I step out of the car as my phones rings. A quick glance at the screen sends my mood plummeting.

“Father, to what do I owe the pleasure?” I answer.

“I’m sure you know why I’m calling.”

“Yes, but I can’t talk now. I’m on my way to lunch.” I begin weaving through the busy sidewalk.

“Work?” my father asks.

“No, it’s for the Trust. The Metropolitan Museum of Art keeps hounding me to listen to another massive proposal.” I snort. “Like we already haven’t given them millions.”

“Be nice,” my father warns. “You can’t blame them. Everyone knows our family supports the arts.”

“Apparently, because this is the second fundraiser to call in two weeks. The first was a nightmare.”

A week had passed, but the memory of what Quinn said to me is still fresh in my mind. It bothers me that she got to me. I never let people faze me like that, let alone a twenty-something nobody.

My father clears his throat. “Speaking of two weeks…you have three days left to choose someone.”

“Three days?” It couldn’t be that soon. “I’ll need more time.”

“Out of the question. You had plenty of time, and yet your mother and I haven’t met a single prospect.”

“I’ve been swamped at work—”

“And you know my opinion on that, Archie.”

I reach the door to the restaurant and yank it open. “Yes, you don’t need to repeat yourself,” I gripe. “It’s your rules that are making it hard to find someone. You want a woman who doesn’t exist.”

“All I’m asking for is a sensible, intelligent, classy-looking woman who can handle herself in crowds and on camera.”

“Exactly!”

My father sighs. “I’ll let you go. Just remember, you have four days to choose someone until your mother and I step in.” And I get stuck with Tess “princess” Clifton or some carbon copy.

I scan the room, looking for the woman I’m supposed to meet. She gets up from her table and waves.

“I remember our deal, Father,” I say. “You’ll have my decision by Sunday.” I sever the line as Valerie Winters reaches me.

“Archer!” she squeals, kissing my cheek like we’re old friends. “So good to see you.”

I remember her from the other night. Hot blonde with a dancer’s body. Not bad.

“This way,” she says, leading me to her table. “I went ahead and put a drink order in. Would you care for anything?”

God yes. “Whiskey and soda.” She flags down the waitress, and I snatch up the menu. I’d worked straight through breakfast to meet my noon deadline.

“So, how’ve you been?” she asks in a singsong voice.

“Busy,” I say, my attention still on food. “New clients come in every day.”

“I bet,” she coos. “You’re a man with a lot on his shoulders. I can’t imagine what it takes to run a company…”

I grunt a response. I feel Valerie’s eyes on me and look up, meeting her pale blue orbs. “Yes?”

Valerie’s smile slips. “I was, um, waiting for you to finish making your selection before diving in.”

I set down the menu and sit back. “Please, say what you have to say.”

Her smile slips a little more. “Let me first say how thankful we all are at the museum for the Stratton Family’s incredible generosity…”

Oh boy. I tilt my head back and get comfortable. Only two minutes in and I could tell this would be a grueling lunch. Valerie is one of those individuals who talks in italics, trying to inject genuine feeling into hollow words.

I glance at my watch—forty-five minutes left—and try to focus on what she’s yammering on about.

“…last Friday, we celebrated your family’s outstanding legacy at the museum. With the Stratton Wing now open to the public, we have the opportunity to educate and reach new audiences and age groups—”

She stops as our drinks arrive. I take a big sip of whiskey and then another. There, that should help.

We give our lunch orders, and Valerie starts right back in. “The museum really believes in continuing education for adults, as well as school groups. And I’m sure you’ll agree that…”

Her voice fades into the background as I study her. It wouldn’t hurt to have a good-looking blonde on my arm at a political rally. Maybe she’d be interested in signing up for this fake relationship—

I almost laugh. Of course she would. I’m one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, and my stern refusal to date makes me a challenge. Women like Valerie enjoy a challenge.

I refocus as Valerie pulls a bound booklet from her bag. I get a view of her chest as she straightens—on the smaller side, but not bad.

“This proposal has everything you need to know about the Modern Art and Contemporary Wing renovation,” she says, handing it to me.

I glance at the cover and put it aside.

Valerie frowns and then continues. “When you have a moment—”

I laugh. “I never have a moment. I’m busy running a billion-dollar company.”

Valerie pouts from the interruption.

Whatever. I drain my whiskey and turn to find our waitress. “Another,” I say across the restaurant, pointing to my glass.

Valerie’s frown deepens. “As I was saying, the renovation exposed the need for further wing renovations…”

On second thought, Valerie strikes me as a shallow, spoiled brat. Women like her want their men to worship them, and between work and my father’s campaign, I wouldn’t have time for that crap. I needed a self-reliant girlfriend. Someone who didn’t need handholding 24/7.

Unfortunately, none of the women on my assistant’s list fall into that category. That leaves me with one option.

I pick up my phone and pull up my email.

I hit send and lean back. “Parts of our building do not meet ADA regulations or fire codes,” Valerie is saying, “and the climate system is woefully underperforming…”

I open up a new email.

“Are you alright, Archer?” Valerie asks.

I snap my head up. “Excuse me?”

“You just seem preoccupied.”

“It’s nothing,” I say, shrugging. “Please, continue.”

“Okay…” She gives me a suspicious look. “Well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how humidity fluctuations and outdated windows accelerate art deterioration…”

My phone buzzes. INCOMING MAIL flashes across my screen, and I tap the balloon.

I stifle a laugh. How annoyingly political of her! She’d be the perfect campaign-girlfriend.

I’m still figuring out how to reply when I get a second email.

Last man on Earth? A million years? That’s harsh.

I look up to find Valerie glaring at me from across the table, her mouth twisted in an angry pout.

“Am I bothering you, Archer?” she demands.

“Why would you think that?” I say, my thoughts already returning to Quinn. Okay, if she wouldn’t do it for a million years, then what about for a million dollars? No—make that twenty million dollars.

Our waitress appears toting two heaping plates of food. “I have a salade niçoise for the lady, and a Reuben on rye for the gentleman.” She puts the plates down and moves away.

Valerie leans in. “Archer, I’d really like to talk to you about—”

I shove my chair back and jump to my feet. “Sorry, doll, but I’ve gotta run.”

“What?” Valerie asks, her eyes flashing. “You’re walking out on me?”

“It’s nothing personal. I’ve just got somewhere I need to be.” I bend down and snag a French fry off my plate. “You understand, I’m sure.”

The look on her face says differently.

Too fucking bad. I am three days away from being tethered to Tessa Clifton for the indeterminable future. I have no time to lose.