Page 28 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
"A million dollars and my company's expenses for your event, you mean. Yeah. This is additional to that."
His gaze sharpens like glass. "I thought what I offered you was more than fair."
"Perhaps it is. But you're the one who needs this deal, aren't you? You wouldn't be here if you weren't desperate." I can see the flicker in his eyes that tells me I'm right. "So, I want more."
I lace my fingers, elbows on the table, leaning in. "I'm under no illusion that dealing with you for six months is going to be peaches and cream, Mr. Wolfe. You're an asshole, and I don't expect a personality transplant anytime soon. I'm already bracing myself for it."
He doesn't flinch, just gives me that sardonic half-smile. "I'm sure you can wipe your tears on the big fat check you'll be getting from me."
I smirk and lean closer—close enough that the scent of his cologne drifts between us, dark and spicy. My chair creaks as I rise half an inch, pulse thudding.
"You keep mentioning that million dollars like it means something to you," I murmur, ignoring how his eyes drop to my mouth. "Let's face it. That's pocket change. You could lose that much in a day and not even notice."
"Yes." His voice lowers, smooth as smoke. His gaze traces my lips slowly, deliberately, and a tremor runs through me. "But you can't, can you, Ms. Marlowe? And isn't that the point?"
He's right, of course, but I'll be damned if I admit it. I straighten, swallowing the rush of heat his tone sends through me. "As great as that money will be for me, there's something else just as valuable—to both me and my business."
"Which is?"
"I want to be put back in charge of the showcase."
Surprise flashes across his face. "I thought you said you never wanted to work with me again."
"You're right—I don't. But I've had time to think about it, and now I realize that… well, that showcase is the biggest event in the city after the Met Gala. Too many people already know I was organizing it, and losing it—voluntary or not—looks terrible on my record. Not to mention the publicity I'd forfeit."
I've had time to think it through. I'd need at least four or five hefty contracts to make up for the loss of this one. There's a reason agencies fought tooth and nail for it: the media coverage, the exposure, the doors it opens. I can't walk away from that.
And then there's the reputational hit—getting fired leaves a stain that sticks.
"Look, I'm not opposed to working for you again," I say evenly. "Just not the way we were before. I'm open to changes, but I'll need proper communication and enough lead time to implement them without torching my relationships with suppliers. If you can't manage that, then maybe just trust me and let me do my job."
"Trusting you and letting you do your thing is what led to that dumb, gaudy setup you had."
Rude bastard. I draw a slow breath and let it slide off me.
"No. Not reviewing the proposals we sent you in a timely fashion is what made you end up with something you didn't like.Did you ever actually sit down and read the plan? Not just glance at the design, but read the concept, the vision, everything that went into it?"
He says nothing, but I'm sure the answer is no. He didn't read it.
"So," I say, holding his gaze. "I want the contract back, and I want your commitment to work directly with me. No hiding behind secretaries or PAs, no delayed decisions. Do we have a deal?"
He presses his lips together, cocks his head—then his phone rings, slicing through the tension and making me jump.
He pulls it from his pocket, frowning at the screen. "Hey, Ramesh, good to hear from you, man." A pause. "Yeah, sure, but listen—I'm finishing up a conversation. Give me two minutes and I'll call you back." He ends the call and looks at me again.
"I'll think about it," he says. "If I agree to your terms, I'll send you the contract today. For now, I need to get back to work."
"Sure." I aim for calm and matter-of-fact, but my stomach is flipping between triumph and dread. Did I just outsmart him—or torpedo myself?
Calling his bluff and tying the deal to being re-appointed to the Wolfe Foundation showcase was a gamble. Right now, I'm wondering if I've just made a catastrophic mistake. Shit.
For the rest of the day, I try to occupy my mind, but it's hopeless. When someone offers you a million bucks, you push for more, and they respond with "I'll think about it," you don't just shrug and move on.
If I lose this, I'll be kicking myself for months. No—years.
Still, I had to take the chance.
And if I'm honest, there's something else. Something about the way he'd held me that night at the cocktail bar—the heat of his breath, the solid weight of his body, the faint scent of sandalwood and smoke. The pressure of his hand on my waist.His stiffness growing between us—God, no, don't even go there. This isn't that kind of deal. He made that clear. No sex. Strictly business. End of story.
