Page 17 of Pretend for Me

“Because no one else owes me a debt,” he states matter-of-factly.

“This is one hell of a price tag for a haircutting mistake, Mr. Menon,” I scoff, but Dev continues to give me that same resolute stare. “And what if I’m with someone? What if I have a steady boyfriend? What if I can’t marry you because I’m in love with the man of my dreams?”

Dev’s brow lifts. “Judging by your colorful, and frankly,unwelcome, dating anecdotes and your habit of naming men after breakfast meats because you can’t even remember their names, you’re practically a walking ad against commitment. I’m pretty sure I’m safe assuming you don’t have a situation you can’t get out of.” He pauses for a beat. “Which, by the way, would be a condition of this arrangement. I will not tolerate entanglements with anyone else.”

“Firstly,” I lift a finger with feigned offense, but mildly impressed he was listening to my dating anecdotes, “slightlyrude, though completely accurate. I don’t do attachments, commitments, or love. And secondly, what about you? If I can’t beentangledwith anyone, then neither can you.”

“Agreed. That won’t be an issue.” His lips curl into a wry smile, as if my line of questioning was somehow my agreement to his outrageous demand.

I shake my head, wondering why I’m still in this conversation and haven’t kicked this delusional man out already. “So what? You’re asking for some sort of fake wife situation?”

“I would assume you’d be my fake fiancée for a few weeks before you’re my fake wife, but yes.”

Holy shit, he’s actually thought this through.

I blink rapidly, my mind racing. And though I’m not even remotely considering this ludicrous offer, I am wondering how far he’s thought this through. “And then what? As in—” I clear my throat, because even though I don’t know her, it pains me to talk about someone’s living, breathing mother in the past tense. “What about after she . . .”

I watch Dev’s throat bob and stifle another urge to wrap my arms around his tapered waist and lay my head on his broad chest.

“We’ll divorce,” he states coolly. “We can cite any number of reasons or call it irreconcilable differences.” He purses his lips as he lifts his head once more. “I would provide you with a hefty settlement, of course—any home or apartment in the city, cash?—”

I raise my hand, stopping him. “Not to sound ungrateful, Dev, but I don’t need your money or your offer for a new home. While I’m not the richest person on the planet like you, my salon is thriving, and honestly, I have everything I need.”

In fact, with the successHaircuts and Heartthrobshas had recently, I moved out of the home I shared with Nisha, Sarina, and Rome and bought my own place—my swanky two-bedroom condo not too far from here. I make great moneyand live a pretty comfortable life, so while one could argue that you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, money hasn’t ever been a motivator for me. I value independence and respect.

Dev’s shoulders roll back and I get the sense my response hasn’t pleased him. “Unfortunately, your salon will not be doing so well once I put out a statement about my rather terrible experience here today.”

I scoff before taking another step forward so my chest is practically plastered against his. I’m not one to get fired up quickly, but this is the last time this rich asshole threatens me with a lawsuit or public humiliation or whatever he thinks he has up his sleeve.

“If this is your way of convincing me to fake marry you, Mr. Menon, you’re doing a shit job,” I start, my index finger pressing into his chest. “I said I didn’t have a price—not the one you’d proposed anyway, but I hadn’t said no. But given that you’ve been a jerk since the moment you walked into my salon this morning, telling me to shut up and calling me an imbecile after I made a mistake that I wholeheartedly apologized for and promised to repair, I’m inclined not to help you. Not even in a short-term fake-relationship situation.”

The truth is, Dev’s sharp remark earlier had hit close to home, dredging up memories I’ve long fought to keep buried. I’d been thrown into a marred past formed during my most formative childhood years with my deadbeat father, who called me an idiot or “rocks for brains” any chance he got. It was his favorite ammunition against my flimsy self-esteem.

And then there was my high school boyfriend, the one I’d given my heart to and was convinced I’d marry. He’d laughed in my face when I’d said I’d wanted to go to beauty school instead of college, shattering my heart when he said he could never marry an “uneducated airhead”.

To this day, Nisha believes it’s because of Andrés that Iseek the company of “nameless” men, binding myself with no-strings-attached arrangements, unwilling to risk my heart with someone who could hurt me again. But the truth is never that simple, is it? We’re not mere caricatures shaped by a couple of deep cuts in our past. We’re complicated and messy beings, forged from the permanent scars those wounds left behind.

As convenient as it would be, I can’t blame Andrés for my commitment issues. My sense of unworthiness, my belief that I don’t deserve better, or that I couldn’t keep an accomplished or well-read man because I’m not smart enough, is rooted far deeper than I ever gave him access to. And that’s a truth and a battle that’s always been mine to confront.

Dev’s chest rises and falls against mine, his glare searing my skin as it travels down to my lips. Unapologetically, he holds it there, though his eyes soften ever so slightly when they drag up to meet mine. “You’re right, I have been a jerk, and I’m sorry for saying something so harsh and unwarranted.”

I lift my chin, slightly surprised by his quick but sincere apology. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

His voice is gruff. “Name your price?”

I bite my bottom lip, watching Dev’s gaze flick down to my mouth again.

What would be a fair trade? Nothing, really, but perhaps I can think of something beneficial to the salon, while also making him uncomfortable. Why should I be the only one out of my element in this situation?

It’s no secret the man is a recluse of sorts. Sure, he’s been on magazine covers, leads a very well-known company, and has been invited to speak at more events than the president, the Pope, and the Dalai Lama combined. But from everything I know, he doesn’t like the public eye, keeping his private life exactly that—private.

So, if I’m going to name a price—not that I have any intention of accepting—I should at least see if he’s willing tomeet it. The salon does have that marketing campaign to save . . .

“Become the exclusive model for our salon,” I say as my eyes rake over his sharp and scruffed jaw, down his thick neck. “For the time spanning the arrangement, you’ll do a couple of photoshoots, some social media teasers, celebrity endorsements, and become the face ofHaircuts and Heartthrobs.”

Dev’s nostrils flare, his discomfort clear as he weighs out my lengthy request. He’s thinking for so long, I’m sure he’s going to reject the idea, but then he surprises me. “Fine, but?—”

“Shh.” I lift a finger to his lips, stopping him mid-sentence, but not before hearing a soft intake of his breath. “Yes or no, Mr. Menon?”

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