Bride For Hire

ADALINE

The first rule of Bloom and Co. is simple: never fall for the client.

I have broken a lot of rules in my life, but this is one I will never, ever break.

“Six hours,” I said, sliding the contract across the table. “You get a fiancée who adores you, laughs at your jokes, and holds your hand through whatever family dinner you’re dreading. However, there is a limit. You do not get my personal number, so don’t bother asking for it.”

The man seated across from me didn’t reach for the contract.

He was older than my usual clients, thirty-something, in a dark suit that looked tailored to perfection. There was something about his calmness and brooding appearance that made me a bit nervous, but I tried my best to keep my mask on.

It would do me no good if my client found out that he made me nervous.

He sat there like a man who had nowhere else to be, watching me with an unsettling amount of patience. Most clients were eager to sign the contract before I changed my mind or before their courage abandoned them. This man didn’t look eager about anything.

If anything, he looked like he was interviewing me.

“What if I want more than six hours?” he asked.

“Then you book more than six hours,” I replied in the flat tone that had gotten my bills paid for three years. “Name?”

“Kane.”

I arched a brow. “Just Kane?”

“For now.”

There was something oddly possessive in the way he said it, as if giving me his full name was a privilege I hadn’t earned yet.

I should have pushed for more, but I didn’t. Mostly because some of my clients gave just their first name and nothing else_married men, lonely men, men whose mothers wouldn’t stop asking when they’d finally settle down.

A man with secrets wasn’t unusual in my line of work.

The truth is, Bloom and Co. was built on secrets. I didn’t ask questions as long as the contract was signed and the money cleared. Whatever reason brought my clients to me was their business, not mine.

Reaching for the contract that he had still refused to touch, I tapped the empty lines. “Fill the necessary details, and I am yours for as long as your paycheck allows.”

His eyes darkened slightly, but the expression was gone as quickly as it appeared, his gaze dropping to my left hand, checking for a ring.

That wasn’t unusual either. Clients did that sometimes. I guess they want to know if the girl getting paid to act as their fake fiancée has a man waiting somewhere.

The answer was no.

There wasn’t any man in my life, and it wasn’t for the lack of my father trying.

“Tell me something true,” he said, finally reaching for the contract. “One thing, Ms. Norah, and I will pay extra for it.”

Norah Wells. I can never get used to being called that. Using a fake name for this business is the safest thing to do. I don’t want clients looking into me and finding out that I am the illegitimate daughter of Governor Cole.

“Ms. Wells?”

Laughing to mask my nervousness, I reached for the wine glass on the table. “Everyone wants one true thing about me. It’s never as satisfying as they think it’ll be.”

“Try me.”

I should have deflected. I always deflected when asked this question. It’s one of the reasons I created Norah Wells in the first place. People can’t use the truth against you if they never get close enough to hear it.

“I’m never getting married,” I said instead, not sure why I was choosing to tell him one true thing about myself, of all the men who had sat in that chair. “Not for money, not for love, not for anyone’s father’s approval. That’s the truest thing about me you’re going to get.”

“That’s a shame.” He pushed the signed contract towards me. “Marriage suits some people better than they expect.”

“Does it suit you?”

“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t been married before.”

“Then why ask me about mine?” I don’t know what made me more uncomfortable, that he was asking too many questions or that I was being stupid enough to answer them.

He smiled, clearly amused by my discomfort. “Curiosity. Occupational hazard.”

Occupational what?

“What is your occupation?” I’m not about to get myself arrested for associating with the wrong person.

“Complicated.” He checked his wristwatch, his mouth thinning in annoyance. “My time’s up. I’ll book you again. Same time next week.”

Why did he sound annoyed?

“That’s not how it works, Mr. Kane. You book through the site_”

“I will book you again,” he repeated, his voice hardening.

His gritted jaw proved that he didn’t enjoy repeating himself, and for whatever reason, I suddenly felt like poking at his buttons.

It would be entertaining to see what a man with a permanent poker face looked like if he ever lost his cool.

Every brain cell in my head told me to ditch this client. He was clearly trouble. But the curious side of me was eager to know more about him and what his deal really was.

My phone buzzed on the table, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I almost blurted out a curse when I saw my father’s name on the screen.

Reaching for the phone, I clicked on the message icon, my jaw clenching hard as I read the message.

CALL ME. IT’S ABOUT THE WEDDING.

Scoffing, I dropped the phone face-down on the table.

I guess the award for Worst Father of the Year goes to my father.

Because which sane father loses one daughter to domestic violence from an arranged marriage two years ago and still pushes his only surviving child into another arranged marriage?

Selling one daughter wasn’t enough. He just had to sell me off too to a man whose name I didn’t care enough to remember.

Too bad, because this marriage is never going to happen.

I’d rather marry one of my clients. Hell, I’d rather marry the weirdly intimidating man who had just walked out of my office than willingly walk down the aisle for my father’s political ambitions.