Page 27 of Married With Lies

But that might open the door to a messy and emotional moment and Asher Wingate isn’t a fan of either one.

He takes a step toward the window. “As your father, I’m going to share a vital piece of advice with you.”

“Can’t wait,” I mutter.

He doesn’t hear me. “There is no quality more valuable than a determined work ethic. If you are failing at your endeavor then it’s because you have not invested all of your energy into success. I speak from experience on that point.”

Throughout his speech I’ve been biting my lip because I know I shouldn’t say the next words.

On the other hand, there’s no chance my family will do anything except gloat over my distress.

Therefore, I might as well set the whole bridge on fire. At least I’ll maintain a shred of dignity.

“Dad, you inherited millions and a pro hockey team. You’re hardly a rags to riches to story.”

I think I hear a smothered laugh from Baylor but when I look at him he’s fiddling with his phone. My father’s cheeks instantly flush with anger. He’s not used to being insulted. The novelty has rendered him momentarily speechless.

As for me, I’ve said everything I need to say right now and I have a phone call to make.

Nobody begs me to come back when I turn and leave.

I wait until I’m back upstairs in my room to pull out my phone. My heart pounds and the seconds stretch out as the ringer bleats three times.

Then Cale’s deep voice says, “Good morning, Sadie.”

I have to clear my throat in order to find my voice. “Does your offer from last night still stand?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely.”

Deep breath.

Okay, that didn’t help much.

I close my eyes and seal my fate.

“You can count me in, Cale.”

He doesn’t sound the least bit surprised. “Get packed. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

7

SADIE

Perhaps I’ve seen too many movies. My vision of a Vegas elopement included bright lights, pink Cadillacs and a twenty-four-hour wedding chapel officiated by a campy Elvis impersonator.

But no, that’s not what Cale had in mind at all.

After depositing me in a top floor luxury suite with possibly more square footage than my house, he said he’d be gone for a while. He told me to make myself comfortable and even threw his credit card down on a table beside a champagne bucket with a command to go shopping.

“Buy a white dress,” he said. “And anything else you want.”

“I don’t really need a dress, do I?”

“Of course you need a dress,” he said. “We’ll be having pictures taken.”

Right. That makes sense. When one pulls off a phony wedding one should have some documentation of the event as evidence.

Then Cale was gone while I was left alone with my jumbled thoughts and a jaw dropping view of the Vegas strip from the floor to ceiling windows. The flight had been long and I slept through most of it. Whenever I did crack an eye open, there was Cale in the first class seat beside me, working steadily on his laptop. Each time I’d grudgingly admire his unfairly handsome, square-jawed, rugged, unshaven profile and then get hit with a lightning bolt of shock that I’d actually agreed to be his wife.

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