Chapter Fourteen
Brady
“You can't be serious,” she says.
I nod. “I'm very serious.”
After a nice meal and a couple of drinks, we're sitting in Roland's, a nice Mexican restaurant overlooking the Riverwalk. It's a place I come to often – it's got great food and a good atmosphere. And given the fact that it's on the Riverwalk, there's usually an abundance of very hot women milling about.
But today, I'm not here for that. I'm here to pitch a deal and close it. Amanda is exactly what I'm looking for – despite that quicksilver temper on her. She's intelligent, articulate, a little bit unassuming, and from everything I can see, definitely not the sort of woman who's only looking for somebody to be her sugar daddy – which is something that can't be said for a lot of the women I hook up with.
The research I had done on her showed me that she's ambitious. Hard working. Has dreams and aspirations. The only thing holding her back is money. I know she wants to be a child psychologist – which probably has something to do with her own less than desirable upbringing – but has to go to school part time, or even take breaks between semesters, because she can't afford the tuition.
Amanda Johnston is her own woman and she's dead-set determined to make her own way in this world. She bristles at the idea of accepting help from anybody – as the stunt with the rent showed me – and never, ever wants to be thought of as a charity case.
And it's having all of that information that has helped me shape and craft my pitch to her. I just have to sit and hope she's receptive to it because she is perfect.
“So, we pretend to be married,” she says. “So, you can get your inheritance?”
I nod. “And you get to go to school,” I say. “You won't have to worry about a thing.”
She shakes her head. “This has got to be a joke.”
“I promise you it's not,” I say. “This is a good situation for the both of us. I mean, what would you do if you didn't have to worry about money? You'd go to school, right? Finish out your psychology degree?”
She leans back in her seat and eyes me over the rim of her margarita glass. “Information you dug up when you were vetting me?”
I give her a sheepish grin. “I wanted to get to know a bit about you.”
“So, you'd know where to apply the pressure, right?”
I shake my head. “It's not like that.”
“No? Then how is it, Brady?”
I sigh and take a sip of my beer. “Somebody I trust told me that there all different kinds of marriages,” I say. “And that marriages can sometimes be business partnerships.”
“You realize how ridiculous this all is, don't you?”
I nod. “I do. Unfortunately, I have to jump through some hoops to ensure my inheritance.”
She looks at me for a long moment, sipping her margarita. I can see the wheels spinning in her mind and I know that she's at least, thinking about it. Which is good. It at least, gives me a fighting chance.
“So, let me get this straight,” she says. “We have to pretend to be a couple –”
“And we'd have to make sure to do it in public,” I say.
“Fine. So, we pretend to be a very public couple,” she goes on. “And then we get married – obviously, in the public eye – but we continue to live our own lives, separate and apart from each other?”
“Well, I would need for you to move into my house,” I say. “To sell the illusion. But yes, we would still live our own lives like normal.”
“And by doing this, you get your inheritance and control of your father's empire – including your precious football team,” she says. “And I get – what?”
“You get the freedom to do whatever you want,” I say. “You'll never want for anything again and you will be totally and completely financially secure.”
“So, basically,” she says. “You want me to be your prostitute.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “It's not like that, dar – Amanda,” I say. “There isn't any sex between us involved.”
She looks at me and I give her a wide grin.
“Unless, of course –”
“Yeah, no,” she says quickly. “Not happening. Not. Ever. Happening.”
I put my hands up. “Okay, okay,” I say. “Can't blame a boy for trying. Beautiful women just –”
“Yeah, you can stop right there,” she says, though she looks away and I can see the color in her cheeks.
“You realize you're not half as charming as you think you are,” she says.
I shrug. “Maybe not. But I'm still twice as charming as most men.”
She shakes her head and laughs. “Do you have to practice that?”
“What?”
“That whole Matthew McConaughey shtick you have going on,” I say. “You got that slow, smarmy Texas drawl of his down pat.”
I laugh. “I think all you non-Texans just think we all sound like him,” I say. “Next, you're going to say we all look alike too, right?”
“Hardly,” she says and laughs again.
The laughter eventually fades, but for the first time since we sat down, we seem to enjoy a companionable moment. A moment not filled with tension and awkwardness. We're just two people having a conversation and a laugh. And it's – nice.
“You realize how crazy this all sounds, right?” she finally asks.
I shrug. “I don't think it's all that crazy,” I say. “I mean, it's a mutually beneficial relationship. It's a win-win. And I've found that in this life, there aren't that many situations like that. You gotta jump on 'em when you can.”
She sighs, finishes the last of her margarita and looks around, staring down at the Riverwalk.
“You know, in all the time I've been living in San Antonio, I've never really spent a lot of time down here,” she says. “It's actually kind of beautiful.”
I nod, but my eyes aren't on the Riverwalk – they're on her. “Very beautiful.”
She turns back to me and clears her throat. “Honestly, I don't know about all of this, Brady,” she says. “I just feel weird about it. I mean, we don't even know each other.”
“We can get to know each other during our courtship period,” I say. “We have all the time in the world. Sure, it's a business arrangement, but there's nothing saying we can't be friends. Who knows, you might even come to see that I'm not such a bad guy.”
She smiles. “I don't think you're a bad guy,” she says. “Just a bit of a condescending prick.”
I shrug. “Well, maybe I can even change that perception in your mind.”
She runs the tip of her finger around the rim of her margarita glass, lost in thought. I can see that she's tempted, but I can also see that there is something holding her back.
“What's making you hesitate?” I ask.
She sighs. “Honestly? Your son,” she says. “What's it going to do to him to know he's got a new fake-mommy?”
I laugh. “He's a little young to understand the concept right now,” I say. “For now, we just describe you as daddy's friend and we'll cross that bridge when we have to. And I know he'd benefit from having somebody like you in his life. God knows, I'm pretty much a disaster.”
“I don't know, Brady,” she says.
“What do you have to lose, darlin'” I ask.
She arches her eyebrow at me, a bright flash of anger in her eyes. I raise my hands again.
“Apologies,” I say. “It's a hard habit to break. But I promise to do my best.”
She looks me in the eye, holding my gaze. “Why me?”
“Because of who you are and what you're not.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“In the research I had done –”
“You mean, the creepy, invasive stalking thing you did.”
I smile. “Yes, that,” I say. “I became impressed with your character. Integrity. Your strength and intelligence,” I say. “You're not one of those women out there just looking for some rich man to glom onto. You are an impressive person, Amanda.”
Color flares in her cheeks again and she looks away. “I need some time to think about it.”
“Of course,” I say. “I would expect no less. Take your time.”
She looks at me. “Thank you,” she says. “Believe it or not, this is the nicest – although weirdest – date I've been on in a long time.”
I give her a smile, encouraged by her use of the word date, to describe our meeting.
“I'll have my driver take you home.”