Page 2 of Bride Bargain

Oh, Elliot.

Pressing my lips together, I turn away from the reflection to face my boss in the flesh. Need to crane my neck back to get a good look at him, because he’s tall and surprisingly sculpted beneath those tailored clothes, towering over me the same way he did beside those high school lockers. My heart speeds up, and I try to ignore the voice whispering in my head that we’realone, alone, finally alone.

Even with his shoulders all slumped in defeat, Elliot Ramsay is a hottie—he always has been, ever since he was the cutest guy in math class.

And that, it seems, is the problem.

“She shouldn’t have done that.” I keep my voice even, but anger’s spiking my blood pressure. “Elliot?” I wait for him to meet my gaze, his navy blue eyes drifting along my shoulder before finally boring into mine. Once he’s locked on to me, it’s hard to breathe evenly. Hard not to sway forward. My voice comes out all frazzled when I add, “She shouldn’t have touched you like that, especially once you told her to stop. You’re not the bad guy here.”

His shoulders melt down another inch, a relieved sigh gusting between us. But doubt flickers across his face, and I freaking hate that. I hate that no one else on this planet understands this man; I hate that the internet always paints him as a villain. Because sure, compared to most celebrities, Elliot is a little awkward—and yes, he struggles with small talk. Not every social cue lands right with him.

But this man isgood—to his core. Take it from the woman who’s worked for him for the last six years, and who’s nursed a secret crush on him for far longer than that. He’s a sexy, awkward cinnamon roll in a tailored suit.

This world doesn’t deserve Elliot Ramsay.

Above our heads, the lit-up numbers count the floors. This elevator is so fancy, it barely vibrates at all, and there’s no sound in here except our breaths and the occasional rustle of our clothes.

Elliot sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “I’ve seen the comments. They’re saying I hate women.”

I scoff. “Well, that’s ridiculous. You hate everyone equally.”

The ghost of a smile flickers behind Elliot’s palm, before he brushes it away and drops his hand. “Everyone but you, Claire.”

Butterflies explode in my stomach, their wings tickling my insides, but after all these years I’m a pro at not letting my secretly gooey responses show. I smile at my boss and best friend, playing it cool and calm, giving away zero sign that his words affect me as strongly as they do.

Once I’m alone in my apartment tonight, I’ll replay that statement over and over, fixating on the rich cadence of his voice until the words lose all meaning. Once there’s no one around to hear me, I’ll relive this moment and scream into a pillow.

But this morning, I keep it together—until Elliot tugs on his rolled sleeve and says, “So I’ve been thinking: we should get married.”

* * *

An hour later, I’m dressed in my creased, barely-used gym clothes and pacing back and forth in front of Elliot’s huge desk, my running shoes squeaking against the floorboards. Rain gusts against the floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows, pelting the glass like tiny pebbles, and the city out there is gray and cloudy and damp.

“Insane,” I say for the millionth time, throwing up my hands. “This is insane.Youare insane. What a thing to spring on me on a Monday morning.”

Elliot leans against the front of his desk, arms crossed over his chest. He shakes his head slowly, watching me pace like he’s fascinated by my animal behavior. Like I’m a lion in a zoo. “Would you have said yes if I proposed on a Tuesday?”

Proposed.Gah!

The desk phone rings—again. My boss reaches back and hangs up without looking—again. This has been my life for the last hour, and my shoes give a tormented squeak as I fling myself around and pace back the way I came.

“You didn’tpropose.People don’t get married for PR reasons, Elliot.”

He’s so freaking calm. “Yes they do.”

“Not emotionally healthy people!”

Elliot smirks and shrugs, as if to say:well, who’d you think you’re dealing with?And oh my god, I’m going to murder this man.

I don’t care if we grew up in the same small town and moved out to this city together; don’t care if I have a standing monthlyphone call with his mom Jan. Don’t even care that he brings me tubs of vanilla bean ice cream when I’m sick. I swear: if Elliot had worn a tie today, he’d be throttled already.

He doesn’t know, I remind myself silently, gritting my teeth as I pace. Elliot Ramsay doesn’t know what those ice cream deliveries do to me. He doesn’t get that I’ve been pining for him like some tragic fool since that first day in high school math class; that I’ve daydreamed about marrying him more times than I can count.

So if my boss’s casual, throwaway proposal has left a smoking crater in my chest… well, that’s on me.

“It’s the perfect solution,” Elliot says now, in a tone that strongly implies thatI’mthe one who’s being unreasonable. “You’re already my favorite person, and the length of our friendship suggests that you don’t mind me either.”

Understatement of the year. I pace faster.

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