Page 29 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
He's going to say yes. He has to.
I try to believe in the power of positive thinking and all that manifestation crap my roommate Ash keeps preaching. According to her, all I have to do is will it into being. Even as my stomach knots and unknot, I repeat it in my head like a mantra: He has to say yes. He has to say yes.
It's just after six p.m.—closing time—when my computer pings with an email. Subject line: CONTRACT.
"Yes!" I explode, punching the air. "Fuck yeah! That's how it's done!"
The shout is loud enough to send Iris sprinting into my office.
"What happened?" she asks. "Did you win the lottery?"
"Oh, even better, you beautiful girl." I grab her hands, spin her in a ridiculous waltz, and pepper her cheeks with noisy kisses. She squeals and twists away, laughing.
"Jesus, boss," she says, breathless. "One of these days I'm filing a million-dollar harassment lawsuit against you."
"Yeah? Well, lucky you. I might actually be able to pay you off."
She stops, blinks. "What do you mean?"
I shake my head, grinning. "Tell Gracie to cancel that strongly worded letter she was drafting to the Wolfe Foundation's finance department. We won't be needing it."
"Why not?"
"Because we're still working with them. We got the showcase back."
Her eyes practically pop out. "Are you serious? How?"
Aside from the NDA, there are details I'm not sharing—not even with Iris.
"I can be very convincing when I want to be. They couldn't resist my charm."
She gives me a skeptical look. I roll my eyes.
"It's a long story. Anyway, I need you to stay a little late tonight. We're going back to the drawing board."
"So what else is new?" she sighs, but she doesn't protest. She never does. She knows I'm a fair boss—flexible hours, good pay, room to breathe. It's a mutual understanding: she goes the extra mile when I need it.
"You sure you want to work with them again?" Iris asks, arching a brow.
"Yup," I say, forcing a confident smile. "It'll be different this time. I promise."
At least, I hope so.
By eight p.m., the office is silent and I'm the last to leave.
I've barely stepped into my apartment when there's a knock at the door.
I open it without checking the peephole—a stupid habit—and freeze.
Grayson Wolfe stands there, framed by the glow of the hallway light, a stretch limo idling behind him.
"Well," he says smoothly. "Are you packed?"
"Packed for what?"
He lifts an eyebrow. "Did you not read the contract?"
"Um… actually, no." I cringe. I am always so careful with contracts… what was I thinking about?
