divorce and go our separate ways."

"Why?"

His eyes turn down. "I can't explain."

"Then I can't agree."

"I'm willing to meet your price. Whatever that means. Think about it. You could graduate college debt free. You could buy an apartment in the Village. You could spend the next ten years in Paris." He pushes himself to his feet. "Whatever you want, I can make it happen."

"I… I've never even had a boyfriend." I press my lips together. "I don't know how to be a girlfriend, much less a fake wife."

"It's like your job. You smile and convince people you like them."

So he does know something about the service industry.

Blake pushes himself to his feet. "Think it over. Call or text me anytime. I need someone soon, and I want it to be you." He pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, places it on the table, and leaves.

* * *

At home, I pour my thoughts into my sketchbook. It's an old habit. One I've ignored for a long, long time.

It feels good putting pen to paper. Even if my drawing is only okay.

I need practice. And training. Art school isn't cheap.

But if I have a blank check?

That could be the end of the mortgage.

It could be Lizzy's tuition.

It could be anything.

God, the thought of destroying the mortgage, of being free of that monthly obligation…

Blake may be an ax murder. He may be a jerk. He may be criminally insane.

But he's not lying about being a billionaire tech mogul.

There are pictures of him in a few dozen news articles. He made quite the stir when he founded Sterling Tech as a teen. He turned down a few million dollars for his company then.

Now, it's worth a thousand times that.

And he owns a lot of it. It's not clear how much, but it's enough that he could pay off the mortgage and finance Lizzy's degree.

But marrying him?

It's ridiculous.

I hide his card in my desk drawer.

* * *

For a week, I ignore Blake's card. I go to work. I hustle my ass off. I smile at assholes who leer at my chest and hint that they're staying nearby.

Sunday, I get home late. And lacking tip money.

My shower fails to wash away the tension of the day. Usually, I'm good at grinning and bearing it. But now that I'm considering the possibility of not waiting tables…

Of being able to breathe?

I find Blake's card.

If he's really willing to make all my problems go away…

That must be worth six months of my life.

I have to ask.

Kat: It's Kat. I'm considering your offer but I'm not particularly negotiable.

Blake: I'm at the office.

Kat: I'll take the subway.

Blake: I can send a car.

Kat: I'd rather do it my way.

Blake: As you wish.

He sends the address.

* * *

Blake's building is all steel and glass. It's little pockets of yellow light framed by silver metal.

It's the tallest skyscraper on the block.

And it's beautiful. Downtown is always quiet at night. It's always still. The only movement is the wind.

I step into the old-money lobby. My heels squeak against the marble floor. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls. She looks tired. Worn.

At least my boobs look good. This is the most flattering dress I own. I dig my lipstick from my purse and apply another coat. It helps add color to my face, but it does nothing to chase the exhaustion from my eyes.

The security guard behind the desk waves me through. I step into the massive elevator and press the PH button. Penthouse. Blake's office is the penthouse floor. The entire floor.

I've never been to a penthouse. Do they really exist?

I'm not convinced.

The shiny doors slide together. My reflection stares back at me. She looks even more uncertain than she did a minute ago.

That's no good. I'm here to negotiate.

I'm holding the cards. I'm not sure what Blake sees in me—he could have any woman he wants—but I don't care. He wants me for this job. I need to use that to my advantage.

Ding.

The elevator doors slide open.

A bright sign greets me. Sterling Tech in luminous white. It's the only light in the lobby.

My heel squeaks against the hardwood floor. This place is beautiful. The steel and glass of the city on one side. The deep blue of the river on the other.

That royal blue—the mix of indigo and fluorescent bulbs— fills the cloudy sky. It never gets dark here. Not really. Certainly not dark enough for the stars to shine.

Yellow light peeks out from under an office door. The one in the corner.

When I move closer, I see the chrome sign. Blake Sterling.

I move towards it. Knock softly.

"It's open." Blake's voice flows through the door.

I take a deep breath and turn the handle. It's cold. Metal. Like him. Well, like what I know of him.

He's standing behind his desk. It's one of those trendy desks that changes positions. His computer is like Lizzy's. Two screens. A fancy keyboard. A vertical mouse. A mesh ergonomic chair in the corner.

He moves out from behind the desk.

His eyes find mine. "Have a seat." He nods to the couch to my right, then moves to the bar in the corner. "What do you drink?"

Shit. That's a lot of top-shelf stuff. "What do you have?"

"Anything you want."

"Really? What if I want iced rooibos tea with a hint of lemon and a splash of lime vodka?"

"Then I'll get it." He stares back at me. "Is that what you want?"

No. I want money. And understanding. And his hands on my body.

He's not even touching me and I'm on fire from the proximity. His blue eyes are so intense. And his voice is so strong.

He drips power.

Is he like that when he fucks?

I want to know.

It's ridiculous— I never think about sex. I certainly never think about kinky sex. But my head is filling with all sorts of images of Blake.

Him staring at me with that demanding look in his eyes, ordering me to strip out of my coat. To sit. To wait at his beck and call.

Him pinning my wrists to the bed.

Throwing me against the wall and tearing off my panties.

"Kat?" His voice is soft. "What do you drink?"

"Gin and tonic."

He nods and gets to work mixing drinks.

I take a seat on the plush leather couch, fold my legs, smooth my dress.

Blake crosses the room. He sits next to me. His fingers brush mine as he hands over my cocktail.

The light touch sends desire racing through my body. I want those hands on me. I want it more than I've wanted anything in a long, long time.

It doesn't make any sense.

But the closer he gets, the less I care.

I haven't kissed anyone since high school. I haven't even thought about dating since the accident. And now there's a tall, handsome man next to me. One who looks at me and says he wants to fuck me. Who says it with confidence. Like it's normal to admit your desires in a crowded restaurant.

I take a long sip. The drink is smooth, crisp. Nothing like the gin I have at home.

But it doesn't cool me off.

Not at all.

I try to hold Blake's stare. "Your office is nice."

"Thank you." He takes a long sip of his whiskey. "Would you like a tour?"

"Sure."

After another sip, Blake sets his drink on a side table. He stands and offers his hand.

Again, my body buzzes as our skin connects.

I swallow hard. Suck a deep breath through my teeth. He wants to fuck me. I want to fuck him. We can do that. After we negotiate.

I follow him into the main room. It's still a big, wide open space. The view is still gorgeous. But it doesn't call my attention. Not with him this close.

He reaches for a light switch.

"Don't," I say. "I like the dark."

He raises a brow. Really?

"The view goes forever. See?" I move to one of the tall windows and look out at the Hudson. The deep blue water flows away from the city.

There's Midtown, all tall and silver and iconic. The Empire State Building is its usual shade of white. It stands out against the dark sky. It promises all the secrets of the city.

I've lived in Brooklyn all my life. I've always looked at Manhattan from afar. Considered it a place to work or visit. A place I'd never afford.

But here, the view… god, it's intoxicating. I want to move into this office and draw the city twenty-four seven.

"You love New York." His voice is even. Like it's a meaningless observation.

"Of course. I was born and raised here. You don't?"

"I lived upstate until college."

"You prefer the quiet suburbs and the trees?"

"The city is easier."

"That's it? It's easier?"

He nods. "My meetings are here. My office—"

"You spend all your time in your office, so what's it matter?"

"No."

"No?"

He half-smiles. "I also have an office in my apartment."

I laugh. "With windows?"

"They look out on the park."

"And you're too busy looking at your computer screen?"

"Worse."

"What could be worse than that?"

"I have blackout curtains."

That is worse. I'm not sure if I want to laugh or shake my head in horror. Blackout curtains blocking the park— "That's wrong."

He nods. He actually looks happy… happyish. He's teasing me. Maybe. I think.

"I guess you're used to the beauty of the city. But I never get tired of it." The Empire State Building is my favorite. Sure, it's a cliché, but it's famous for a reason. I can't tear my eyes away from it.

Okay, that's not true. I'm staring to keep from staring at Blake. His intensity does something to me.

Or more… it undoes something in me. That part of me insisting on keeping my clothes on.

Ahem.

"Would you like to work here?" he asks.

"Doing what?"

"I can find an entry-level position for you. Any department you want."

"Better for your wife to work in an office than in a restaurant?"

"You want to keep waiting tables?"

"I haven't thought about it." I don't mind my job, but it's not fun either. It doesn't bring me joy or fulfill me in any way.

"Appearances are important."

I stare back at him, trying to figure out where this judgment is coming from. Is it him or someone he knows? It must be someone else. Blake is doing this for someone. Not for himself.

But he doesn't seem like the type who cares what anyone thinks.

I take another long sip. It's still crisp and refreshing. It still fails to cool me off.

Ahem. I need to keep this conversation… well, a conversation. "People treat me differently if I'm in my restaurant gear."

"Worse?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes there's this wage slave solidarity. If I'm at Duane Reade or Staples or something. People will complain about their long day or their bosses if they can tell I'm on my way home from work."

Blake studies me. It's like he's a scientist and I'm an animal at the zoo. His eyes pass over me slowly. "You're a smart girl."

"What convinced you—my cleavage?"

He says nothing.

I just stop myself from rolling my eyes. "Next thing I know, you'll be taking off my clothes and telling me how smart I look in my lingerie."

"I wouldn't waste me breath if you were in lingerie."

I swallow hard. "Of course. I just mean—" I clear my throat. "You don't know me. Or that I'm smart."

"You posted about your college acceptances on Facebook."

"That was a long time ago," I say.

"But it's still there. Even though you haven't updated your page in two years." He makes eye contact. "You were accepted to two Ivy League schools, to three SUNYs, to NYU."

"And?"

"You could have done anything with your life, but you stayed here."

"Do you also know about my parents?"

"Yes."

"Then you know why I'm here." How the hell does he know that? I guess it's easy enough to find with a quick Google search. But still… I don't like it. Even if I did my own sleuthing.

"You value family."

"Yes."

"You're smart."

I open my mouth to object—Blake doesn't know anything about my intellect—but he's already on to his next point.

"You're beautiful."

My cheeks flush. "Thank you."

"You have terms."

I nod.

"What are they? What exactly do you want?"