Shane sat on a chair outside room 415 at the Philadelphia City Hall, waiting for Priscilla. A glance at his watch told him that she wasn’t late yet, but he still felt impatient.

I can behave appropriately and be on time and you won’t have to worry that I’ll embarrass you. I can do all that for a year. I’ll make sure that we don’t look ridiculous. I promise, Shane.

He just hoped her word was good.

In the three days since he’d agreed to Priscilla’s plan, his commitment to his own word had certainly been tested.

After walking her back to the house on Friday night and promising to meet her at the Register of Wills at noon on Monday to obtain a license, he’d gotten into his car and driven away from Forrester. And little by little, as he neared Philadelphia, where he lived in a studi apartment, he came out of a Priscilla Story’s tits-induced fog, leading him to thunder, “What the hell did you just agree to?”

It was as though he’d been under a spell while walking and talking with her…a spell that had somehow led him to agreeing to marry her for a year and claim her illegitimate child as his own.

Distractedly, he’d handed his keys to Raul, the valet, who told him to have a good night, and he’d walked the four blocks to his walk-up apartment building in dazed silence. Unlocking the street-level door, he collected his mail and climbed up the three sets of stairs to his apartment, closing the door behind him and placing the mail on a secondhand table in the narrow vestibule.

“Fuck,” he’d growled, walking down the hallway and turning into the small kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of beer. Resting the lip of the cap on his Formica counter the way his brothers had taught him, he let the heel of his hand fall, then raised the bottle to his lips, taking a long sip.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groaned in surrender, leaning back against the counter as he took another sip.

He’d shaken her hand, and he wasn’t going to welch on their deal for three reasons:

One, because it wasn’t actually a bad deal.

He wanted to run a company. In order to move to a bigger, more global company like Diageo or Constellation, he was going to have to prove his worth somewhere. Story Imports was an older but well-respected company. He’d chosen it carefully. He’d worked hard to become indispensable to Douglas. Marrying Priscilla would secure his future for so little in return: giving her his name for a year. One year with whacky, unpredictable, walking-sexpot Priscilla, and he could write his own ticket.

Two, because he when he remembered the wild look in her eyes, something inside of him—something unexpectedly strong and protective—surged in indignation. He didn’t want her to be frightened; he wanted to take care of her. For God’s sake, when she called her kid “Baby Olson,” his stomach had flip-flopped with such pleasure, he’d almost doubled over from the sensation. She was flighty and irresponsible, yes, but it was impossible to turn his back on her when she needed his help.

Shane, I need you.

He had a quick mental image of Priscilla lying beneath him, her golden hair spread out on a white pillow, her eyes rolled back in her head as she said those words again. He wished he wasn’t attracted to her, but he was. Violently. It was base and it was primal, but it was true, and he was helpless to resist her if she was in trouble.

And three, he thought, elevating his thoughts to a higher, more comfortable place of chivalry and honor, because a man is only as good as his word. And he’d already given Priscilla his.

Moving from the kitchen to sit down on the leather couch he’d purchased after a year at Story Imports, he reviewed their agreement. It was a four-step deal that would speed up his goals by years:

Marry Priscilla.

Get my promotion.

Prove my mettle.

Move on to a bigger company or start my own.

It was worth it, wasn’t it?

It would be, he thought, if he wasn’t so damned attracted to her…which Shane regarded as the biggest problem of all.

A marriage of convenience to Margaret wouldn’t have included his heart thundering every time her elbow touched his, or the temptation of her always-glossy lips, or the way she said “tits,” or how her eyes glinted with mischief and challenge. A marriage of convenience to Margaret would have been predictable and respectable—a solid proposition with little to no risk.

A marriage to Priscilla, however, while achieving the same business ends that marriage to Margaret would have secured, would be, he feared, incredibly inconvenient and not the least bit predictable. A marriage to Priscilla held risk—huge, irresponsible risk that Shane Olson generally avoided. Why? Because he felt more for Priscilla walking around that drafty, dusty barn for thirty minutes than he’d felt the entire four months he was dating her sister.

Shane was intimately acquainted with want. He’d known about want since he was old enough to process thought:

I want a house with a bedroom for everyone.

I want a refrigerator that’s always full.

I want for the electricity and water to always stay on.

I want to live somewhere that doesn’t smell of cow shit.

I want . . . more. Always more.

Want could motivate a man, yes. But it could also distract him, and he’d be damned if he’d let Priscilla Story jeopardize goals he’d set in motion more than a decade ago. Did she raise his passions? Yes. Would he let them derail him? Absolutely not.

And yet, here he sat at the Philadelphia City Hall instead of at his desk. And the woman he’d agreed to marry—for better or worse…or for worse or worse—was, by far, the most tempting, the most fascinating, he’d ever known.

He clenched his jaw.

Damn her perfect tits anyway.

A door at the end of the hallway opened, and he looked up to see a woman approaching him, her heels click-clacking down the corridor. Standing slowly, his lips parted in disbelief as he realized that the woman approaching him—a woman who looked nothing like Priscilla Story—was, in fact, his bride-to-be.

She wore unembellished, low black heels, a simple cream-colored skirt that landed just above her knees, and a black cardigan sweater unbuttoned over a black silk blouse. A string of pearls adorned her neck, with a singleton in each ear, and her honey-streaked brown hair was wound up into a tidy, old-school chignon. If she was wearing makeup, he couldn’t tell, though her face was utterly luminous: a light sprinkling of freckles under wide brown eyes and across her nose and light-pink lips that held no glitter or sparkle but tilted up into a demure smile as she locked eyes with his.

Those eyes sparkled as she grew closer…as though she could read his spellbound mind.

“I promised,” she said simply, shrugging as she grinned at him. “On time and looking respectable.”

“My…God.”

“That good, huh?” she said, then giggled softly. “It feels like I’m wearing a costume!”

She was, literally, the physical incarnation of his dream girl. If he’d called God this morning and placed an order for the way the perfect girl should look, she would have been delivered in the form of Priscilla Story playing at being Margaret.

And yet, for no good reason at all, that made his heart pound and hurt at the same time. The cheerful jingle of her missing bracelets echoed in his mind as he stared at her.

“You look…beautiful,” he said, the words tasting unexpectedly bitter.

She flashed him a stunning smile, pressing her fingers to the side of her head to smooth out her already smooth hair. “I’m surprised I remembered how to do a chignon! Then again, our mother made us practice until we all got it perfect.”

“Well, it is perfect.”

“I told you I could be Margaret.”

This time his heart pinched so hard, he winced.

He didn’t want her to be Margaret, did he? Margaret was so boring compared to wild, fascinating Priscilla. And yet, this Priscilla, so conventionally elegant—exactly what he thought he wanted—didn’t feel right either.

“Hey,” she said, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. The cuff of her sweater rode up, but her skin was creamy smooth, and he wondered how she’d covered the heart tattoo he’d noticed on Friday night. “Are you okay? Nervous?”

“No,” he answered truthfully, though admitting to nerves was a hell of a lot more convenient than examining his complicated feelings for this woman. “Maybe a little,” he amended.

“Don’t be,” she said, reaching for the door. “Remember, it’s just a business deal. For a year. That’s all.”

Twenty minutes later, they walked back down the hallway together, having registered for a marriage license that would be ready on Thursday morning. Shane reached for the door at the end of the hall, holding it for her.

“That was easy.”

She looked up at him and nodded. “Surprisingly, right?”

As she walked down the stairs in front of him, his eyes dropped to her ass, to the way it swayed back and forth sensually under her simple, tailored skirt. Try as she might to emulate her sister, she was still decidedly Priscilla underneath Margaret’s duds. Margaret’s ass had never looked like that to Shane.

“Want to have lunch?” he blurted out, his eyes still glued to her derriere, the invitation surprising him.

She turned and looked up at him, catching the not-quick-enough lift of his gaze, and giggled. “W-Wait! Were you just checking out my ass?”

He held her eyes, dragging his lower lip between his teeth before nodding. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Ogling a woman’s backside isn’t very gentlemanly.”

“Maybe,” she said, stepping up one stair to face him squarely, leaving only one free between them. “But it’s pretty manly, gentle or not.”

He scanned her eyes, feeling bold. “You’re stunning.”

Her grin slipped, and she blinked at him, her breath catching, which made her breasts rise and hold. “What?”

He couldn’t tell if she was pleased or offended, but he refused to take it back. “You’re stunning, Priscilla. Like this…” he said, gesturing to her outfit, floundering for the right words. “Or…even like you were before with your—your bracelets and—” He gestured to her ears, feeling silly. “—feathers. Either way, you’re…” He shrugged, feeling sheepish and exposed, wondering what she was thinking and hoping she wouldn’t laugh at him. “It’s hard not to look.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, a sweet smile tilting up her lips as she cocked her head to the side. “Yes, Shane. I’d love to have lunch with you.”

Pleased. He’d pleased her, and it felt so good, it stole his breath for a second as she turned around and continued down the stairs.

He laughed softly, relief making him a little giddy as he grinned at her ass once more for good measure before following.

***

Something about how Shane kept himself so tightly wound had always fascinated Priscilla, making her wonder, more than once, what it would take to unwind him and how he’d look as it was happening and what she’d be left with once he was totally unwound.

She’d known a lot of men in her life, and she was well acquainted with the actions of a man who was attracted to a woman. She knew the darkening of a man’s eyes, the quickening of his breath, the way he grabbed, the way he hardened. What would it take for Shane to lose control and let his primal instincts take the wheel? Had he ever lost control with a woman, grasping her hips roughly with passion, pounding into her relentlessly as she moaned her pleasure, growling through his climax when he came in hot spurts within her? What would that look like?

She gasped softly as she tried to imagine.

“Are you okay?” asked Shane.

Wide-eyed because he’d caught her thinking such dirty things, she looked up at him and nodded quickly. “Mm-hm.”

“Sure?”

Aside from daydreaming about what you look like when you come? “I’m fine.”

She fanned her face, following him out the doors of city hall and onto the sidewalk.

“Do you eat seafood?” he asked.

“I love it,” she said, then added, “unless it’s raw. I can’t eat sushi for the next six months.”

“Why not?”

“The baby,” she answered, moving one palm to her still-flat stomach. “You can’t eat uncooked seafood when you’re pregnant.”

“Six months, huh?”

Priscilla nodded, shielding her eyes from the midday sun as she looked up at him. “I’m due at the beginning of December.”

“Believe it or not,” he said, “I actually know a lot about pregnancy.”

“Really?”

He took her arm gently, pulling her out of the way as a man hurried down the sidewalk behind Priscilla, the small gesture making her grin up at him.

“Uh-huh. I grew up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. Calving was part of life there.”

“Calv—oh, you mean cows having babies. Cows being pregnant.” No matter how pressed and polished Shane Olson looked in his Vineyard Vines tie and Brooks Brothers blazer, some of his edges were still rough and likely always would be…which Priscilla actually found she liked. Especially when it gave her these amazing opportunities to tease him. “Quick recap…you just compared my pregnancy to a cow’s pregnancy?”

“No! I—oh, uh…” His cheeks immediately colored, and a grimace made his face darken, which only made it impossible for her to hide her giggles.

“It’s okay, Shane. I’m teasing.”

His brows were furrowed and annoyed. “Oh. Well, still, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay,” she said, taking his elbow as they started walking again. “Who knows? Your knowledge, regardless of species, might come in handy.” He looked painfully uncomfortable, so she changed the subject. “Where are we headed?”

“The Ritz. Aquimero does lunch.”

They walked in awkward silence, stopping at the street corner across from the hotel and waiting for a chance to cross.

“So, um…how are you feeling?” asked Shane. “Any morning sickness?”

She resisted the urge to tell him she felt “mooo-valous” when she glanced up at his face—so earnest with his clean, square jaw. “Great, actually. Nope, no morning sickness. Frankly, I’d barely have known I was pregnant if I hadn’t skipped my period.”

“Your—? Oh,” he said softly, the color in his cheeks deepening as the light changed and they crossed. “Right.”

Damn, but she couldn’t figure out the rules with him.

It was fine for him to talk about cows having babies…but the mere mention of her period made him blush? This entire conversation was a minefield.

She dropped her arm from his elbow, stopping when they got to the restaurant and looking up at him. “Look, this is just an agreement. A business deal. An arrangement. That’s it. We don’t have to be friends. We don’t have to make conversation, and you don’t have to take me to lunch. We can just—”

“I want to take you to lunch,” he said, frowning at her.

“It’s clear I embarrass you.”

“You just speak very frankly,” he said, reaching for the door and holding it open.

“Shane,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, “I can dress the way you want me to and set the alarm on my phone so I’m on time, but I’m still going to be me. I’m still going to say things that—”

“I just compared you to a cow,” he said simply.

It was such an absurd thing to say, her shoulders started shaking, and what started out as a giggle quickly escalated to a full-blown belly laugh. She tossed her head back and let the wonderful waves of laughter take over, echoing down the busy noonday sidewalk.

Shane, likely embarrassed that they were drawing attention to themselves, yanked her into the restaurant and muttered, “Shh!” as he hugged her close, pressing her mouth into his shoulder to muffle her cackles.

It took a little while for her to compose herself, but as her laughter subsided, it registered that Shane was holding her. So close, in fact, she could smell his soap or aftershave, which was light but distinctive. It smelled a little of pine—crisp and fresh like him. She relaxed her head, resting her cheek on the lapel of his blazer, her eyes fluttering closed in contentment. His strong arms held her tightly against him, and his chest, a veritable wall of muscle, pressed against her sensitive breasts, making her mewl softly.

At this soft sound of surrender, his grasp loosened, and he leaned his mouth close to her ear. “We’re in public. Are you done?”

His breath, like a hot kiss against the sensitive shell of her ear, made her sigh, and she wanted to say, No, I’m not. I’m not done. I’m not done being held by you, so please don’t stop.

He cleared his throat, loosening his grasp, and she leaned away to look up at him. He was waiting for an answer, his eyebrows raised in inquiry. “Well?”

She nodded. “Yes. Sorry.”

His blue eyes searched her face, as though looking for the answer to a question he hadn’t asked, before he scowled at her. “It feels like you’re always laughing at me.”

Then he turned to the maître d’ and said they’d be two for lunch.

Priscilla followed him to their table, rolling his words around in her head. He was right. For as long as she’d known him, she was always prodding and poking him, searching for a reaction, reveling when she got one. Whether she was laughing at what he said or at his reaction to her teasing him about his flawless businessman routine or his old-fashioned gallantry, it was true—she laughed at him a lot.

He pulled out her chair, and she sat down, placing her purse on the floor and crossing her legs demurely as she smiled at him.

“Shane,” she said, reaching across the table for his hand, “I’m sorry. I do laugh, but not out of meanness.”

“It’s okay,” he said, glancing down at his menu and trying to pull his hand away.

“There’s something about you that just…”

He looked up, his expression severe, and she wondered who’d hurt him, who’d laughed at him and made him so guarded. “Just what?”

She shrugged and gently answered, “Begs to be teased.”

“I assure you it doesn’t.” He sighed, pulling his hand away and returning his attention to his menu. “What looks good?”

“I’m sorry for laughing,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

His head shot up, and his blue eyes seized her brown.

“It doesn’t hurt me; it confuses me . . . and I don’t particularly like feeling confused.”

“I confuse you? What do you mean?”

He set down his menu, staring at her for a second before continuing.

“I had no sisters, just brothers…I left home when I was fourteen and went to an all-boys prep school, then to college at an all-male college. I worked my way through grad school doing data entry every night at a doctor’s office after it closed for the day. I haven’t dated very much. Frankly, what I know about women would fill a thimble.”

“You’ve dated. You dated Margaret,” she pointed out.

His brows knitted together. “Not really. I mean…it was totally different. I wasn’t into her.”

“Shane.” Her lips parted as she realized what he’d just given away. She lowered her voice to a whisper, blinking at him. “Are you saying…you’re into me?”

His lips opened, then closed. He licked them and dropped her eyes for a moment before looking back up at her.

“I’m attracted to you,” he said baldly, his eyes clear and honest as he stared back at her. “Though I don’t want to be…it’ll complicate things this year if I am.”

Priscilla kneaded her lips together. “It’s already complicated.”

“I don’t like complicated,” he said, his face grave.

She grinned at him. “It’s all I know.”

He picked up his menu again with a sigh. “What are you in the mood for?”

“You can’t just change the subject,” she said, eager to resolve things between them. “So we’re a little complicated. No big deal.”

He grunted softly but didn’t answer.

“How about this?” she asked.

He looked at her over the top of the menu, his eyes dark and wary. “What?”

“We’ll just…agree to speak or laugh freely. You say whatever you want to say—about calving or pregnancy or being a gentleman. You don’t have to censor yourself or worry about my reaction. Just assume it’s all okay with me. All of it. Anything. And if I laugh or tease, it’s not because I’m laughing at you. Well…sometimes I am, but not always. Sometimes it’s because whatever you’ve said to me is sweet…or thoughtful…or it surprised me. That’s all. It’s not mean. And anytime you want to know what’s going on in my head, just ask. I’m serious. You want to learn more about women? Here I am, ready to give you a yearlong education. I’ll tell you anything you want to know, and I promise to be honest. Okay?”

“Okay, fine,” he said, setting down the menu and looking at her squarely. “Right now…right this minute…what’s going on in your head?”

She felt her eyes flare with surprise, but she’d just made a promise that she needed to keep.

“Um…well, I want us to get along.”

Averting her eyes from his, she licked her lips, picking up her menu and hoping he wouldn’t ask more.

“Mm-hm. What else?”

She spoke quickly, all her thoughts coming out in a rush: “I think your body’s a lot more muscular than I would have guessed. I like it that you asked me out to lunch. I think someone hurt you and I hate her for it. I wonder how many women you’ve slept with, which makes me think about how buttoned up you are, which makes me guess what you would look like, you know…unbuttoning.”

Her heart was throbbing under her blouse as she finished speaking, and she reached for her ice water, taking a gulp before looking back up at his shocked face.

“That’s what you’re thinking?”

She nodded.

He ran a hand through his neat hair, messing it up a little, which she sort of loved. “You’re thinking about my body and who I’ve slept with?”

She bit her bottom lip, then released it with a tiny pop. “I promised to be honest.”

“But that’s what I…” His cheeks were red, and he dropped her eyes quickly.

“What?” she asked.

He laughed softly, not humorously, as he looked up at her. “I didn’t realize men and women thought so similarly.”

“We’re both human,” she said softly. “Were you…thinking about me?”

He nodded. “When I hugged you before, I realized that you didn’t—I mean, you don’t feel pregnant yet. You don’t look it either. You’re still slim except for your, um…” His eyes dropped to her chest, but he gulped back his words.

“No more awkwardness,” she reminded him, feeling breathless. “Spit it out.”

“Fine,” he said, his cheeks coloring as he finished his thought. “Your breasts. They’re bigger.”

Her mouth dropped open, and she laughed with surprise.

“What is it with you and my tits?” she asked.

“Besides the fact that you used to do everything possible to tease me at the office with them?” he asked, giving her a dry look.

“Huh! Look at that! He’s not totally clueless.”

He took a sip of his water. “You’d lower your blouse every time I walked by. I’d have to be blind not to notice your…your…tits.”

She knew that “tits” probably wasn’t a word he used very often, and it made her grin to hear him say it. “Sure fought hard, though.”

“Ogling my boss’s daughter’s breasts isn’t exactly highbrow stuff.”

“And being highbrow is very important to you.”

His face became serious. “It’s important for success.”

“What about just being yourself?”

“A farmer’s kid from Wisconsin? I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“I want to fit in with the country club set…not the 4-H set.”

“What’s 4-H?” she asked.

“Exactly.”

The waiter stopped by to take their order, and Priscilla asked for lobster crepes, while Shane opted for the seafood risotto.

When she looked back up at him, it felt like one of the many walls between them had fallen, and she grinned at him again.

“What was so bad about the farm?”

“How much time do you have?”

“That bad, huh?”

He toyed with his fork and knife, lining them up perfectly before looking up at her. “Not bad, really. Just not for me.”

His eyes told her he was finished discussing the matter, so she moved on to a topic they had in common. “Before I forget…I made an appointment for Friday at five thirty at this place called the Philly Marry-Me Chapel. I know it sounds cheesy, but they do a quickie wedding there that’s legal. Can you meet me?”

“Sure,” he said, scowling at the slice of bread he was buttering. “A wedding. It’s a little crazy, right?”

“It is. But I appreciate it more than you know, Shane. You’re saving my skin. You’re literally freeing me from under my father’s thumb.”

“I’m getting something out of it too,” he reminded her.

Yes, she thought. While I’m freeing myself, you’re shackling yourself.

“Why is this job with my father so important to you?”

“This won’t sound very original,” he said, “but I rented the movie Wall Street when I was ten. Everything about it resonated with me: the business dealings, the money, the power. I wanted it. I wanted everything about it: the penthouse apartment, the parties, the fine art, the schmoozing, the space and security. You have to understand…I grew up in a dilapidated three-bedroom farmhouse with my parents and five brothers. Sometimes my folks wouldn’t make the electric bill and we’d be in complete darkness all night, every night for weeks on end. Everything smelled like manure all summer long, and my fingers would freeze to each other when I had to do morning milkings in January. It’s backbreaking, fast-aging work. I didn’t want that life. I wanted…more. So much more. And business—being smart in business—can get me more. I love business like you love…” He stared at her, offering a tentative smile. “What do you love, P?”

I love it that you just called me P, she thought.

“Art,” she said.

“Collecting?”

She shook her head. “No, studio art. Painting. Pottery. Sketching. I have storage unit in Roxborough with my pottery wheel and electric kiln. Canvases and easels and boxes of pastels and oil paints. Everything I need for…” She shrugged. “Someday.”

“When you settle down?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Settling down isn’t my forte.”

“But you’re having a baby. Surely you want the stability of a home?”

“For now I do,” she said, thinking that nowhere she’d ever lived, including the hallowed halls of Forrester or the hippie commune where she’d stayed in Taos, had felt like home. “For now…until I get the urge to wander again.”

“And then you’ll just leave?”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet. Unlike you, my life plan didn’t start when I was ten.”

“Or yet, apparently.”

“What can I say?” She eyed him unapologetically. “Rolling stones like to keep rolling.”

“I want just the opposite,” he said. “I want to put down roots and have some kids, raise them in a nice place where they’ll go to good schools. Make friends with the neighbors. Join the local country club. Have cookouts and Christmas parties.”

“Own your own business and make a million a year so you never have to go back to Wisconsin.”

“Exactly,” he said. “I need Story Imports.”

“It’s all yours,” said Priscilla. “Daddy will give you whatever you want once he finds out we’re married and I’m expecting. What do you love about it so much?”

“The possibilities, I guess. I want to make some changes, you know? Vault us into the twenty-first century with a more global, less mom-and-pop approach to business. I want to automate our orders, raise our profits, and take Story Imports as far as she can go. Then once others in the industry have taken notice, I can move on and do it again in a bigger company. After that, I’ll look for one to buy. And then—”

“Sounds like you’ve got it…all…planned…out,” she said, stretching out the words for emphasis and laughing at his ambition.

“And you’ve got nothing planned,” he said, pursing his lips like he’d tasted something sour.

She held his eyes in a deadlock, only looking away to place her napkin on her lap when the waiter returned with their lunches.

“Which is exactly why we don’t need any…complications,” he muttered, taking an angry bite of his risotto.

She paused for a second, staring at his blond head bent over his food and wondering why in the world his words should make her feel so sad.