The most important appointment of my career is late—very late. I’ve been cooling my heels in the lobby of the Le Parker Meridien for the last thirty minutes. Todd hasn’t called with an update or last minute cancelation, so I assume the meeting’s still on. I tell myself he could be stuck in traffic, that donors run late all the time and not to read into it, but none of it helps.

My appointment is with Archer Stratton, and if he doesn’t show, I can kiss my promotion goodbye.

My stomach rumbles. Our meeting was supposed to be over lunch, and I begin to feel lightheaded. I glance at the lobby entrance one more time, then get to my feet and head to the maître d’.

“My client is running late, but we had a noon appointment. Could you still seat me?” I ask the young man behind the desk.

“Reservation?”

“East,” I answer. My eyes graze the menu displayed on the wall as he checks the system. I always choose Norma’s for donor meetings. As a French restaurant that serves only breakfast, they combine two of my lifelong loves.

He glances up. “Your party is here, ma’am.”

“That’s not possible. I’ve been waiting in the lobby this entire time.”

He gives me an understanding smile. “Happens more than you’d think in our bustling lobby. Your table is this way, ma’am.”

I follow him in a daze. The realization that I’ve made a donor wait thirty frickin’ minutes makes me want to die. And of course it had to be the most onerous man I’ve ever met.

We find Archer engrossed with a stack of spreadsheets he’s fanned out across the table. I watch as he studies a sheet, then plucks a pen from behind his ear and starts scribbling.

The maître d’ clears his throat. “Sir? Your party’s arrived.”

“About bloody time,” Archer mutters, tossing down the pen onto the table. He glances up. “You?” he says, his eyes going wide.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Stratton,” I say, trying to ignore the scowl crisscrossing his face.

“You’re ‘Ms. East’ from The Met?” Archer demands.

“The one and only,” I say, forcing a smile.

Archer leans back and gives me a stony look. Quiet descends as we stare at each other.

“Ma’am?” The maître d’ prompts, holding out my chair, and I scramble to take my seat. “Your waiter will be over to—”

“Whiskey and soda,” Archer interrupts. His gaze stays on me.

“Your waiter will take your order, sir.”

“Just put the drink in,” Archer barks.

The man blinks at Archer for a moment, then smiles. “Absolutely. Can I add anything for you, ma’am?”

“A glass of your merlot, please,” I ask. I don’t normally drink in the middle of a workday, but an Arnold Palmer isn’t going to cut it for this meeting.

Another bout of silence descends once the waiter moves off. I fidget under Archer’s stare, his steely blue eyes putting me back in that spotlight. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’ve dealt with difficult donors before; perhaps not as obnoxious as Archer Stratton, but close.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today, Mr. Stratton,” I begin, getting down to business.

“I didn’t agree to meet with you.”

“Oh. My assistant said your office accepted our meeting request.”

“With a ‘Ms. East’,” he says icily. “I didn’t realize that meant you. I can’t believe The Met’s stupid enough to send someone who’s already made a fool of herself in front of me.”

I bite my lip—hard. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Stratton. I am hoping we can put that behind us.”

“I doubt it.”

“I see,” I say, squeezing my lips together. “In that case, perhaps it’s best that another museum representative meets with you.”

“And what, have more of my time wasted? Do you know how valuable my time is, Ms. East?”

I try not to launch myself across the table. “I do apologize for making you wait. Funny thing, actually,” I say with a weak laugh, “I was in the lobby all along, and you must have slipped by—”

“So you don’t know how valuable my time is,” he cuts in.

“Pardon?”

“Because you’re wasting it with these excuses.”

Our waiter chooses that moment to arrive with our drinks. I grab my wine and take a large gulp. The quick hit of alcohol steadies my nerves, steeling my resolve not to let this jerk get to me.

“My name is Derek, and I’ll be taking care of you today,” our waiter says. “Our specials—”

“I’m ready to order,” Archer interrupts. “I’ve been staring at this menu for thirty minutes.”

“Wonderful,” the waiter replies, not skipping a beat. “What will the lady be hav—”

“I’ll take the foie gras brioche french toast,” Archer says, shoving his menu at the poor man. I stare at Archer for a moment. The foie gras is forty-five dollars. I can see my quarterly budget hemorrhaging before my eyes.

“I’ll have the tuna salad sandwich, please,” I say. It’s half the price.

“My favorite,” the waiter says with a wink. He tucks my menu under his arm and moves off.

Archer sits back and narrows his eyes at me. “Let me guess, you’re about to ask me for money.”

Lord help me.

I clench my hands in my lap and think of a way to spin this. “In a sense. I’m here to talk with you about a…”

Archer checks his watch.

I take a deep breath and let the snub go right through me. “A project that my colleague was speaking with your father about. The Modern and Contemporary Art Wing is in need of— ”

I stop as Archer’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen and curses under his breath. “It’s my father. I have to take this.”

“Of course, not a…” I cut off the rest of my sentence. He’s already out of his chair and striding away.

I slump in my seat. I can tell that he has zero interest in what I’m saying. Pitching this to Archer feels like trying to get money from a rock. Actually, I might have more luck with a rock. A rock couldn’t insult you.

I look up and see Archer stalking back to our table. Judging by his frown, the call didn’t go well.

Just my luck…

I start back in the minute he sits down.“This project would be—”

“Are you dating anyone?” he cuts in.

“Um, no. So, as I was saying—”

“Do you drink, do drugs, party a lot?”

I try to decide if he’s serious. “I like a glass of wine after work, but otherwise, not really. Now, I’d really like to—”

“Ever broken any laws? Been arrested?”

“No! Have you?”

“What about your family?” he asks, ignoring my question. “Any scandals, crazy uncles, skeletons in your closet?”

My fingers find my skirt hem and begin to tug. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stratton, but what does this have to do with our meeting?”

He studies me for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he thinks. I start to sweat after a few agonizing moments, then take a gigantic sip of wine. It’s medicinal.

“I want you to go out with me,” he says.

I choke on my merlot. “What?”

“You have a proposal, and I have a problem.”

“Y-you want to date me?”

He shrugs. “Not really, but I have to.”

“You have to?” I repeat.

“Yes, to get my father off my back.”

I laugh. “You’re kidding.”

He gives me a blank look.

“Holy cow, I’m going to need another glass of wine.” I motion for the waiter, but Archer bats down my hand. “Hey—!”

“My father’s running for mayor,” he says over me. He nods at my surprise. “Unfortunately, the image consultant found a potential…complication.”

“I doubt that. Your father’s a great man.”

His eyes flick away for a moment. “It’s not with my father. It’s, um, with me.”

“Ha! That sucks,” I say, stifling a laugh.

He shoots me a withering look. “Anyway, my father wants me to settle down. Wife-up.”

I gape at him. “You want me to be your wife?”

“No,” he snaps, growing uncomfortable. “I countered, and we settled on girlfriend. I had two weeks, but time’s gotten away from me. Now it’s Thursday already and—” He pauses to rub his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that my father reminded me I’m running out of time.”

“This sounds…” I trail off, unable to find the right words.

“Crazy?” Archer finishes. “It is.”

Thank God our food arrives right then because I feel like I’m about to faint—from hunger and sheer confusion. This is the strangest conversation I’ve had in a long time.

I get one bite in before Archer plants his elbows on the table. “So will you do it?” he asks.

I blink at him. “Do what?”

“Be my fake girlfriend?” He says it like it’s obvious, like it’s not the most INSANE thing I’ve EVER heard. Is Archer Stratton secretly a nut case?

I place my sandwich back on my plate and gingerly wipe my mouth with my napkin. “You know what? I just remembered I have another appointment to get to.”

“But you haven’t answered my question,” he argues.

“I think you’ll find I just did.” I grab my purse off the floor and push away from the table. “I really must be going.”

He scoffs. “Are you serious? You’re walking away from the chance to date me. You should be flattered I asked.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look at you. You’re constantly saying the wrong thing, you’re woefully naive, and not even close to being my equal—”

“Your equal? What the hell does that mean?” I demand, growing angrier by the second.

“I’m the CEO of a billion-dollar company, you work at a museum. I went to the nation’s top schools, you strike me as public school girl. My family owns a jet, you fly coach.” He pauses to smirk at me. “We’re worlds apart, honey.”

I can feel the heat radiating off my cheeks. Right now, I couldn’t care less that this prick is the son of our wealthiest donor.

“You can take your daddy’s jet and stick it up your ass,” I snap. “I would never date a self-entitled snob like you.”

His face goes dark. “You’re making a huge mistake,” he growls, jabbing a finger at me.

“The only mistake I’m in danger of making is sitting in front of me!”

Archer gapes at me for a few seconds. Looks like I’ve shocked him speechless—a first, I’m sure.

I force a smile on my face. “Have a pleasant rest of your day, Mr. Stratton,” I say, then I get the hell out of there.

* * *

“Insufferable…” I mutter as I stalk into the lobby of my office building and enter the elevator, stabbing the eight button with my finger.

“Arrogant…” The doors refuse to close. I stamp my foot and jab my finger at the close-door button.

Who does he think he is?

Jab, jab—the doors inch close.

My equal? How dare he!

I replay the scene in my head, trying to think how I could have handled it better or behaved differently. Every scenario ends the same way: him being an insensitive jerk, and me storming out of there.

The doors swing open and I huff it down the hallway toward my office. I needed chocolate, Tylenol, and food—in that order.

“You’re back?” Todd asks, swiveling in his chair as I come barreling around the corner. “That was fast.”

“Didn’t have much to say,” I answer, making a beeline for my office.

“Uh, is that good or bad?”

“I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me,” I say, shutting the door. I take a moment to breathe in the silence before settling in my chair.

I’ve popped two Tylenol in my mouth when my phone rings. It’s Todd. “Yes?” I say, snatching it up.

“Marisa wants to see you,” he says, and I can tell by his tone that it’s going to be one of those meetings.

“Great, just what I need.” I hang up, grab a piece of emergency chocolate from Iggy, and hightail it over there.

“Quinn, come in,” Marisa says a minute later.

I take a seat and prepare myself. “You wanted to see me?”

She leans back and clasps her hands in front of her. “You’re back from your appointment with Mr. Stratton rather early. Did you get through your pitch in record time?”

“Not exactly,” I say, dropping my gaze to my lap.

“Then what?”

I shift in my chair. “Mr. Stratton seemed pressed for time. And he was in a foul mood—”

Marisa sucks in her breath. “Did he decline the proposal?”

“Yes. Well, no—” I pause. “Now that I think about it, I never gave it.”

“What? When have I ever known you to let a donor wiggle out from under an ask?”

“This one did,” I answer, gritting my teeth. “In fact, I doubt he’ll want to see me again, which is fine by me.”

“Did you anger him?” Marisa asks, her eyes narrowing.

“He was incredibly rude—”

Marisa smacks her hand on her desk. “Quinn! Never lose your temper with a donor.” She gets up and begins pacing around her office. “Do you think our chance is ruined?”

“I don’t know,” I say. The reality of the mess I’ve made hits me hard. “I think if someone else, perhaps you or Peter, approached him—”

Marisa stops to face me. “Yes, I suppose that’s our only option.”

She walks to her desk and sits down. “You give me no choice, Quinn. I’m putting Valerie on this, now.”

My head snaps up. “Marisa, please, why not you?”

“I told you this would happen.” She pauses. “I’m very disappointed in you, Quinn. I really saw you going on to do great things.”

Marisa turns away and picks up the phone, severing our conversation.

I drag myself out of my chair and see myself out. Every step toward that door takes me farther away from the opportunity of a lifetime—an opportunity ruined by my stubborn opinions and short temper.

I reach the door as Marisa begins speaking. “Valerie? It’s Marisa. Can you please pop by my office? I have big news to share…”