Two days after my bizarre evening with Cara and her brother, I sat at my desk at Oasis, scanning job descriptions on FlexJobs.com. My latest idea was that given my existing commitments, maybe I’d have better luck applying for short-term or flexible positions.

I was scrolling through a job description for a part-time photo editor, wondering if my Photoshop skills were decent enough to apply, when my mail application dinged, and a notification popped up on my screen, announcing the arrival of an e-mail from my accountant. With a sigh, I minimized my browser and opened my e-mail. Not that receiving my tax bill was a surprise—I’d been expecting it for the past week. But given my financial circumstances, knowing what was coming couldn’t make writing that check to the IRS any less painful.

Then I saw the number, and my blood froze. Eight thousand dollars? How was that even possible? My accountant, a mild-mannered, middle-aged man named Barry, had led me to expect a bill for less than half that amount. For a long moment, I just stared at the number on my screen, and as I did, my anger grew. Either Barry had fucked up the estimate, or he’d fucked up my tax return. This was outrageous, and after the week I’d had, I wasn’t about to let his incompetent ass off the hook.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Barry’s number.

“I need to speak with Barry,” I said when his receptionist answered. “No, it’s not a question you can answer. Tell Barry it’s Ava Walker from Oasis Floral, and get him on the line.”

When he picked up, I lit into him. “What the hell, Barry? This tax bill is more than twice your estimate!”

He floundered through a half-assed explanation that only added fuel to my rage, and when he started blathering about deductions and amortization, my last shred of patience went up in smoke.

“Cut the bullshit, Barry. It only makes you look even more unprofessional than you already are! The truth is that you screwed up somewhere, and because the return has to be filed by the end of the week, I don’t have time to figure it out. File a six-month extension, and file it today. I’ll expect an e-mail copy tomorrow.”

And with that, I ended the call.

Adrenaline racing through my veins, I jumped to my feet and paced back and forth in front of my desk. Barry’s initial estimate had seemed low, but I was no tax expert, and truth be told, I’d wanted to believe it. Filing the extension would put off the tax bill for six months, but in October, I’d have to write the IRS a check for $8,000—$5,000 more than Barry’s initial estimate.

How could I possibly save Oasis, when everything was stacked against me? Not for the first time, the irony of my business name struck me. When I’d come up with the name, I’d envisioned my little business as a flower-filled haven of creativity and fulfilling work, but what had it become? A financial quagmire that grew deeper with every passing day.

Tears of frustration crept into my eyes, and I brushed them away angrily. Getting emotional wouldn’t save my business. The only thing that would was a way to make serious money, and if I didn’t find it soon, my dream of running my own business would die—together with the piece of my heart that had gone into it.

Just then, a knock sounded against the door.

“Come in,” I called as I hurried to the door. While the knocker was likely building management or one of my neighbors, it could also be a prospective client. Since my business focused on events, I didn’t get many walk-ins, especially this late in the day, but it was always a possibility.

The door opened, and Ronan Kingsley stepped inside. As on the evening I’d met him, he wore a beautifully tailored dark suit, and he carried an expensive-looking leather briefcase in one hand. Despite the emotion that still simmered inside me from the bad news I had just received, I couldn’t help but be struck by how handsome he was. His broad shoulders and powerful chest tapered to a trim waist, combined with his height and dark good looks to give him a commanding presence. As he glanced around the room, taking in my renovated space and repainted thrift-store furniture, I realized how dingy and shabby it must look to him.

“Hi, Ava,” he said. “Can I have a few minutes of your time?”

“Of course,” I said. I gestured toward the red bucket chair in front of my desk. “Let’s sit down.”

As we walked toward my desk, questions flooded my mind. Why was he here? It couldn’t be about a floral job—or could it? I usually dealt with event coordinators—not CEOs like Ronan—but maybe the fact that we had met through Cara made him feel that he should speak with me personally. But even then, why wouldn’t he call, instead of crossing the river from Manhattan to Brooklyn?

When we were seated, I closed my laptop, pushed it aside, and faced Ronan. “How can I help you?”

He cleared his throat and met my gaze. “When we had dinner, you impressed me as someone whom I can trust. With that in mind, I’m here to propose an arrangement.”

A suspicion entered my mind, but I dismissed it. When I’d had dinner with him, his rejection of Cara’s marriage idea had been very clear—no less so than my own.

“What kind of arrangement are you looking for?” I asked.

“I need a wife within sixty days,” he said. “And I want her to be you.”

My jaw dropped. Was this some kind of joke? But the expression on Ronan’s face was stern and unsmiling. His gaze was direct, and his lips were set in a resolute line.

I looked down for a moment to collect myself, before looking up to face him. “Two days ago, we enjoyed a pleasant dinner together, during which we agreed that Cara’s idea is ridiculous. Why on earth would you change your mind? You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I couldn’t be more serious,” he said. “You know what’s at stake.”

He wasn’t joking. Ronan Kingsley wanted me to marry him.

“I sympathize with your situation,” I said. “You know I do. But I’m no actress, and I’d make a terrible fake wife.”

“I disagree,” he said. “Cara was right. You’re perfect for the job.”

The irony of his words didn’t escape me. Perfect for the job. Words I’d longed to hear, after the polite rejections that had filled the last few months. Words that would have lifted my mood into the stratosphere—if the job in question hadn’t involved a two-year commitment and a marriage license.

“You’re talking about two years of our lives, Ronan,” I said. “Two years.”

He leaned back in his chair and gazed at me. “What are you planning to do with those two years, Ava? Find Mr. Right? Start a family?”

“No—at least not yet. I do want those things someday, but first I want to build my business into something sustainable. I want to support myself doing work that I love.”

“Then you should consider my offer,” he said. “With what I’m prepared to pay you, you’ll not only be able to keep the lights on but also have extra cash to invest in your business. In your future. To sweeten the deal, if you agree to marry me, I’ll use my connections to help you. For example, what could a few well-placed magazine articles do for Oasis?”

Stunned into silence, I just stared at him. The visibility from even one magazine article about Oasis could change everything for me—and he knew it.

“Am I getting through to you?” he said.

He was—but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. After strolling into my office and dropping this mother of a bombshell on me, he didn’t deserve to know my every thought.

“I’m more than a little surprised by all this,” I said. “I need time to think.”

His face relaxed. “I understand. But what you need to understand is that time is running out.” He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a thick folder, and placed it on my desk. “Today’s a busy day, and I need to run, but the document inside this folder contains the specifics of the arrangement I’m proposing. My contact information is inside, and I’ve also enclosed a digital copy that you can e-mail to your lawyer. For obvious reasons, aside from talking to your lawyer or my sister, Cara, I need you to keep this discussion and the agreement confidential.”

“OK,” I said. “I’ll consider your offer. I don’t have a lawyer, but in lieu of a lawyer, I want to discuss your offer with both Cara and one other close friend, Mimi, who’s also completely trustworthy.”

“That’s reasonable,” he said. “The most important thing is that you read the agreement carefully, and consider all its provisions.”

I nodded. “I’ll do that.”

He stood. “I need to get back to my office before five. Let me know when you’ve arrived at a decision.” He turned away and strode toward the exit. When he reached it, he turned back toward me.

“Think quickly, Ava. The offer’s good for forty-eight hours.”

And with that, he was gone.