Page 12 of The Player + The Pact = I Do

He narrows his eyes. “Who says I have a roster?”

Of course he has a roster. “Are you saying you don’t?”

He raises his eyebrows, lifts his chin, and I’ve never seen him look hotter. “I want someone who understands this is a job. This event is important to me. I want it to go smoothly. I want someone who will definitely show up and know what their role is: my devoted fiancée.”

“Okay, so you want me to find you a devoted fiancée? No problem.” I say it like he’s just asked me to buy him a new desk chair or order a pastrami on rye from Joey’s Deli.

How the hell am I going to find him a fiancée?

He shuts the door and I sit back in my chair, willing the heat between my legs to disappear. Why oh why oh why?

I knew taking this job was a risk. I thought I had enough self-control to handle it.

Maybe finding him a date for his awards dinner will help me get the ick. If only he could be even slightly less on-brand for me. Less of a… player.

I have no idea who I’m going to find, or how. I mean, Leo is objectively hot, there’s no doubt about that. And he’s rich. The combination of hot and rich means that any single woman in New York is likely to say yes to a date, especially to a swanky awards ceremony. But he wants UberPremium. He wants a fakefiancée—a woman who’s going to play a role for the night. A woman who’s discreet.

My mind immediately goes to an actress. There must bea drama student in this town who needs some work. Is the woman supposed to provide her own dress for the event? Can I offer her some kind of incentive, and if so, what’s the budget?

I decide I have too many unanswered questions to be able to proceed.

I rarely go into Leo’s office. It smells of him and he looks too darn good behind that desk. Powerful or something. But I don’t have a choice.

I knock on the door and he shouts, “Come,” and for a second I wonder if that’s what he says when he’s in bed with a woman. And then I realize I’m an idiot because a man like Leo wouldn’t be interested in whether the woman beneath him has reached orgasm.

As I open the door, he looks up at me from his desk and my stomach tilts.

Vagina, you’re a traitorous bitch!

“I had a couple of questions about your date for the awards.”

He pulls in a breath and nods.

“Do you have a budget for a dress or is she expected to bring her own?”

He falls silent, which I’ve come to realize is Leo thinking. As much as I’d like to dismiss him as some brainless pretty boy, he’s actually smart. And strategic. That’s why I can’t quite understand why he’s letting The Mayfair trundle toward the drain. I guess it’s not a priority for him.

“I guess we’ll provide the dress, right?” he asks me. “That way we can ensure she has the right look.”

Does he want a date or a robot? “What would the ‘right look’ be?” I ask.

“Elegant. Sexy. Expensive. Socialite vibes.”

This guy thinks I’m a magician.

“And is there payment for this role you’re asking me to cast someone in?”

He shrugs. “If you think that will help.”

“What sort of budget were you thinking?” I ask.

“I want the right person. I’m prepared to pay whatever’s necessary.”

Whatever’s necessary? That hardly clarifies.

“This is important to you, huh?”

“Very,” he replies.

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