Holiday Hoax: A Fake Marriage Billionaire Romance (The Cartwright Family Book 1)

I return to my desk, but the shock doesn’t seem to wear off.

He’s serious. He wants me to marry him.

$100,000 to marry him for less than thirty days.

Is he crazy?

I glance toward Sebastian’s office, but I can’t see anything because of the tinted glass. I refocus on my computer screen, wondering what I should do.

I should say no, but he’s right. It’ll take me years to open only one bakery. By next spring, I could have my first one.

No, this is wrong.

The message system pops up.

Sebastian: Victoria, I have Georgia working on a project all day. She won’t be in any of our meetings. Please make sure that you don’t give her any other projects.

My stomach flips.

I look toward his office again and then curse myself. He’s probably staring at me right now.

What am I going to do?

Victoria: No problem. I’ll assign her project to somebody else this morning.

Sebastian: Thank you. Georgia, I expect a full report by noon. Please keep in mind the goals of both parties.

My stomach dives again. I need to say no to this. This is just bad, bad, bad.

It’s $100,000.

That’s not going to get me what I need.

There’s more to my cupcake business than what I’ve revealed to Sebastian. I’ve spent hours creating spreadsheets and a solid business plan. I know everything right down to the penny of what it’ll cost me.

My dream is so much bigger than one bakery. I plan to franchise it. I want my grammy’s recipes, and the joy I know it’ll spread, to be everywhere. Plus, I want everyone to know about her. That’s why I got my MBA. I wanted to understand the ins and outs of building a corporation.

I could have told Sebastian, but something tells me the less he knows, the better. It’s clear he thinks I’m silly wanting to start a bakery, so I’d rather keep my plans to myself.

Let him eat crow someday when he sees how successful my business becomes.

But I can’t marry him. It’s wrong.

I continue to freak out and then decide I need to write a list of pros and cons. I make two columns and start with the cons.

This is totally crazy.

We’d be lying. Maybe it’s not a big deal to Sebastian, but it is to me. Deception is never good.

I’d have to spend the month with Sebastian.

I freeze. Or is that a pro?

No, no, no! It’s a definite con.

I move to the pro side.

My first bakery would be open.

I flip back to the cons. It’s not going to get me my entire franchise.

I stare at the list, going over all the items until I feel crazy. Then it hits me.

I need to negotiate.

I put my pen down, feeling guilty for even contemplating this. Yet I can’t get Sebastian’s warning out of my head about not letting an opportunity pass me by.

I need a million dollars to do what I want and have a little cushion for emergencies.

I can’t go in there asking for a million dollars though.

Why not?

Am I really considering this?

This is my chance. Sebastian’s right. I need to seize the opportunity.

But marry him and then get divorced…or annulled? That goes against all my beliefs. My grammy would turn in her grave.

I continue to stare at my screensaver, wondering how much I should start with.

Two million? No, that gives him too much room to negotiate. Sebastian Cartwright is known to be ruthless in his negotiations.

Three million? Yes! I need to start with three million. That way, he’ll feel like he won by getting me down to a third, and I’ll get the million dollars I need.

I glance at my pros and cons sheet. I add to the pros. I’ll have money to start the charity with the cupcake profits.

I’ve always wanted to start a charity for children. I could do that and other good with the profits from the bakeries.

This is starting to look better and better, but I review the cons again.

It’s morally wrong.

But is it?

What if I don’t have sex with him?

Golly gee, I’m not having sex with him!

He expects me to.

No, I’ll make it very clear I’m not having sex with him.

I write on the paper under pros: No sex.

Is that really a pro?

Ugh!

More time passes. I continue to fret over my decision. At a quarter to noon, I get a text. It’s from an unknown number, but there’s no doubt who it’s from.

Unknown Caller: You’re putting too much thought into this. This is a business transaction. I doubt your MBA professors would tell you not to snatch this opportunity up.

His text comes a little too late. I’ve already been thinking of it that way for the last few hours. But it doesn’t make me any less nervous. This is beyond my comfort zone and not anything I ever considered doing. Not that I even thought entering a fake marriage would ever be something someone would present to me for money.

Another text comes through.

Unknown Caller: Your dreams coming true after 30 days… Or your dreams after years of grinding it out. Or maybe somebody does what you’re planning on doing and beats you to the punch. How many cupcake bakeries can there be in Dallas?

Oh, I really dislike him for putting that thought in my head. But it’s not Dallas I’m worried about…it’s how many cupcake franchises can there be in the world?

Okay, I need to do this and stop contemplating it.

I get up. It’s 11:55, but I chicken out before I knock on his door. Instead, I hightail it to the break room to get a bottle of water.

A bunch of my co-workers are sitting around the table eating my Black Friday cupcakes.

‘These are great, Georgia, just like every day,’ Sam calls out.

‘Thanks,’ I say. Then I decide if Sebastian Cartwright wants me to marry him, he’s going to prove it to me because I’m worth it.

And so are my cupcakes.

I grab a cupcake, say goodbye to everybody, and find my courage. I lift my chin and square my shoulders, walking through the office. Taking a deep breath, I knock on Sebastian’s door.

‘Come in,’ he calls out.

I open the door, and my pulse skyrockets. I freeze.

Lord have mercy.

Sebastian’s on his treadmill, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and running shoes. Sweat coats his skin, making him look like a glistening rock of muscles.

I groan inside. Could a man be any more perfect?

His lips twitch. ‘See anything you like? Maybe it’ll make your decision a little easier,’ he suggests, punching the treadmill so it stops. He jumps off it and tosses a towel around his neck.

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I retort, then go to his desk and sit down. I put the cupcake on it.

‘Little hungry?’ he sneers.

I ignore his comment, informing him, ‘I’m considering your proposal.’

He gives me his challenging stare, questioning, ‘Considering it? What’s there to consider, Little Miss Sunshine?’

I refrain from scolding him, lock eyes, and try to appear confident. My insides shake like a wet dog. I demand, ‘It’ll cost you $3 million.’

He jerks his head backward, then scoffs. ‘Money doesn’t matter, huh?’

I put on my biggest smile and sweetly reply, ‘I have things I want to do with my life.’

‘What could possibly require $3 million?’ he inquires.

I tilt my head, bat my eyelashes, and say, ‘Sorry, none of your business.’

He clenches his jaw, then replies, ‘I’ll give you $200,000.’

‘Nope.’

‘Georgia, it’s less than thirty days. It’s not like it’s your whole life. $200,000 for less than thirty days is more than adequate.’

‘Technically, it’s thirty-three days,’ I assert.

‘But less than thirty for marriage,’ he argues.

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s my time,’ I respond.

He scowls. ‘Fine. $300,000.’

‘That won’t do. I need $3 million,’ I claim again.

‘Georgia, this isn’t how negotiations work. I go up, and you’ve got to come down.’

‘Why should I come down? I’m not the one with the problem that needs to be solved. You are,’ I remind him.

He chuckles. ‘Sure, Georgia. And money for your cupcake bakery is just going to fall out of the sky and into your bank account, isn’t it?’

I hate that he has a point. But I respond, ‘Flattery will work a lot better than insults.’

He grunts, then repeats, ‘$300,000.’

‘$2.5 million,’ I state and cross my arms over my chest.

He glances at my arms, and I swear he’s imagining what my breasts look like naked. I should be angry, but something about his dirty stare stirs everything in my core, heating it until it’s like lava bubbling and needing to flow down a volcano.

‘But this offer comes with perks, darling,’ he drawls.

My cheeks burn, and I glare at him, not wanting to encourage him to describe his perks. I demand, ‘What’s it going to be, Sebastian? Are you taking my offer?’

He replies, ‘$400,000.’

‘No.’

Several minutes pass, with him giving me his intimidating stare. He finally offers, ‘$500,000.’

I rise. ‘No. And I’m not into playing your games, Sebastian.’

His voice rises. In all the meetings I’ve sat in, I’ve never heard him lose his cool. It makes me think he’s even more desperate to make this deal than I initially anticipated. He asserts, ‘Georgia, you have to come down. It’s for thirty-three days. Nobody in their right mind would do that.’

I chirp, ‘Nobody in their right mind would ask their employee—sorry, their intern—to marry them, then lie to their family over the holidays. And for what? So you don’t have to deal with your mother pushing women on you,’ I say in a disapproving tone.

He snorts. ‘You don’t know my mother. Lower your offer, Georgia, or you’re getting squat.’

I shake my head.

‘Fine, I’ll find someone else,’ he threatens.

‘Really? Will you?’

He scrubs his hands over his face. ‘You have to give me something.’

I cave a bit. ‘Fine. $2 million. That’s fair,’ I claim, knowing there’s no way he’ll go for it.

He shakes his head. ‘No. I’ll give you $600,000.’

‘Sorry.’ I walk toward the door.

‘Georgia. Sit down,’ he orders so strongly I jump.

I take a breath and spin. ‘Why? You’re not being reasonable.’

‘I just offered you $600,000 for thirty-three days of pretending to be my wife. There are much worse jobs in the world that would pay you way less money,’ he claims.

I go over to the corner of his desk and sit on it. Then I cross my legs.

Surprise fills his expression, as if he didn’t think I had it in me to do something so naughty. He stares at my thighs and swallows hard.

‘Up here,’ I coo.

His blues dart to mine. He declares, ‘$700,000. Final offer.’

I pretend to pout. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I’ll just have to walk.’ I slowly uncross my legs and scoot my booty off the desk. I lean down. ‘Although, your offer did sound kind of fun.’

His eyes widen a bit, but he catches himself. ‘$800,000.’

‘No, sorry.’ I bat my eyes again.

‘Georgia, I’m not paying you $2 million. Give me another number. What’s your final offer? And don’t test me on this. If you do, I’m pulling out my Rolodex of women, and I’ll find somebody else.’

I huff. ‘Your Rolodex of women? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?’

He gives me an ‘I don’t give a shit’ look. Then he declares, ‘Think what you want, Georgia. You have an opportunity right now in front of you. Either take it or don’t, but I guarantee you, if you wake up tomorrow and you could have had all the money you needed to start your bakery and don’t, you’ll regret it.’

My butterflies flutter, and not in a good way. I question, ‘Why? Are you going to fire me?’

He shakes his head. ‘Of course not. I’m not that kind of an asshole.’

‘But you are an asshole, right?’

He sincerely appears shocked. ‘Did you just cuss, Little Miss Sunshine?’

His comment irritates me. ‘Whatever, Sebastian. How bad do you want me to be your fake wife?’

He grabs me and pulls me onto his lap.

‘What are you doing?’ I shriek.

He puts his hand on the back of my head and holds it firmly in front of his face. The sweat from his thighs penetrates the fabric of my dress. I push my palm against his wet pecs.

He demands, ‘Give me your final offer. Let’s make this happen.’

My stomach somersaults. Is it too early to put my cards on the table or not? I decide it’s a tad too early. ‘$1.5 million.’

He shakes his head. ‘A million dollars. That’s it. That’s my final offer. There’s no more. And if you don’t take it, you won’t have this offer in front of you anymore. It’ll be over, Georgia. Don’t test me on this,’ he warns.

I’ve seen Sebastian in dozens of meetings over the last week. And I know that this is his point of no return. Several clients walked out and ended up calling him back after they left. Sebastian didn’t give them the final deal. He made it worse, and they still ended up taking it.

But it’s also exactly what I wanted. I pretend to think for a minute.

He arches his eyebrows. ‘Really? You’re thinking about a million dollars?’

I finally sigh as if I’m not happy, ‘Fine. A million dollars.’

‘Don’t look so upset,’ he orders, then glances at my lips. ‘I’ll have the attorney draw up the paperwork.’

My heart pounds so hard I think it’ll tear through my chest cavity. I jump back to my feet. ‘Well, there are some other things we have to discuss.’

‘What’s that?’ he questions.

I put my hand on my hip. ‘One, I’m not sleeping with you.’

He smirks. ‘Is that so?’

‘I’m not going to be a prostitute, Sebastian,’ I declare.

‘Like I previously stated, I didn’t say you were,’ he claims.

‘I mean it. I’m not going to be your prostitute.’

‘Fine, you’re not my prostitute. And by the way, I don’t have to pay to get sex,’ he says.

‘Whatever,’ I mutter.

‘Georgia, do you really want me to tell my attorney to put that in the contract?’ he challenges.

I think about it for a moment. He has a good point. This is embarrassing enough. So I answer, ‘No, you don’t have to put it in the contract, but let’s just make sure you’re clear about it.’

‘Fine. I’m clear. Are we good?’ he questions.

‘Not yet.’ I sit back on the desk, cross my legs, then lean over him, informing him, ‘There’s one more thing you have to do.’

He hesitates, glances at my legs, then lowers his voice. ‘What’s that?’

I grab the dessert and hold it under his nose. ‘You have to eat my Black Friday cupcake.’

Annoyance fills his expression and voice. ‘Why would I eat your cupcake, Georgia?’

‘Because that’s what people do for their wives or their fiancées… Am I your fiancée now?’ I inquire.

He grunts. ‘Yeah, I suppose you are. Although I haven’t put a ring on your finger yet, have I?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t really care about that.’

‘Sure, you don’t,’ he utters.

‘I don’t,’ I declare.

‘What kind of woman doesn’t care about a big fat diamond?’ he challenges.

‘Me.’

‘Why?’

I don’t answer his question. I state, ‘I only care about you eating my cupcake.’

‘What does me eating your cupcake matter?’ he inquires.

I tilt my head. ‘I’m going to be your wife, and you’re going to be my husband. You have to know what my cupcakes taste like. And since you throw them in the trash, which, by the way, will no longer be acceptable, you have to eat one and tell me your honest thoughts. But you can’t lie to me, Sebastian.’

His eyes dart between my face and the cupcake.

I huff. ‘Seriously, why do you have an issue with my cupcakes?’

‘I didn’t say I did,’ he lies.

‘You didn’t have to,’ I accuse.

He stays silent, looking at my cupcake like it’s a death sentence.

‘You really have an issue this big with eating a cupcake? You’re going to blow the whole deal when it’s a nonnegotiable request?’

He finally snatches the cupcake out of my hand. ‘Fine, I’ll eat it.’ His annoyed expression deepens as he unwraps it.

I stay still, watching him eat every bite and taking several sips of water in between. When he’s done, he asks, ‘Are you happy?’

I shake my head. ‘No, I want to know what you thought about it.’

‘It’s fine,’ he says.

‘You told me you wouldn’t lie, Sebastian. One thing I don’t want is lies between us. I mean, we’re going to be lying to everybody else, but you and I cannot have lies. If I catch you lying to me, I’ll blow your little plan up, money or not,’ I warn.

‘Don’t threaten me,’ he scolds.

‘I’m not. No lies between us is another nonnegotiable.’

He scowls. ‘What’s your point about the cupcake, Georgia?’

‘I want to know your honest opinion,’ I push, not even sure myself why I care so much what Sebastian Cartwright thinks about something so dear to my heart.

He finally admits, ‘It’s delicious. Are you happy?’

I jump off his desk and pat the top of his sweaty head. ‘Yeah, I’m happy. Have your attorney draw up the paperwork. Make sure you give me time to review it before I have to sign. And don’t try anything sleazy, or I’ll walk.’

‘Why would I do that?’ he asks.

I give him my ‘I don’t believe you’ look.

He grumbles, ‘Fine. I’ll text you when the prenup is done. Go home and pack. We’re leaving Monday morning.’